Chapter 6 - The Shadows of Garrison
The Garrison estate was an imposing stone fortress built during the Gilded Age, perched high on the granite bluffs overlooking the black, churning waters of the Hudson River. Surrounded by hundreds of acres of dense, ancient hemlock and pine trees, it was completely isolated from civilization.
Tonight, the estate was bathed in darkness.
Arthur killed the Porsche’s headlights two miles down the winding river road. He drifted the car silently onto an abandoned logging path concealed by overgrown brush, killing the engine. The only sounds were the violent drumming of rain against the hemlock canopy and the distant, rhythmic rumble of thunder rolling down the river valley.
Arthur stepped out into the mud. The cold rain soaked through his suit immediately, plastering his hair to his skull. He pulled the Sig Sauer from his jacket, checked the night sights—glowing a soft, radioactive green—and slipped through the iron perimeter fence where the wire had rusted through decades ago.
He moved through the trees like a ghost, his boots making almost no sound against the wet pine needles.
Ahead, through the curtain of rain, the dark silhouette of the manor loomed against the lightning-streaked sky. In the gravel courtyard, a black Cadillac Escalade sat idling, its exhaust plumes curling into the freezing air.
Two men stood near the front portico, wearing dark tactical rain gear, assault rifles slung low across their chests. Arthur recognized the stance—mercenaries, private security contractors Julian used for corporate intimidation overseas.
Arthur bypassed the courtyard entirely. He slipped down the muddy embankment toward the detached stone carriage house, half-submerged in the hillside.
The heavy iron door of the old wine cellar was locked with an antique padlock. Arthur pulled a tactical pry-tool from his pocket, jammed it into the rusted hasp, and threw his weight against it. With a dull, wet *snap*, the metal gave way.
He slipped inside, clicking on a penlight shielded with his fingers.
The air in the subterranean cellar was freezing, thick with the smell of damp earth, centuries-old stone, and decaying oak barrels. Arthur navigated the maze of dusty racks until he reached the third brick column from the arched doorway.
He ran his fingers along the mortar lines. Just as Martha had said, two bricks near the base were loose. Arthur pulled them free, exposing a heavy steel latch set flush into the foundation.
He yanked the latch. A section of the stone wall pivoted silently inward on hydraulic hinges, revealing a narrow, claustrophobic tunnel burrowed through the bedrock beneath the manor.
Arthur slipped inside and began to crawl.
Above him, the floorboards of the manor groaned. As he reached the vertical service ladder at the end of the tunnel, voices began to drift down through the air vents—harsh, frantic, and laced with high-stakes panic.
"...the wire transfer isn't clearing, Julian!"
It was Vanessa’s voice, echoing from the master library directly above. She wasn't sobbing or playing the victim now. Her voice was shrill, manic, vibrating on the knife-edge of pure hysteria.
"It will clear at midnight, Vanessa, shut up and sit down!" Julian snapped back. "The Swiss banks require secondary authentication. When Arthur’s phone pings the cell tower near the cliffs, the automated probate release will trigger. He’s already on his way. The security detail outside will drop him the second his car hits the driveway."
"And what about the kid?!" Vanessa hissed. "She won't stop whimpering! My ears are bleeding! Look at her, Julian, she’s filthy! Look what she did to my dress!"
From directly above the ceiling grate, a small, choked sound reached Arthur’s ears.
"Daddy... please... Daddy..."
Lucy.
Arthur’s vision flared crimson. Every nerve ending in his body screamed for violence, but the tactical discipline he had cultivated for decades locked his muscles down. He could not afford a single mistake. One errant sound, and Julian would put a bullet through Lucy’s head before Arthur could breach the floor.
Arthur climbed the metal rungs of the ladder until his head brushed the underside of the library’s false floorboard. Through the narrow slats of the antique brass heating register, he had a clear sightline into the room.
The library was illuminated only by the dying embers of the stone fireplace and the harsh, blue light of Julian’s open laptop.
Julian stood by the heavy mahogany desk, wearing a leather driving jacket, a high-caliber revolver resting within arm's reach on the desk blotter.
Vanessa was pacing near the grand bay windows, holding a glass of scotch in one hand, her face gaunt, her eyes manic and bloodshot.
And in the corner of the room, tied to a heavy Victorian armchair with electrical tape, was little Lucy.
The toddler was drenched from the rain, her clothes torn, her face smeared with mud and dried tears. Her small chest heaved in silent, exhausted sobs. Her beloved one-eared bunny lay discarded on the floor, soaked in scotch where Vanessa had deliberately poured her drink over it.
"Just give her the rest of the bottle, Julian," Vanessa muttered, waving her glass toward the child. "Give her the thallium drops and put her in the trunk. If Arthur sees her dead, he might not come into the house. He might call the state troopers!"
"Arthur won't call anyone," Julian said with cold certainty, checking his gold Rolex. "Arthur thinks he’s a hero. He thinks he can save everyone. He thought he could save Eleanor, he thinks he can save the nanny, and he thinks he can save his brat. He’ll walk through that front door, the boys outside will put three rounds through his chest, and by morning, the police will find Arthur’s suicide note confessing to Eleanor’s murder and an accidental murder-suicide pact with his family."
Julian picked up the revolver from the desk, checking the cylinder.
"Untie the kid, Vanessa. Let's get her down to the river."
Arthur didn't wait another second.
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With a thunderous roar of pure, unadulterated paternal fury, Arthur threw his entire body upward, shattering the false floorboards into a blizzard of splintered oak.
***
