Chapter 49 - The Retrieval
The heavy leather book plummeted toward the churning water.
"No!" I cried out.
Before the book could vanish beneath the icy surface of the reservoir, Dad lunged forward across the bow netting, extending the long aluminum boat hook mounted to the side of Miller’s vessel. With the lightning-fast reflexes of a man who had worked decades with his hands, Dad swept the curved hook through the air.
The steel tip caught the leather binding mid-fall, pinning the book against the rubberized fender of our hull just six inches above the freezing water.
Dad hauled the book up with trembling hands, clutching the dripping, scarred cipher ledger against his chest.
On the catwalk above, Hendrik Van Der Bilt stared down in utter disbelief, his final bargaining chip gone.
Before he could reach for his backup weapon, two Franklin County tactical deputies dropped from the roadbed above onto the catwalk, tackling Van Der Bilt face-first onto the rusted steel grating. The sharp *click* of steel handcuffs ratcheting tight echoed down across the water.
"Subject is in custody," a deputy called down from the bridge. "Catwalk secure."
Dad sank down onto the bench of the boat, clutching Charles Sterling’s notebook against his heart. His breathing came slow and ragged. The adrenaline that had kept him upright for forty-eight straight hours seemed to drain out of him all at once, leaving him looking older, fragile, but profoundly, deeply at peace.
Miller stepped over and placed a heavy, warm hand on Dad’s shoulder. "It’s over, Arthur. The cipher book is secured. We have Van Der Bilt in custody. The Zurich route is dead."
I knelt beside my father, wrapping my arms around his shoulders. "You did it, Dad. You protected Mom. You protected the family."
Dad looked down at the battered book in his hands, then looked up at me with tears welling in his tired, gray eyes. "We did it together, Rachel. Your grandfather always said... a house built on truth cannot be torn down by thieves."
Twenty minutes later, we were back on the gravel shore of Griggs Reservoir.
Dozens of state and federal vehicles lined the park road, their flashing lights illuminating the mist. An ambulance was parked beside the boathouse, its rear doors open.
Sarah was sitting on the bumper of the ambulance, wrapped in a shock blanket, clutching a paper cup of warm coffee. Her two sons were asleep inside the warm cabin of the vehicle, supervised by a kind-faced female paramedic.
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When Sarah saw Dad and me walking up the embankment, she stood up slowly. The blanket slipped from her shoulders onto the gravel.
She took three hesitating steps toward us, then stopped, her head bowed in profound, devastating shame.
