Chapter 28 - Blood in the Water
The Century boat was tied at the cove, but the original land deeds and Helen’s private journals were still secured inside the hidden wall safe in the lake house master bedroom—a safe Robert had watched Helen install thirty years ago.
"Marcus!" I screamed, turning toward the F-250.
"I’m ahead of you, Riley! Get in!" Marcus roared.
We tore out of the church parking lot, the siren of the federal truck wailing as Marcus pushed the heavy vehicle through red lights and country crossroads, heading back toward the northern ridge of Lake Blackwood. The sky had turned an ominous, bruised purple as another band of lake-effect squalls swept in from Canada, whipping the treetops into frenzied circles.
Ten minutes later, we crested the final hill overlooking Blackwood Shore.
A thick, oily column of black smoke was billowing up from the lakefront, clawing into the gray storm clouds.
"No!" I choked out, my knuckles turning white against the dashboard.
We skidded into the long gravel driveway. The main house was not yet fully engulfed, but orange tongues of fire were licking out of the shattered kitchen windows where I had fired the shotgun the night before. Robert had doused the ground floor in gasoline; the smell of burning pine and accelerant was thick enough to choke on.
Parked near the edge of the private dock was a beat-up pickup truck Robert had evidently stolen from a neighbor's boathouse.
"He's on the water!" Marcus yelled, pointing toward the lake.
Through the rain, I saw him.
Robert was on my grandmother’s vintage Century boat. He had found it in the marsh, hotwired the ignition, and brought it around to the private dock to load the iron wall safe he had wrenched from the master bedroom using a stolen winch. He was standing on the wooden dock, securing the final tie-down rope, his injured leg crudely wrapped in duct tape and bloody shop towels.
Marcus slammed the truck into park, drawing his sidearm as he kicked the door open. "Federal agent! Step away from the boat! Hands in the air!"
Robert didn't hesitate. He pulled an automatic pistol from his waistband and fired three rapid shots at the truck.
A bullet starred the reinforced windshield right in front of Marcus's face, showering the dashboard with safety glass. Another round punched through Marcus's shoulder, spinning the older man around with a grunt of pain as he collapsed against the front tire.
"Marcus!" I screamed.
"I’m fine! Go!" Marcus grunted through clenched teeth, his left hand clamping over his bleeding shoulder. "Don't let him get into open water! He’ll scuttle the safe!"
I didn't think. All the fear, all the years of feeling helpless under my mother’s emotional abuse, all the grief of losing Grandma Helen—it crystallized into a single, blinding spear of pure fury.
I grabbed the heavy iron tire iron from the truck bed and charged down the bluff steps through the driving rain.
Robert saw me coming. He pulled the trigger of his pistol, but the slide clicked empty, locking back on an empty chamber. He cursed, throwing the useless weapon into the lake, and reached for the iron crowbar lying on the dock boards.
"You just don't know when to die, do you, Riley?" he snarled, limping heavily toward me, the crowbar raised like an executioner’s axe.
"Neither do you, Robert," I shouted over the wind. "Let's fix that."
He swung the crowbar down with murderous force.
I dodged to the left, the iron bar smashing into the wooden dock planking, splintering the cedar planks inches from my boot. Using his forward momentum against him, I brought the heavy tire iron around, striking him hard across his wounded thigh.
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Robert roared in agony, his knee buckling beneath him. He crashed down onto the wet dock, but his arm lashed out, catching me by the ankle and dragging me down onto the slick, rain-soaked wood.
We grappled violently on the edge of the pier, rolling over the edge of the five-foot drop into the freezing, turbulent lake water.
