Chapter 49 - The Call from New Hampshire
The encrypted burner phone Duarte handed me suddenly buzzed against my knee. The caller ID was a scrambled satellite redirect, but I knew the number.
I swiped the screen and brought the phone to my ear. "Caleb?"
"Mom!" Caleb’s voice was ragged, choked with panic, but laced with a protective ferocity I had never heard from him before. "Mom, where are you? Are you safe?"
"I'm in Portugal, Caleb. I'm with Duarte. Where are the children?"
"They're with Patrice at the dairy farm," Caleb whispered, the sound of wind whipping through the receiver. "We left twenty minutes after your message. Mom... there was a black SUV parked at the bottom of our driveway. Two men in work jackets were cutting the padlock off the front gate when Sheriff Miller pulled up behind them."
My heart jumped into my throat. "Did Miller arrest them?"
"They ran into the woods," Caleb said, his voice trembling. "Miller called for state police backup and tracking dogs. But Mom, one of them dropped a burner phone. Miller checked the messages. They had orders to search the root cellar. How did they know about the cellar, Mom? What is going on?"
"Listen to me very carefully, Caleb," I commanded, forcing every shred of authority I had into my tone. "Tori was working with someone far more dangerous than we knew. She was manipulated by a man named Julian Vance. He is in Lisbon right now, trying to force me to give up Arthur's old records."
"Then give them to him!" Caleb shouted desperately. "Burn them! Hand them over! I don't care about Dad's old papers, Mom! I care about you, and I care about my kids!"
"If I hand them over, he kills us all anyway," I answered firmly. "Those records are the only reason we are still breathing. Caleb, go to Patrice’s. Arm yourself with your father's hunting rifle, lock the doors, and do not step outside until I tell you it's over. Vance is going to focus entirely on me now. I am drawing him in."
"Mom, don't—"
"I love you, Caleb. Protect my grandchildren."
I ended the call before he could argue. I turned to Duarte, whose jaw was set in granite.
"Where is the secondary ledger, Duarte?" I asked.
May you like
Duarte turned the steering wheel, veering the Mercedes off the main road onto a narrow cobblestone lane shaded by ancient cork trees. "At the villa in Sintra. Arthur knew this day might come. He left a duplicate key."
***
