Chapter 11: The Drainage Culvert
The beam of the flashlight lingered for a suspended, agonizing heartbeat over the rusted fender before sweeping away toward a pile of wooden crates. The man in the charcoal suit muttered an indistinct curse into his lapel radio, turned on his heel, and walked back toward the idling black sedan.
As soon as the car doors slammed shut and the vehicle crept further down the lane toward the main garage doors, Michael grabbed my hand. "Now," he breathed.
We bolted from the shadows of the abandoned sedan, diving headfirst into the mouth of the concrete drainage culvert hidden beneath a thicket of dry brambles. The smell of stagnant water and damp concrete filled the air as we scrambled on our hands and knees through the dark tunnel. The baby stirred against my chest, letting out a soft, muted whimper, but I hushed it gently, pressing my cheek against the warm crown of its head while crawling as fast as the uneven floor would allow.
The culvert seemed endless, a hollow concrete throat that carried the damp chill of the earth deep beneath the roaring asphalt of the state highway. Above us, the muffled thrum of passing semi-trucks vibrated through the structure, masking the sound of our desperate escape.
After what felt like miles, a pale rectangle of gray dawn light appeared ahead. We scrambled out of the pipe, tumbling down a muddy embankment into a dense patch of wild ferns just off the county service road.
I collapsed against the damp trunk of a sycamore tree, my lungs burning, my gray pants soaked through with mud at the knees. Michael pulled himself up beside me, wiping a smear of dark grease from his forehead with the back of his hand. He scanned the empty stretch of road stretching toward the center of Oakhaven, where the neoclassical stone pillars of the county records office stood against the pale morning sky.
"We made it past their primary checkpoint," Michael said, his voice steady despite the adrenaline still pumping through his frame. "The records office opens in twenty minutes. Once we're inside, we pull the original land grants and the foundation deeds David Vance was auditing before he disappeared."
I adjusted the light green knitted blanket, ensuring the baby was warm and secure before looking up at the imposing stone building in the distance. The sun was just beginning to crest the horizon, casting long, sharp shadows across the deserted municipal parking lot.
"Helena thinks she owns every piece of paper in this county," I said, my voice hardening as the fear gave way to a cold, focused determination. "Let's see what she missed."
May you like
We walked the remaining half-mile along the tree-lined sidewalk, keeping our heads down as the first morning commuters began to stir in their vehicles. We bypassed the grand front entrance of the records office, opting instead for a heavy oak side door marked with a brass plaque for municipal staff—a route David Vance had once scribbled in the margin of a personal notebook I had found tucked away in my old desk drawer back at the penthouse.
Michael tried the brass handle. To our astonishment, it clicked and swung inward. The interior smelled of old paper, floor wax, and damp wool. We slipped inside into the quiet dimness, closing the heavy door behind us just as the distant church bells began to toll seven o'clock.
