Chapter 3 - THE MOTHER WHO KNEW THE REAPER’S NAME
Samuel did not turn toward the cabin.
The moment Marcus showed him the photograph, he drove past the hidden trail and continued north.
“Where?” I asked.
“Old fire tower.”
“Safe?”
“No.”
“Excellent.”
He glared through the mirror.
“It gives us height.”
“Better.”
Eli sat between me and Goliath, unaware of the photograph.
Good.
Children do not need every danger narrated in real time.
Marcus sent the image to a secure investigator he trusted outside the Vale network.
I disliked needing outsiders.
I disliked needing anyone.
Apparently almost dying beneath six feet of snow was beginning a personality adjustment.
The fire tower stood on National Forest land accessible only through an unmarked logging road.
Samuel parked beneath dense pine.
“We walk.”
My ribs objected.
Nobody cared.
Eli carried a backpack.
Goliath ran ahead.
Marcus carried two weapons.
Samuel carried a hunting rifle.
I carried nothing.
That bothered me.
Samuel noticed.
“Problem?”
“I dislike being unarmed.”
“You planning to shoot my trees?”
“Depends what the trees do.”
Eli laughed.
Good.
For forty minutes we climbed.
The storm weakened.
Snow fell lightly through the branches.
At the tower, Samuel unlocked a maintenance shed.
Inside:
Old cots.
Emergency blankets.
Canned food.
A propane heater.
He had prepared this before.
“You use it often?” Marcus asked.
“Used to.”
“When?”
Samuel looked at Eli.
“Before.”
Before what?
He did not explain.
I let it go.
Progress.
Marcus stepped outside to establish a radio line.
Samuel heated soup.
Eli sat beside Goliath.
I examined the windows.
Then noticed a photograph taped inside one cabinet door.
Woman.
Early thirties.
Brown hair.
Same eyes as Eli.
Holding the boy when he was perhaps four.
“She’s his mother.”
Samuel became still.
“Yes.”
“Name?”
“Elena.”
“Elena Dawson?”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“Elena Cross.”
My entire body changed.
Cross.
That surname was not common enough to ignore.
Especially not now.
“Related to Caleb Voss?”
Samuel frowned.
“No.”
“Julian?”
“No.”
“Then why do I know that name?”
Samuel watched my face.
“You tell me.”
Memory arrived.
Sixteen years earlier.
Atlantic City.
Victor Cross.
Accountant for my father.
My father accused him of stealing three million dollars from Vale shipping fronts.
Cross disappeared before trial.
Rumor said he entered federal protection.
Two months later, my father died from pancreatic cancer.
I inherited chaos.
Caleb Voss helped me stabilize it.
Victor Cross became a forgotten name.
“Elena is Victor Cross’s daughter.”
Samuel’s expression hardened.
“You knew him.”
“Yes.”
“What happened to him?”
“I don’t know.”
“That is convenient.”
“It is true.”
Samuel poured soup into metal bowls.
“Victor came home to West Virginia sixteen years ago.”
I stared.
“He wasn’t in federal protection?”
“No.”
“What happened?”
“He lasted nine months.”
“Then?”
“Found dead near the Greenbrier River.”
“Cause?”
“Car accident.”
Samuel looked at me.
“No.”
“What?”
“Car went over a bank.”
“Yes?”
“He was dead before it moved.”
Cold settled in me.
“How?”
“Gunshot.”
“Police?”
“Called it inconclusive.”
“Why?”
Samuel laughed bitterly.
“Because men with money came through town.”
Vale men?
My father’s?
Caleb’s?
I had been twenty-eight.
New to the empire.
Buried in my father’s illness.
I did not remember ordering anything involving Victor Cross.
That did not mean someone under our name had not done it.
“Where is Elena now?”
Samuel’s face closed.
“Gone.”
“You said that.”
“She left three years ago.”
“Why?”
“She thought somebody was watching Eli.”
“Who?”
“Wouldn’t say.”
“Did she know my name?”
Samuel stared.
“Yes.”
My pulse slowed.
“How?”
“She had a photograph.”
“What photograph?”
“You.”
Of course.
“Why?”
“She said if a man named Roman Vale ever came near Eli, I was to take the boy and run.”
Eli looked up from the floor.
“What?”
Samuel froze.
Damn.
The boy heard.
“Grandpa?”
Samuel crouched.
“Your mom was scared of some people.”
“Roman?”
Eli looked at me.
His face changed.
Small.
Confused.
I hated it.
Samuel continued.
“She did not know him personally.”
“How do you know?”
“Because—”
“Did Mom say he was bad?”
Samuel said nothing.
Eli’s eyes filled.
I stepped back.
Do not interfere.
Not my child.
Samuel sat beside him.
“Your mom thought Roman’s family hurt your granddad.”
“Your dad?” Eli asked.
“Yes.”
Eli looked at me.
“Did you?”
“No.”
I answered immediately.
“I did not kill Victor Cross.”
“You know his name.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He worked for my father.”
Eli’s mouth tightened.
“Did your father kill him?”
“I don’t know.”
Not enough.
“But I can find out.”
He stared.
“Would you tell me?”
“Yes.”
Even if ugly.
Especially if ugly.
Eli looked at Goliath.
Then:
“Mom knew you?”
“I think she knew about me.”
“Where is she?”
I looked at Samuel.
The old man’s eyes filled.
“She left to protect you.”
Eli stared at him.
“You said she needed time.”
Samuel closed his eyes.
There.
Another family lie.
Not mine.
Still recognizable.
“You lied.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I thought you were too little.”
“I’m nine.”
“I know.”
“When is big enough?”
Samuel’s face broke.
“I don’t know.”
Eli stood.
Goliath immediately rose.
“I hate this.”
Then he walked outside.
Samuel started after him.
I stopped him gently.
“Dog’s with him.”
“That’s my grandson.”
“Yes.”
“Exactly.”
He glared.
Then forced himself to stay.
Hard.
Good.
We watched through the window as Eli stood twenty feet away beneath a pine.
Goliath pressed against his leg.
Samuel whispered:
“I thought she would come back.”
“Why didn't she?”
“I don't know.”
“When was the last contact?”
“Eight months ago.”
My pulse changed.
“What?”
Samuel looked at me.
“She sends postcards.”
“From where?”
“Different places.”
“Postmarks?”
“Sometimes fake.”
“Messages?”
“Only that she’s alive.”
“Any recent?”
Samuel reached into his wallet.
Folded card.
Christmas.
No picture.
Three lines:
Dad,
Keep Eli away from New York.
If anything happens to me, do not trust Caleb Voss.
I stopped breathing.
Samuel watched me.
“You know him.”
“He buried me.”
Samuel’s face drained.
“Elena knew.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Eight months ago.”
Which meant this was bigger than my assassination.
Elena Cross had identified Caleb months before.
Why?
Marcus returned.
“I got partial trace on the cabin image.”
“What?”
“Sent from a satellite relay.”
“Where?”
“Within thirty miles.”
“Pike?”
“Maybe.”
Samuel showed him the postcard.
Marcus read.
Swore.
Then:
“We need Elena.”
“Agreed.”
Samuel stared.
“I don't know where she is.”
Marcus asked:
“Did she ever use a code?”
“No.”
I looked at the postcard.
Keep Eli away from New York.
Not keep him here.
Specific.
Then another thought.
“What did Elena do for work?”
Samuel frowned.
“Before she left?”
“Yes.”
“Nurse.”
Interesting.
“Where?”
“Charleston.”
“Before that?”
“New York.”
My pulse slowed.
“Hospital?”
“No.”
“Private care.”
“For who?”
Samuel hesitated.
“A rich family.”
“Name?”
“She never said.”
“Years?”
“About ten ago.”
Marcus looked at me.
Ten years.
Around the time Caleb became more deeply embedded in Vale affairs.
“Did Elena know Julian?”
Samuel stared.
“How would I know?”
Eli came back inside.
Eyes red.
No words.
He sat.
Goliath laid his head in the boy’s lap.
I waited.
Then Eli whispered:
“Mom used to call somebody Uncle Jules.”
Everything inside me froze.
Julian.
My brother.
Samuel looked shocked.
“What?”
Eli sniffed.
“When I was little.”
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
“Did you see him?”
“No.”
“Calls?”
“Yes.”
“How often?”
“I don't remember.”
He looked at me.
“Is that your brother?”
“Yes.”
“Julian?”
“Yes.”
Eli’s face tightened.
“I think Mom knew him.”
Marcus went completely still.
The conspiracy shifted.
Caleb Voss.
Julian Vale.
Elena Cross.
Victor Cross.
Eli.
These were not separate lines.
They were one.
Then a rifle cracked outside.
The fire-tower window exploded.
Samuel dropped.
I grabbed Eli and pulled him behind the stove.
Marcus fired through the broken frame.
Goliath barked violently.
Second shot.
Then silence.
“Everyone hit?” Marcus shouted.
“No.”
Samuel looked at his arm.
Blood.
“Graze.”
Eli saw it.
“Grandpa!”
“I’m fine.”
He was not.
But alive.
Marcus crawled toward the rear window.
“Shooter’s moving downhill.”
“Pike?”
“Professional.”
Probably.
I looked at Eli.
The boy’s face had gone white.
Enough.
This had to stop.
Not someday.
Now.
“Marcus.”
“What?”
“Call federal marshals.”
He stared.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Roman.”
“I am done moving a child through forests because my family wants me dead.”
Samuel looked at me.
“We need law enforcement protection.”
Marcus almost smiled.
“The Reaper wants witness protection.”
“I want the boy protected.”
“Same paperwork.”
“Do it.”
Eli looked at me.
“Will police stop him?”
“I hope.”
“That doesn't sound sure.”
“It isn’t.”
Honest.
Then I looked toward the shattered window.
“But I am going to give them enough that anyone coming for you has to cross the entire federal government.”
Marcus stared.
“You understand what that means for us.”
“Yes.”
Our ledgers.
Freight.
Money.
Everything.
Samuel watched me.
“You’d risk your empire for Eli?”
I looked at the nine-year-old who had dug through a blizzard with bare hands because a dog refused to leave a stranger.
“No.”
I said quietly.
“I’m risking it because apparently the empire is the thing putting him in danger.”
That distinction mattered.
May you like
By dusk, federal marshals were climbing the mountain.
And for the first time in twenty-five years, Roman Vale voluntarily handed his location to the government.
