My stomach churned into a hard, painful knot. "Apex Industrial..." I whispered. "The chemical plant on the north side of the county line."
August 12, 2005: Earl’s notes continued, the ink smudged by sweat. Confronted Richard tonight at the office. He threatened to call the county sheriff and frame me for the missing shop funds if I went to the state police. He said Sheriff Miller is on Apex's payroll. I’m moving fifty thousand dollars of shop emergency reserves out of the local bank tomorrow morning so Richard can't seize it.
August 14, 2005 — 7:00 PM: The final entry was short, written in jagged, frantic strokes that tore through the paper.
Richard knows I have the Apex dumping receipts. He’s coming to the garage tonight with Sheriff Miller. They told me I'm signing over the river land deed or I won't leave Blackwood alive. If something happens to me, I hid the original Apex chemical transport logs and the signed bank forgery inside the steel frame of my Harley. Sam, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry I couldn't protect you from him. Don't trust Richard. Don't trust the sheriff.
A loud, violent bang rattled the rear sliding bay door, making both Toby and me jump.
"Sam! Open this door right now!" a loud, harsh voice shouted from the outside alleyway.
It wasn't Richard. It was the gravelly, raspy voice of Sheriff Lyle Miller.
"Sam Vance!" Miller shouted, beating his heavy leather glove against the steel bay door. "We have a warrant to inspect this facility for illegal hazardous waste storage and trespassing! Open the door or we’re cutting the padlocks!"
I looked at Toby. The boy’s face was pale, his eyes wide with terror as he looked from the steel door back to the black ledger in my hands.
"They're going to take it," Toby whispered, his voice trembling for the first time all day. "They took his tools, and now they're going to take his book."
"No," I said, a wave of cold, absolute clarity washing over me, washing away twenty years of doubt, self-pity, and deceit. "They're not taking a damn thing."
I grabbed the black ledger, shoved it deep into the main pocket of Toby's canvas backpack, and zipped it tight. I grabbed the boy by his shoulders, looking him straight in the eyes.
"Listen to me, Toby," I said, my voice quiet and dead serious. "In the back of Bay Three, behind the air compressor, there’s an old escape hatch that leads into the drainage culvert behind the property. It runs straight down to the river road."
"I'm not leaving you, Doc!" Toby cried out.
"You have to," I said, putting my heavy hands on his cheeks. "Your granddad hid this truth for twenty years so you and your mom could be safe. You hold onto that bag like it's your life. You run down to the public library on Main Street—my friend Martha works the front desk. You tell her to call the State Police Major Crimes Division in Harrisburg. Tell her to use code word SHOVELHEAD."
The sound of an electric angle grinder roared to life outside the bay door, sending a high-pitched metallic scream echoing through the garage as sparks began to fly through the gap in the steel frame.
"Go, Toby! NOW!" I barked, shoving him toward the narrow crawlspace behind the compressor.
Toby grabbed his bag, looked back at me once with tears streaming down his freckled cheeks, and slipped through the dark wooden hatch just as the bottom lock on the heavy bay door gave way with a deafening metallic screech.
CHAPTER 4