Chapter 8 - The AirfieldI rode to the airfield in the back of an FBI SUV with Agent Pike beside me and Grant Blackwood across from me, his wrists finally cuffed.
He spent the first ten minutes staring out the window.
Then he said, “You’re going to get her killed.”
I did not answer.
“Marianne,” he said. “Your aunt. You think running toward danger makes you brave. It makes you predictable.”
I looked at him.
“And you think cruelty makes you powerful. It makes you easy to read.”
For once, he had no reply.
Rain began before we reached Teterboro. Not heavy, just enough to smear the lights across the glass and make the runway look like a wound cut through the dark.
The scene was chaos contained by flashing red and blue.
Private security men were kneeling beside black SUVs. Agents moved with weapons low. A white jet stood under floodlights with its stairs still extended.
Helena Blackwood was nowhere in sight.
Neither was Marianne.
Pike spoke to the field commander, then came back grim.
“They found blood near the hangar entrance.”
I gripped the pendant through my dress.
“Whose?”
“Unknown.”
Grant’s expression changed.
Just slightly.
Enough.
“You know where she went,” I said.
He said nothing.
I stepped closer to him.
“Grant.”
His eyes met mine.
“She has a secondary exit,” he said. “Old service tunnel beneath Hangar Three. My grandfather used it for customs inspections he preferred not to have inspected.”
Pike turned sharply.
“Why didn’t you say that?”
Grant’s smile was empty.
“Nobody asked nicely.”
Pike ordered two agents to move.
I followed.
“Mrs. Blackwood,” he warned.
“My aunt is down there.”
“You are a civilian.”
“I am also the reason this is happening.”
Grant’s voice came behind me.
“No, Celeste. You’re the reason it didn’t stay buried.”
That was not an apology.
But it was close enough to truth to sting.
The service tunnel entrance was hidden behind stacked maintenance crates. One agent forced it open. Cold damp air rose from below.
We descended into concrete darkness.
Halfway down the tunnel, I heard coughing.
“Marianne!”
A weak voice answered, “Celeste?”
I ran.
She was sitting against the wall, one hand pressed to her side, blood darkening her cardigan. Her silver hair had come loose from its pins. Still, when she saw me, she tried to smile.
“My girl,” she whispered.
I dropped to my knees.
“No. No, no, no.”
Pike called for medical support.
Marianne grabbed my wrist with surprising strength.
“Listen. Helena has the ledger copy.”
“We found the red ledger.”
“That’s the visible one,” she gasped. “Your mother never trusted paper alone.”
“What does that mean?”
“The real proof is in the vault.”
I held up the pendant.
“This?”
She nodded.
“Not a key to money. A key to testimony.”
Footsteps echoed from the far end of the tunnel.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Pike lifted his weapon.
Helena Blackwood stepped into the emergency light with a small pistol in one hand and a folder in the other.
Her hair was slightly disordered.
Her pearls were still perfect.
“Step away from her,” Pike ordered.
Helena ignored him and looked only at me.
“Celeste,” she said softly, “you have your mother’s eyes.”
Then she raised the gun.
May you like
Not at me.
At Marianne.
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