Chapter 49 - The Montreal Envoy
Helene reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a slender, black encrypted storage drive, setting it beside the brass briefcase.
“This is the secondary core,” she explained. “Donald anticipated that Arthur would try to seize Willow Creek by brute legal force. Arthur’s lawyer filed an emergency injunction in the county seat this afternoon, claiming Donald died intestate without a legitimate heir, and that Arthur—as his acknowledged surviving blood kin—is the sole heir under common law.”
“Can he do that?” Mark asked, his voice hardening. “Julianne took the local judge into federal custody.”
“Arthur’s lawyer found a surrogate judge two counties over,” Helene said. “A man named Judge Holloway, who has owed Arthur’s political friends favors for twenty years. They have scheduled an expedited probate hearing for ten o'clock this morning. If Arthur’s counsel presents the genealogical records without opposition, the state will issue an eviction order for Willow Creek by noon.”
“They think they have us trapped by the storm,” I said, standing up. “They think the roads are impassable, that the federal marshals are tied up in Washington, and that Mark and I are sitting here terrified in the dark.”
“Exactly,” Helene said. “They don't know I made it across the border. And they don't know what is inside this drive.”
“What is inside it?”
Helene smiled—a slow, lethal, beautiful Sterling smile that made her look ten years younger. “The original audio recordings from your wedding reception.”
I stopped breathing. “What?”
“Donald had three discreet surveillance microphones installed in the chandeliers of the grand ballroom at the historic hotel,” Helene said. “He knew Arthur was planning a financial shake-up that night. The audio captured every word Arthur whispered to your sister before he walked up to your table. It captured him instructing her to grab the lockbox, telling her that if you resisted, he would ‘discipline you publicly’ to ensure you didn't dare challenge his authority over the ledger.”
A shudder of cold, righteous fury rippled through my veins. It was premeditated. The slap wasn't an explosive loss of temper from a stressed father; it was a calculated tactical assault designed to cow me into submission in front of 118 witnesses so no one would dare question where the money went.
“And there is more,” Helene added, tapping the drive. “Donald’s audio captured Arthur’s phone call in the hotel hallway five minutes before the reception ended. He was speaking directly to Vance Howell’s syndicate, confirming that he had successfully humiliated you and was securing the liquid cash needed to wire the retainer for the Willow Creek raid.”
Mark stood up, his jaw set like granite. “We have five hours until that probate court opens.”
“The county courthouse is thirty miles away,” I said, looking out the kitchen window at the blinding snow. “The state routes are closed.”
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“The state routes are closed for passenger cars,” Mark said, a fierce grin breaking across his tired face. “Donald’s logging truck has four-wheel drive, dual tire chains, and a four-hundred-horsepower Detroit diesel. We aren't taking the highway, Clara. We’re taking the old timber line straight down into town.”
***
