Chapter 10 - Cracks in the Facade
Miles went down instantly, screaming in agony as the chemical burning tore through his eyes and lungs.
"Miles!" I lunged forward, ignoring the drifting mist that scorched my own throat. I tackled Marcus into the gravel, using all my weight to drive my elbow into his collarbone. We rolled into the dirt, the grinder clattering against the concrete apron of the garage.
For a man half my age, Marcus was soft. He relied on intimidation and surprises; he had never worked a twelve-hour shift in an iron mill. I pinned his wrist against the ground with my work boot until the spray canister rolled away.
"Who are you?" I growled, pressing my knee into his chest. "What were you looking for in my shop?"
Marcus wheezed, blood trickling from his split lip, but the smugness never left his eyes. "Check your safe, old man," he spat. "Evelyn already has the deeds. You think she only took your pantry? She took your whole life while you were out picking apples."
Headlights pierced the fog as two cruiser sirens wailed up the driveway, gravel spraying against the fence. Dale Cooper and two young deputies leaped out, weapons drawn.
"Hands where I can see them! Artie, step back!" Dale yelled.
I stepped off Marcus, raising my hands. "He sprayed Miles with bear mace, Dale. He broke into the shop."
The deputies cuffed Marcus, dragging him toward the back of the cruiser. Meanwhile, I knelt beside Miles, pouring cold well water from the garden hose over his face and eyes. Miles was coughing violently, his skin bright red and blistering, but he was breathing.
"I’m sorry, Dad," Miles choked out between ragged gasps. "I led them right to you. I brought them into Mom's house."
"Quiet, son," I said, washing the stinging chemicals from his hair. "You didn't know. Nobody could have known this kind of evil was out there."
Dale walked back over to us, holding a heavy manila folder he had pulled from Marcus’s jacket pocket. His jaw was set in a tight, grim line.
"Artie," Dale said quietly, "you need to look at this."
Inside the folder were notarized power-of-attorney documents, stamped by a notary in Clark County three months ago. They bore my signature. My exact handwriting. Transferring full management rights of the property, the workshop, and my secondary banking accounts to "Evelyn Sutton, legal custodian."
"I never signed this," I whispered. "Dale, on my wife’s grave, I never touched this paper."
"I know you didn't, Artie," Dale said. "Because the notary seal on this document belongs to a woman who died two years ago. It’s a complete forgery. But Julian Vance—that lawyer in Seattle—just filed this with the county recorder at five o'clock yesterday afternoon. If Marcus had gotten into that shop tonight, he would have cleared out your tools, your vehicle titles, and every piece of equipment you own before morning, claiming legal right of possession."
"Where is she, Dale?" I asked, standing up straight despite my aching back. "Where is Evelyn?"
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Dale looked down at his radio. "She's live on the internet right now, Artie. From a hotel room in Bellevue. And she’s telling the world that you and Miles just attacked her brother."
***
