Chapter 6 - The Cellar of Secrets
Everything happened in a fraction of a second.
Luke Albright swung the revolver toward my chest, his eyes wild, unfocused, filled with the desperate madness of a cornered animal.
BANG.
The gunshot exploded inside the enclosed living room with deafening, ear-splitting force. The muzzle flash illuminated the room in a strobe light of orange heat.
Frank Vance reacted instantly. He shoved me sideways with his shoulder, sending me crashing into the stone hearth, while simultaneously firing two rounds from his Glock.
BANG! BANG!
Luke Albright let out a choked gasp, his body jerking violently as Frank’s bullets struck his right shoulder and upper thigh. The snub-nosed revolver flew from his grip, clattering across the hardwood floor and sliding directly beneath the leather sofa.
Albright collapsed onto his back, groaning in agony, blood seeping quickly through his gray wool coat.
"Don't move!" Frank shouted, stepping forward and kicking the revolver further away, pinning Albright’s chest beneath his tactical boot.
I scrambled up from the stone hearth, my ears ringing with a sharp, piercing whine from the gunshots. My arm burned where I had slammed against the stone, but I ignored the pain, lunging forward and grabbing Albright by his coat lapels, hauling his upper body six inches off the floor.
"Where is it?" I snarled into his bleeding face. "Where is the rest of the Tetrodotoxin? Who gave it to you?"
Albright gasped for air, his teeth stained with red foam, his eyes rolling back in his head. "In... in the safe..." he wheezed. "Florence... Florence got it... from a contact... in Chicago... six months ago..."
I let go of his coat, dropping his head back onto the floor, and turned to face my mother.
Florence was standing by the stone fireplace, her face completely drained of color, her hands hovering near her mink coat. She didn't look at Albright. She didn't look at Mason.
She looked at the dark, open square of the cellar trapdoor beneath the rug.
Frank Vance kept his weapon trained on Brenda and Mason, who were huddled together on the sofa, weeping hysterically.
"Connor," Frank said, his breath coming in heavy puffs. "Check the cellar. There's something down there he was pulling out before we broke in."
I picked up the heavy steel flashlight from the floor, turned on the high-powered LED beam, and walked over to the open trapdoor. A flight of narrow, rotting wooden steps led straight down into the cold, damp dark beneath the lake house.
The air rising from the basement smelled horribly of old dampness, mildew, and rusted iron—a smell that hadn't seen fresh sunlight in decades.
I lowered myself onto the wooden steps, descending carefully into the dark.
The beam of my flashlight cut through the floating dust motes, illuminating stone foundation walls built in the early 1980s. The cellar was small—perhaps twelve by fifteen feet—lined with rusted metal shelving holding old paint cans, broken fishing rods, and stacks of yellowed newspapers from thirty years ago.
In the back corner of the cellar, sitting on top of a concrete block, was an old, heavy green steel army footlocker.
The padlocks had been freshly cut away with a pair of bolt cutters that lay on the dirt floor beside it.
I walked over to the footlocker, the dust crunching beneath my boots.
I pulled back the heavy metal lid.
Inside the chest sat three items.
First, a thick stack of yellowed medical files from the old Cedar Rapids General Hospital, dated August 14, 1993. Second, a heavy brass key wrapped in an old, faded baby blanket embroidered with the initials V.H.—Vivian Higgins. And third, a videotape—a black VHS cassette with a white label marked in faded red ink: PROPERTY OF DR. HAROLD PENDLETON - DO NOT DESTROY.
My father’s handwriting.
My hands trembled as I picked up the yellowed medical file from August 1993.
I opened the cover.
The primary document inside was an adoption certificate and a police incident report.
I scanned the first page, my eyes locked onto the typed text, my brain struggling to register the horrific, unbelievable truth printed on the official state letterhead:
INCIDENT REPORT - IOWA STATE POLICE - AUG 12, 1993 SUBJECT: Illegal Seizure and Forced Adoption of Minor Child. DETAILS: Infant female, Vivian Higgins (Age 6 months), removed from biological mother, Margaret Higgins, following staged psychiatric hold ordered by Dr. Harold Pendleton and Florence Pendleton. Infant subsequently placed into private adoption pipeline and assigned to the Miller family of Marion, Iowa...
I dropped the paper. It floated down into the dirt at my feet.
My father—a respected businessman—and my mother hadn't just opposed Vivian joining our family twenty-two years ago because she was from a humble background.
Thirty years ago, when Vivian was six months old, my parents had illegally stolen her from her birth mother, Margaret Higgins, using a fake medical hold arranged by Dr. Harold Pendleton, to protect a massive medical malpractice scandal involving an illegal pharmaceutical testing program at our family-funded clinic.
They had given the baby to the Miller family, paying them to raise her quietly under a false name.
And twenty-two years later, when I randomly met Vivian at a university library in Iowa City and fell in love with her, my mother realized with absolute terror that the baby girl she had stolen thirty years ago was entering her house as her son's wife.
They had kept the secret for two decades.
Until Vivian found Margaret Higgins two years ago. Until Vivian began digging into her own adoption files. Until Vivian threatened to expose the entire dark foundation upon which Pendleton Enterprises had been built.
A sudden, soft footstep sounded on the cellar stairs behind me.
I turned the flashlight beam around.
May you like
Florence Pendleton stood on the bottom step, holding an old, nickel-plated pocket pistol in her hand, her pale eyes shining with a terrifying, absolute insanity in the yellow light.
"You should have left that box closed, Connor," she whispered.
