Chapter 29 - Water and Bedrock
Julianne guided my right hand to the left brass plate, placing her own hand firmly against the right. Embedded in the center of each plate was a keyway precisely sized for Donald's brass keys. She slid her key into the right slot; I inserted mine into the left.
"On three," Julianne murmured, her jaw clenched tight. "We rotate counter-clockwise ninety degrees, then pull the manual lever beneath the table. The culvert gate will open forty feet above our heads."
"One," I counted, my heart hammering against my ribs.
"Two."
"Three!"
We twisted the brass keys simultaneously. A deep, resonant chime echoed inside the console, followed by the violent clank of heavy iron counterweights releasing inside the stone walls. Julianne seized a red cast-iron lever concealed beneath the console and threw her entire body weight against it.
A shudder ran through the bedrock beneath our boots. Far above us, up on the wooded ridge overlooking Willow Creek, a dull, thunderous roar began—a sound like a freight train barreling down a gravel incline.
"What was that?" the guard at the top of the stairs yelled, his boot steps clattering down the first three concrete steps. "What did you two do down there?!"
"Run!" I screamed, lunging for the stairs.
Julianne and I bolted up the narrow concrete passage just as the first torrent of muddy reservoir water slammed into the carriage house drainage shafts. The air pressure shifted violently, blowing a gust of cold, mist-laden wind down the stairs. The guard stumbled backward, caught off guard by our sudden charge.
Before he could raise his weapon, Mark appeared at the top of the stairs like a vengeful shadow. With a single, brutal swing of the heavy steel crowbar, he struck the guard across the shoulder, sending the man sprawling into the mud of the carriage house floor.
"Clara! Out! Now!" Mark roared over the deafening roar of cascading water.
We burst out into the main carriage house just as the flood struck. A five-foot wall of chocolate-brown water, carrying broken pine branches and decades of accumulated silt, burst through the hillside culverts and slammed into the open doors of the carriage house.
Vance’s two black SUVs were hit broadside. The impact shattered their side windows, lifting the rear tires off the ground and spinning the lead vehicle violently against the timber support posts. Vance shrieked in terror as the water engulfed him to his waist, his expensive overcoat ballooning out like a soaked shroud.
"Vanessa!" Vance screamed, clutching desperately to the carriage house post as the current threatened to sweep him into the open yard. "The keys! Get the keys!"
Vanessa was trapped against the side of the second SUV, screaming hysterically as the cold, churning water rose past her ribs. Her designer handbag was ripped from her grip, disappearing instantly into the rushing torrent. "Clara! Help me! Clara!"
Mark grabbed my arm with one hand and Julianne’s coat with the other, hauling us both up onto the reinforced timber work bench anchored to the carriage house wall, safely above the churning floodwaters.
"The foundation is holding!" Mark shouted over the roar of the water. "Donald built the spillway to divert toward the lower creek! The house is safe!"
Down in the churning mud, Vance’s armed men were completely disorganized, splashing frantically through the thigh-deep water, dragging their sputtering boss toward the edge of the carriage house. The black SUVs were dead, their electronics shorted out by the massive deluge of reservoir water.
Then, piercing through the roar of the flood and the pouring rain, the high-pitched wail of emergency sirens echoed across the valley.
The dam breach alarm had done its job. Not just one siren, but three—approaching rapidly from the county highway, tearing through the barricade Vance had claimed would hold for an hour.
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Vanessa looked up at me from the churning water, her face pale, shivering uncontrollably, her eyes wide with the sudden realization that there were no more deals to make, no more wedding checks to steal, and no more excuses left to tell.
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