Chapter 8 - THE IMPOSTOR UNMASKED
"Elena, stay where you are!" Vance yelled through the speaker. "I am calling state troopers right now to set up roadblocks on Highway 9! Do not engage him!"
I threw the phone onto the passenger seat, slammed my foot onto the accelerator, and launched the SUV out into the storm.
I wasn't waiting for state troopers. The northern ridge was twenty miles of unlit dirt roads and dead zones. By the time a trooper located the lodge, Clara would be at the bottom of a ravine, buried under four feet of pine needles. She was the only witness who could validate the contents of the floor safe and put Arthur in a cage forever.
I drove like a woman possessed, taking the mountain turns so fast the tires shrieked against the wet pavement.
Fifteen minutes later, I cut my engine and coasted the last quarter-mile up the lodge’s gravel driveway. The cabin sat isolated in a clearing of towering black pines, surrounded by roaring wind and sheeting rain. The windows were dark, save for a faint, flickering amber light coming from the main living room.
I slipped out of the SUV, pulling my heavy waterproof jacket tight. I drew my stun gun from my left pocket and unfolded my multi-tool’s four-inch serrated steel blade with my right.
I circled to the rear of the cabin, stepped over the low porch, and kicked the lock on the wooden service entrance. The latch splintered, and I slipped inside like a shadow.
The air smelled of cedar, damp wood, and copper—the sharp, unmistakable iron stench of fresh blood.
"Where are the rest of the files, Clara?!" Arthur’s voice boomed from the living room, devoid of any human warmth, laced with pure, sociopathic venom. "Where did you give them to her?!"
A loud, wet crack echoed through the open floor plan, followed by a choked scream of agony from Clara.
I rounded the stone fireplace alcove, coming up behind the sofa.
Clara was zip-tied to a heavy wooden dining chair in the center of the room. Her lip was split, her eye swollen shut, and blood dripped down her neck onto her silk blouse. Standing over her was Arthur, his expensive suit jacket discarded, his sleeves rolled up, holding a heavy, solid-cast iron fireplace poker in his right hand.
"She doesn't have the rest of them, Arthur," I spoke into the dark, my voice completely steady, echoing through the timber rafter ceiling. "Because I have all of them."
Arthur whipped around.
In the dim firelight, his face was unrecognizable. The polished, charming smile he had used to deceive bankers, judges, and me for years was completely gone. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and filled with a wild, feral madness. The mask had slipped off, revealing the hollow monster underneath.
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"Elena," he sneered, his voice dropping into a low, raspy growl as he took a slow step toward me, dragging the iron poker along the floorboards. "You just couldn't stay out of it, could you? You always were too smart for your own good."
"Or maybe you were just sloppy, Arthur," I replied, intentionally hurling his real name into his face like a slap. "Thirty years of playing a dead man, and you let a three-year-old girl tear your whole pathetic life apart."
