Chapter 5 - Confrontation in the Rain
The engine cut out. No sirens. No flashing lights. Just the heavy thud of a car door closing in the downpour.
"Stay with the kids," I told Clare, handing her my heavy flashlight. "Lock their door from the inside. Do not open it unless you hear my voice."
"Dad, no, you don't understand—"
"I've lived on this ridge for forty years, Clare. I know every floorboard that speaks and every shadow that hides. Do what I say."
I walked downstairs in total darkness, my boots making no sound on the familiar wood. I stopped by the umbrella stand near the door and pulled out my late father's old iron-headed walking stick. It was heavy, weighted with solid metal at the grip.
Through the narrow glass pane beside the front door, I watched a figure approach. They weren't rushing. They walked with the calm assurance of a landlord checking on an empty property. They wore a heavy oilskin coat, the brim of their hat pulled low against the driving rain.
The door creaked farther open as they stepped inside. The scent of cheap cigars and wet wool filled the small foyer.
"Michael?" a voice called out into the dark. It wasn't a local accent. It was sharp, clipped, originating from the concrete streets of a city far from our quiet woods. "Michael, I know you survived the ditch. The hospital said you were in surgery, but they're missing a file. I think you left your insurance policy here."
The stranger stepped into the living room, right past the armchair where I sat waiting in the absolute dark.
May you like
"He's not here," I said.
The man spun around, his hand moving toward the inside of his coat, but old age makes you patient, and patience makes you fast. I lunged forward, swinging the iron-headed stick hard against his wrist. There was a sharp crack, a muffled curse, and a heavy black revolver clattered onto the rug.
