Chapter 4 - The Lockout
The silver Porsche pulled up to the ornate wrought-iron gates of Oakridge Estates at twenty minutes past midnight. Daniel clicked the overhead remote button.
Nothing happened.
The heavy black gates remained resolutely closed.
"What is wrong with this stupid gate?" Vanessa cried, slapping the dashboard. "Daniel, push it again!"
Daniel jabbed the button repeatedly, but the red indicator light on the sensor post flashed three times and emitted a sharp, buzzing tone. The gate didn't budge an inch.
He rolled down his window into the chilly night air, reached out, and pressed the call box button for the guardhouse.
"Security, this is Officer Ramirez," a crisp voice answered.
"Ramirez, it's Daniel Whitmore! The gate isn't reading my transponder. Open up."
A brief pause followed, filled with the rustling of papers on the other end. "I'm sorry, Mr. Whitmore. As of eleven o'clock tonight, all gate privileges and transponder codes for your vehicles have been permanently deactivated per the instructions of the primary deed holder."
Daniel gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. "What are you talking about? I am the resident! My mother lives with me, she has nothing to do with gate codes!"
"The directive did not come from a resident, sir. It came directly from Apex Property Management and the Whitmore Living Trust. I have orders to inform you that you are trespassing if you cross the perimeter."
"Trespassing?! On my own property?!" Daniel bellowed, slamming his fist against the steering wheel. He threw the Porsche into park, kicked open the door, and stomped toward the pedestrian side gate. To his surprise, the digital pad was unbolted and locked with a physical padlocked chain.
"Daniel, what is going on?!" Vanessa screamed from the passenger seat, stepping out onto the asphalt in her high heels. "Call the police! Someone has hacked our accounts and locked us out!"
"Shut up, Vanessa!" Daniel barked, his panic boiling over into blind rage. "Stay in the car!"
He grabbed the top of the stone wall, hauled himself over the spiked iron bars, and dropped onto the manicured grass of the interior grounds. He sprinted up the winding, half-mile driveway toward the house, his polished dress shoes sliding across the damp gravel.
When he reached the circular motor court, his jaw fell open.
Two unmarked black SUVs were parked in front of the front entrance, their hazard lights blinking silently in the dark. Beside the front steps stood two burly men in dark tactical uniforms with badges pinned to their vests. A commercial locksmith van was parked next to them, tools laid out on a portable workbench.
The massive oak double doors were wide open, and bright floodlights illuminated the entryway.
"Hey! What the hell are you doing to my front door?!" Daniel shouted, charging up the stone steps.
Before he could reach the porch, both security guards stepped forward, blocking his path with broad shoulders and outstretched arms.
"Stand down, sir," the taller guard said in a calm, authoritative voice. "Do not approach the residence."
"Get your filthy hands off me!" Daniel spat, struggling against the guard's iron grip. "I own this house! Mother! Margaret, get out here right now! Call the police!"
From the shadowy interior of the foyer, a tall, slender man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit stepped forward onto the porch, holding an open leather binder. Behind him, standing calmly beside the hall table, was a woman dressed in a clean wool sweater.
It was Margaret.
Her cheek was visibly bruised, the purplish swelling stark against her pale skin, but her posture was straight as a steel rod.
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"Good evening, Daniel," Arthur Vance said, looking down over his half-moon spectacles. "I suggest you stop screaming before Officer Miller arrests you for disorderly conduct and felony domestic assault."
***
