Chapter 31 - The Edge of the Abyss
The scream of tearing steel vibrated through the soles of my boots as the Peterbilt concrete mixer slid sideways toward the black maw of the trench. The earth beneath Dad’s work boots gave way in a sickening cascade of wet clay and loose gravel. For a horrifying heartbeat, he was suspended between the safety of the ridge and twenty feet of toxic mud, his hand still clamped tight around the yellow steel safety rail of the tipping rig.
"Dad! Let it go!" I screamed, lunging forward with every ounce of strength left in my body.
The smell of rotten sulfur and chemical ammonia blasted upward as the cracked barrels below ruptured. My fingers clawed into the thick canvas of Dad’s Carhartt jacket. His boots kicked frantically against the collapsing embankment, dislodging chunks of shale that splashed into the chemical sludge far below.
"The winch cable—it’s caught on the bumper!" Dad roared over the deafening hiss of venting gas. "If the truck goes down, it’s pulling the evidence locker with it!"
"Forget the truck! Take my hand!"
Two National Guard soldiers in full chemical-biological response gear sprinted past the blinding headlights of their armored transport, their heavy combat boots pounding into the muck.
"Step back! We’ve got him!" the lead soldier shouted, his voice muffled by a gas mask respirator.
Both soldiers seized Dad’s shoulders and hauled him backward with brutal efficiency just as the retaining wall gave out completely. With a subterranean roar, the twenty-ton mixer tumbled over the edge, crashing directly into the belly of the pit. A geyser of toxic amber vapor and foul water erupted thirty feet into the rain-swept sky, followed by the dull thud of heavy steel crushing corroded drums.
Dad hit the gravel hard, coughing violently, his chest heaving under the weight of sheer exhaustion and adrenaline. I dropped to my knees beside him, wrapping my arms around his trembling shoulders as the cold rain plastered my hair to my face.
"I’ve got you, Dad. You’re safe. We’ve got you," I whispered, my voice breaking.
Across the ridge, the red taillights of Victor Sterling’s black Mercedes sedan vanished down the wooded gravel road, sliding around the bend at breakneck speed. His private security team had abandoned the scene, leaving two idling pickup trucks and a trail of shredded tire marks in the mud.
"He ran," Dad wheezed, wiping black grime and rain from his forehead, his knuckles bloody and raw. His eyes were wide, haunted not by the twenty-ton fall he had just survived, but by the parting words Victor had spat into the darkness. "He ran... but you heard what he said, didn’t you?"
"Dad, don't listen to him. Sterling was cornered. He was saying anything to throw you off balance."
"No," Dad said, his voice dropping to a gravelly, terrified whisper as the military police secured the perimeter around us with yellow hazardous-hazard tape. "Winter of 1985. That was the year Bennett Auto almost went under. The year your mother took three weeks away to care for her ailing aunt in Cleveland... and came back with thirty thousand dollars in cash that saved our mortgage."
He looked at me, his eyes bloodshot and filled with an agonizing dread.
"Your mother told me she took out an equity advance from a family trust. But Martha’s family never had thirty thousand dollars. Not in 1985. Not ever."
Before I could answer, a military officer stepped into the beam of our flashlight, holding a clipboard in one gloved hand and pointing toward the command vehicle with the other.
May you like
"Mr. Bennett, Miss Bennett? You’re both under emergency protective custody of the United States Department of Justice. We need you off this hill right now. The air quality is dropping, and Victor Sterling’s jet just filed an international flight plan out of John Glenn International."
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