Chapter 4 - The Locksmith and the Law
Within ten minutes, a commercial locksmith van pulled up behind Kirby Anselm’s car. Kirby had arranged for everything. The locksmith, a tall man named Marcus with a belt full of tools, stepped out and gave a short nod to Deputy Callahan before walking toward the front porch with a heavy metal toolbox.
Darene stood near the flatbed truck, clutching a single plastic garbage bag filled with her clothes and hairbrushes. Her face was bright red, mottled with spots of rage and terror. She watched as Marcus went straight to the front door, unscrewed the old deadbolt, and began installing a high-security electronic lock system.
"You can't change the locks on me!" Darene spat, though her voice lacked its earlier screeching power. She looked like a cornered animal, smaller and thinner than she had seemed three days ago when she was standing on that same porch in her gardening gloves. "My mother-in-law lived here for forty years! My husband grew up in that bedroom!"
"And your grandson was supposed to grow up here, too," Aunt Opal said, stepping out of the station wagon and walking up the driveway to stand right next to me. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared at Darene with pure disdain. "Instead, you threw his toys in the mud because you couldn't get your hands on forty-two thousand dollars of county money. You ought to be ashamed to walk through this town."
"I didn't do anything wrong!" Darene yelled, her voice echoing off the pine trees lining the yard. "She was living here for free! Nine hundred dollars a month barely covered the upkeep!"
"Nine hundred dollars a month in unrecorded cash," Kirby Anselm corrected, pulling a small notepad from his pocket. "Which totals thirty-two thousand four hundred dollars over thirty-six months. Cash that you never reported on your state or federal tax returns, Darene. Cash that you extorted from a grieving widow by threatening her with homelessness."
Darene went completely silent. Her eyes shifted nervously toward Deputy Callahan, who was standing by his cruiser writing notes on his clipboard.
"Deputy," Kirby said, turning to Callahan. "We are officially requesting that a formal trespass warning be issued to both Darene Bernie and Vance Bernie. They are not to set foot on 1428 Elm Ridge Road, nor are they to make contact with Tessa Bernie or Corbin Bernie by phone, mail, or through third parties."
Callahan ripped two yellow sheets of paper off his pad and walked over to Darene and Vance. He handed one to each of them. "Sign the bottom," he said flatly. "This acknowledges you've been served with the trespass order. You break it, you go straight to central booking. No warnings, no second chances."
Vance signed the paper immediately, his hand shaking so badly the pen almost slipped from his fingers. He handed the clipboard back to Callahan without looking up. "I'm sorry, Tessa," he mumbled under his breath, so softly I could barely hear him over the sound of Marcus drilling into the front door frame. "I'm sorry about Corbin's bike."
"Don't you dare apologize to her!" Darene snapped, refusing to take the pen. "Don't you dare humiliate us any more than they already have!"
"Sign it, Mrs. Bernie," Callahan said, his voice dropping an octave into a low tone that left no room for debate. "Or I will lock you up for obstruction right now and we can let the magistrate sort it out in the morning."
Darene snatched the pen from Callahan’s hand, scribbled her name across the bottom of the form with enough force to tear the yellow paper, and threw the pen onto the hood of the cruiser. She turned on her heel and marched toward the passenger side of the rusty pickup truck, slamming the heavy metal door so hard the glass rattled in its frame.
Vance walked slowly behind her, his head down, and climbed into the driver’s seat. He started the engine, shifted into reverse, and backed out down the long driveway, the tires crunching loudly over the gravel until they turned onto the main road and disappeared behind the ridge.
The sudden absence of her voice made the yard feel extraordinarily quiet. The wind blew through the tall grass, rustling the leaves of the old oak tree near the porch.
Marcus, the locksmith, set down his drill and turned around. "Front door's done, ma'am," he said to me, holding out a set of three shiny brass keys and a keycard. "Deadbolt is brand new. Electronic keypad is set to a default code—you can reprogram it whenever you're ready inside. Back door and side garage door are re-keyed to match."
I took the keys from his hand. They felt cold and heavy in my palm.
"Thank you, Marcus," I whispered.
"Now," Kirby said, walking up the steps with a claw hammer he had pulled from the back of his car. He walked down into the yard, stood in front of the wooden sign that said Freeloaders Not Welcome, and jammed the claw under the top crossbar. With a sharp crack, the wood split, and the sign pulled free from the turf.
He laid the broken pieces on the ground and stepped on them, snapping the thin wooden stake in half.
"Corbin," I called out toward the car.
The rear door opened slowly, and Corbin stepped out, holding his stuffed dog under one arm. He looked around the yard cautiously, his small feet moving slowly through the grass until he reached my side.
"Is the mean lady gone?" he asked in a quiet voice.
"She's gone, baby," I said, dropping to my knees so I was eye-level with him. I took his hands in mine. "She's never coming back here. This is our house. It was your daddy's house, and now it's our house forever. Nobody can ever make us leave again."
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Corbin looked at the front porch, then at the open front door where Marcus was packing up his tools. "Can I get my bike now?"
"We're going to fix your bike right now," Aunt Opal said, walking over with a smile that reached all the way to her eyes. "Your uncle's got some tools in my trunk, and we'll have those handlebars straightened out before sunset."
