Chapter 29 - The Confrontation on the Porch
"You have two minutes, Abigail!" Raymond's voice slammed against the stone walls. "After that, Mack Turner and the boys are coming through the windows. Don't make me ruin your life any more than you already have with this pathetic marriage!"
"Go, Abby," Ellis hissed, racking the slide of his shotgun with a sharp, terrifying clatter that echoed through the small house. "Now!"
Aunt Clara took my arm with surprising strength, pulling me toward the narrow pantry door behind the stove. Maeve followed, moving with astonishing agility, her eyes locked on Ellis with a silent nod of absolute, generational solidarity.
As the pantry door closed behind us, I heard the heavy front door creak open.
I dropped to my knees on the cold dirt floor of the root cellar, clutching the satchel to my chest, listening through the wooden floor joists above.
"Get off this porch, Raymond," Ellis's voice boomed—steady, low, and laced with venom that could kill an ox.
"Where is my daughter, Miller?" Raymond’s voice was slick with contempt. "Where is Abigail?"
"She's where you'll never touch her again," Ellis said. "And Sheriff Douglas, you take one step onto these cedar planks, and you'll find out what seventy-caliber buckshot does to a sheriff's star."
"Put the gun down, son," Douglas said, his voice nervous, cracking at the edges. "This is an official court proceeding. Mr. Vance holds the power of attorney over Sanford's estate. The papers in that house belong to the Vance Timber Corporation."
"There is no Vance Timber Corporation without Donald Miller's blood!" Ellis roared.
Through the floorboards, I heard a sharp scuffle—boots slipping on the frosted boards, the sudden thud of a shoulder striking the cedar siding.
"You insolent little pauper," Raymond snarled, his voice right above my head now. "You think you're the first Miller who tried to stand in my way? Your grandfather had that same stubborn, stupid look in his eyes right before I broke his jaw on the turbine gate! He looked at me just like you're looking at me now!"
"Raymond, shut up!" Douglas shouted, panic bleeding into his tone. "Shut your damn mouth!"
"Why should I shut up?" Raymond laughed, a high, manic, furious bark that showed the complete decay of his sanity. "Who's going to hear it? A senile old maid? A half-breed timber cruiser? I built this county! I paved every road from here to Grand Rapids! Nobody questions Raymond Vance!"
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In the darkness of the root cellar, my fingers closed around the tiny switch of the battery-powered micro-cassette dictaphone Sanford had given me for my college graduation—the one I had slipped into the satchel along with the deed books.
The red recording light was glowing steadily in the dark.
