Chapter 8 - Blood on the Oak
The mention of the deed hit me like a bucket of ice water.
"What deed?" I asked, keeping my grip tight on the wooden railing.
The man in the camel coat—Frank, as Marcus had whispered in panic earlier—ignited a silver lighter. The flame cast sharp, dancing shadows across his scarred cheek. "The deed to this lovely piece of suburban real estate. Marcus signed over the second lien three days ago to cover his marker at the underground tables in Euclid. Along with some antique pocket watch worth fifteen grand."
"He doesn't own this house!" Dad's voice boomed from the doorway of the bedroom.
Arthur stepped into the hall, ignoring the sharp pain in his hip. He planted his cane and stared down at the two intruders. "I built this house with my own two hands in 1984! Marcus doesn't own a single nail in these walls!"
Frank exhaled a thin stream of gray smoke into the air. He didn't look impressed. He looked bored.
"Well, old-timer, you should've checked your mail," Frank said smoothly. "Because your brother-in-law Vance notarized the transfer power of attorney last Tuesday. As far as the county records are concerned, Marcus was authorized to liquidate the equity."
Everything crystallized in that single, horrifying sentence.
Uncle Vance hadn't just planted that stolen money in my tool drawer to discredit me. He hadn't just used Marcus to pawn Grandma's watch. They were executing a systematic, predatory stripping of my parents' entire life. Vance had used Marcus's addiction and Chloe's blind infatuation as a battering ram to plunder the family estate before Arthur could notice the discrepancies in the retirement accounts.
And when they realized I was asking too many questions, they staged the theft, intending to have me arrested so no one would be left to read the forged titles.
"Vance didn't stay to face the music," I said down to Frank. "He ran out the back five minutes before you kicked the door."
Frank's eyes narrowed slightly. He flicked his cigarette ash onto the foyer rug. "That's unfortunate for Vance. But the debt belongs to Marcus. Leo, go get him."
The younger man in the nylon jacket pulled his right hand out of his pocket. A black snub-nosed revolver gleamed under the hallway lamp. He started up the wooden stairs, his rubber soles squeaking on the polished treads.
"Elias, get back!" Mom screamed from the bedroom doorway.
Chloe stumbled out into the hall, her mascara running down her cheeks in black rivulets. "Marcus, give them the money! Just give them whatever you have!"
"He doesn't have it, Chloe!" I shouted, watching Leo take step four, step five. The gunman was moving fast, eyes fixed on Marcus, who had suddenly bolted out of the room, attempting to shove past me toward the attic stairs.
"Get out of my way!" Marcus screamed, his face contorted in manic survival instinct. He shoved me violently against the railing.
The old balustrade groaned under my weight. In the chaos, Leo reached the top landing, leveling the barrel straight at Marcus's forehead. "Don't move, pretty boy."
What happened next lasted less than three seconds.
Dad didn't scream. He didn't hesitate. With a feral roar that tore from his throat, the sixty-eight-year-old machinist stepped forward and brought his heavy brass cane down with the full rotational force of his torso.
The brass head struck Leo's wrist with the sickening sound of breaking ceramic.
The revolver slipped from the thug's fingers, clattering across the hallway floorboards. Leo let out a shriek of agony, clutching his shattered arm, but Frank was already charging up the stairs, two at a time, pulling a heavy serrated hunting knife from his belt.
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"Arthur!" Mom shrieked.
I didn't think. Instinct took over. As Leo dropped to his knees, I grabbed the heavy cast-iron doorstop shaped like a wedge sitting by the linen closet and drove it forward into Leo’s midsection, sending him tumbling backward down the wooden staircase. He crashed violently into Frank halfway down, knocking the bigger man off balance. Both men went rolling down the steps in a tangle of limbs, coats, and profanity, landing in a brutal heap against the broken front door.
