Chapter 13 - The Empty Tomb
By midnight, the storm had engulfed Manhattan, churning the Hudson River into black froth. Three thousand miles away from the Montana ranch, a fleet of unmarked black Suburbans rolled silently through the iron gates of Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn.
Federal agents in yellow-lettered windbreakers established a hundred-yard perimeter around the ornate Vance family mausoleum. Floodlights illuminated the gothic marble structure, casting harsh, stark shadows against the weeping angels carved into the facade.
Harrison sat in the back of a tactical command truck parked outside the cemetery gates, connected via a live, encrypted satellite feed. On his lap, his satellite phone buzzed continuously as Marcus remained stationed back at the Montana lodge, guarding Maya with six heavily armed private contractors.
"Cameras are live, Mr. Vance," the FBI tactical director announced inside the van. "Agent Miller's team is breaching the crypt."
On the bank of monitors, Harrison watched the heavy hydraulic jack pry open the reinforced bronze doors of the mausoleum. Inside, amidst wreaths of dust and withered lilies from two years prior, rested the polished mahogany casket of Evelyn Vance.
"Bring the cutting torches," Miller ordered over the radio.
Harrison leaned forward, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Every memory of his late wife flashed before his eyes: her radiant smile at their wedding in Saint Patrick’s Cathedral; the gentle way she sang lullabies to Maya in the nursery; the horrifying, skeletal figure she had become during her final weeks, her skin turning jaundiced as mysterious toxins ate away her organs.
The sparks from the blowtorch lit up the camera feed as the titanium burial seals were sheared off. Four agents lifted the heavy casket lid and slid it back onto a steel gurney.
Agent Miller stepped forward, a high-intensity forensic flashlight in hand. He aimed the beam into the velvet-lined interior.
The camera zoomed in.
Miller froze. He didn't speak for five long seconds.
"Miller, report!" the supervisor barked into the radio. "Do we have human remains?"
"Command..." Miller’s voice sounded hollow, stripped of all professional composure. "You need to see this."
The camera operator leaned over the edge of the casket.
There was no skeleton. There were no decomposed remains. There was no rot.
Lying in the center of the crushed purple velvet was a lifelike silicone mannequin—the exact same surgical-grade medical prosthetic that Harrison had ripped from the belly of his fake wife at the charity gala. But instead of an empty abdomen, the mannequin's chest cavity was carved open.
Inside the hollow silicone ribcage sat a military-grade cooling unit. Resting inside the ice-blue gel was an encrypted titanium drive and a single, fresh, un-wilted white calla lily—Evelyn’s favorite flower.
Next to the flower lay an embossed card written in immaculate, familiar feminine cursive:
May you like
*Did you really think silicone was the only thing I could fake, Harrison? Look closer at our daughter.*
***
