Chapter 2 - The Sound of Leather and Bone
The storm outside swelled, a gust of wind driving freezing rain against the high board-sealed slots with the force of thrown gravel.
Ethan stepped closer to Claire, dropping his iron crowbar to the rug. "We're leaving. Now. My chopper is in the courtyard. If I can override the tail rotor error, I can have us in Boston before dawn."
Claire looked at the splintered doorway, then down at her bare feet, which were wrapped in frayed linen rags tied with string. "You don't understand, Ethan. Vivian doesn't sleep at night. She sits in the gallery with the ledger. And Arthur..."
Before she could finish her sentence, the sharp, rhythmic heavy thud of a silver-tipped walking cane echoed from the stone corridor outside.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Ethan’s hand instinctively reached for the pocket knife in his flight jacket. He stepped in front of Claire, shielding her pale frame with his body as heavy footsteps approached the shattered wall.
A tall, bone-thin man in a tailored velvet smoking jacket stepped through the broken wainscoting, illumination from a kerosene lantern carving deep shadows into his gaunt face. It was Arthur Ashford. Behind him stood Vivian, her grey hair wrapped in a silk scarf, her pale eyes wide with an icy, unbothered fury.
"I thought I heard structural damage in the east wing, Mr. Hale," Arthur said, his voice smooth, resonant, and entirely devoid of surprise. He held an old double-barreled Holland & Holland shotgun tucked casually beneath his left arm. "We usually ask our houseguests to stay in the West Suites. The east floor is... unstable."
Vivian looked past Ethan, her eyes fixing on Claire. There was no horror in her expression, no guilt, only the sharp, disdainful irritation a woman might display toward an escaped pet.
"You've made a mess, Claire," Vivian said softly. "And after I brought you fresh apples yesterday."
"She’s twenty-five years old, Vivian," Ethan said, his voice dropping into a low, lethal pitch as he took a half-step forward. "You kept a human being in a six-inch plaster cage for two decades."
Arthur lowered the shotgun until the twin black muzzles were pointed directly at Ethan’s chest. "She isn't twenty-five, Mr. Hale. Legally, Claire Bennett ceased to exist on November 14, 2004. Death Certificate #884-B, signed by the county coroner and validated by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts."
Arthur took a step closer, the cold scent of gun oil and peppermint wafting off him.
"You see, Mr. Hale, you are an insurance investigator. You deal in documentation. In the eyes of the law, the woman standing behind you is a corpse. And one cannot kidnap or murder a corpse. One simply... disposes of an unidentified intruder."
"Try it," Ethan whispered. "My flight log was filed with Boston Center before I touched down. If I don't check in by 0600, the FAA sends federal marshals to this ridge."
Vivian let out a light, musical laugh that made the hairs on Ethan's neck stand on end. "Boston Center? Oh, Mr. Hale. Arthur controls the regional tower relay in Pittsfield. Your signal never left the mountain. You are as disconnected from the world as she is."
Claire suddenly moved. With a speed born of twenty years of living in shadows, she grabbed the heavy pewter candlestick from her narrow bedside table and hurled it directly at Arthur’s face.
The heavy metal caught Arthur across the bridge of his nose with a wet crunch. He stumbled backward, his hands flying to his bloodied face, the shotgun barrel tilting toward the ceiling.
BANG.
The gunshot exploded inside the tight room, plaster rain down in a blinding white cloud.
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"Run!" Ethan roared.
He lunged forward, his shoulder slamming into Arthur’s chest, throwing the tall man against the rotting doorframe. Ethan grabbed Claire’s arm, pulling her through the shattered wall, past the stunned Vivian, and out into the dark, cavernous gallery of the east wing.
