Chapter 5 - The Cabin on Vancouver Island
The fog over Tofino, British Columbia, was thick enough to chew. Cold salt spray blew off the grey waters of the Pacific, rattling the cedar shingles of a isolated, two-story cabin perched on a rocky cliff overlooking the ocean.
A wood stove burned quietly inside the living room, filling the space with the scent of pine and burning birch.
A man sat at a rough oak table near the window, carefully cleaning the mechanical components of a small diesel engine. His hair was long, streaked with grey at the temples, and a deep scar stretched across his left jaw line—the permanent souvenir of his swim through the rocks off Santa Barbara six years earlier.
Andrew Whitmore froze.
His hand stopped mid-motion over the engine part.
Through the heavy fog outside, the low, rhythmic thrum of a helicopter engine echoed over the water, rapidly growing louder until the heavy vibration shook the tea cups on his shelf.
Andrew immediately reached beneath the table, pulling a small revolver from a hidden holster, slipping it into his jacket pocket. He walked silently to the front window, peeling back the thick plaid curtains.
A sleek blue bell helicopter was descending onto the gravel clearing fifty yards from his cabin.
The rotors slowed to a whine, kicking up a cloud of wet pine needles and mist.
The heavy sliding door opened.
A man stepped out into the rain. He wore a heavy wool coat, his head bare against the cold air, stepping carefully over the wet rocks toward the cabin porch.
Andrew’s breath caught in his throat.
His fingers tightened around the handle of the gun in his pocket.
The man on the porch didn't knock. He simply turned the brass door handle and pushed the door open, stepping inside out of the wind.
Daniel stood in the doorway, water dripping from his shoulders, staring across the small room at the ghost who had haunted his dreams for six long years.
Neither man spoke for almost a full minute. The only sound in the cabin was the crackle of the wood stove and the distant crash of waves against the rocks below.
"You grew a beard," Daniel said finally, his voice thick with unexpressed pain.
Andrew swallowed hard, his jaw working as he slowly took his hand out of his pocket, letting the gun rest on the oak table.
"Daniel..." Andrew whispered, his voice raspy from disuse. "How did you find me?"
"Vanessa had a tracker on your satellite phone," Daniel said, taking two slow steps into the room. "And Maria told me about Pasadena."
At the mention of Maria's name, Andrew’s face went entirely pale. He took a frantic step forward, his hands trembling. "Maria? Is she okay? Is Noah—"
"Maria is in a hospital in Los Angeles," Daniel said, his voice suddenly turning sharp as razor wire. "She has a concussion, fractured fingers, and sixteen stitches in her forehead because she threw herself between your son and the woman who tried to kidnap him."
Andrew slammed his fist onto the table, a choked sob escaping his chest as he dropped his head into his hands. "God... oh God... I tried to draw them away from her! I thought if I moved up here, Vanessa's people would follow me and leave Maria alone!"
"You're an idiot, Andrew," Daniel said, his tone striking like a whip. "You're a coward and an idiot!"
Andrew looked up, tears streaming down his weathered face. "You don't understand what father did, Daniel! He set us up! He used Whitmore Holdings to launder money for the Hart family syndicate! If I hadn't faked my death, I would have been serving thirty years in a federal penitentiary!"
"And what about mother?!" Daniel roared, taking three aggressive steps forward, grabbing his brother by the collar of his wool shirt and slamming him back against the wall. "What about mother, Andrew?! She spent two years dying in that empty mansion because she thought her baby boy was rotting at the bottom of the ocean! She died holding your photograph!"
Andrew didn't fight back. He let his brother hold him against the wall, his head hanging low, sobbing uncontrollably.
"I know..." Andrew wept. "I know I ruined everything... I couldn't face you, Daniel. I couldn't face the family. I was weak."
Daniel held him for a long moment, his chest heaving, his knuckles white against Andrew’s collar. Slowly, painfully, the rage inside Daniel began to recede, replaced by a deep, ancient sadness.
He released his hold, stepping back, wiping his own wet cheek with the back of his sleeve.
"You're going to fix this, Andrew," Daniel said quietly.
Andrew looked up, wiping his nose. "How? The syndicate owns half the judges in California. Eleanor Hart has political connections in Washington. The moment I step foot back in the United States, they'll arrest me for probate fraud and stage an 'accident' in my holding cell."
The cabin door opened again.
Jonathan Mercer walked inside, shaking the rain from his dark umbrella, holding a black leather briefcase beneath his arm.
"They won't get the chance," Jonathan said smoothly, setting the briefcase on the oak table. "Because as of three hours ago, I purchased the controlling interest in the primary debt notes issued by Hart Enterprises. You are not going back to Los Angeles as a fugitive, Andrew. You are going back as the state's primary federal witness."
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Andrew stared at Jonathan, then at Daniel. "Who are you?"
"This is Jonathan Mercer," Daniel said. "He's the man who is going to help us destroy Eleanor Hart once and for all. Now pack your bags, Andrew. Your son is waiting for you in Beverly Hills."
