The heavy steel sliding door was shoved violently inward, crashing against the concrete wall with a sound like a gun blast.
Sheriff Lyle Miller stepped into the bay first, his khaki uniform stretched tight over his heavy gut, his silver badge glinting under the harsh fluorescent shop lights. He held a heavy black flashlight in his left hand, his right hand resting casually on the unsnapped leather holster of his service pistol.
Directly behind him stepped my brother, Richard Vance. Richard was holding the oilcloth bundle of Earl's tools under his arm, his tailored suit jacket unbuttoned, his face flushed with cold rage. Behind them stood two deputy sheriffs in dark uniforms, holding steel pry bars.
"Where is the boy, Sam?" Richard demanded, his sharp eyes scanning the empty, sunlit bay. He immediately noticed the removed gas tank resting on the work table and the open inspection plate on the Harley's frame spine.
He stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes darting to the hollow, empty steel tube.
"Where is it?" Richard asked, his voice dropping into a deadly whisper as he took three fast steps toward the bike. "Where is the book, Sam?"
I stood my ground in the center of Bay Three, holding a twenty-four-inch steel breaker bar in my right hand, resting the tip against the concrete floor.
"You're twenty years too late, Richard," I said, my voice steady, deep, and devoid of fear. "The ledger is gone."
Sheriff Miller’s face darkened into a deep, mottling red. He flicked his flashlight beam directly into my eyes, but I didn't blink. "Miller," Richard barked without looking back. "Search the building. Search the office, the back lot, and the creek bed. Don't let that kid get to a phone."
"He's not on the property, Richard," I said, letting out a short, cold laugh that echoed through the high steel rafters. "He's already halfway to Main Street. And Martha at the library is placing a call to the State Police Major Crimes Division in Harrisburg right about now."
Richard froze. The colour drained out of his face so fast he looked like a corpse standing in a gray suit.
"You idiot..." Richard whispered, his voice shaking with a terrifying mix of fury and panic. "Do you have any idea what you've done? Apex signed the purchase option this morning! That land deal is worth twelve million dollars! Twelve million dollars that would have cleared every debt this township has!"
"It wasn't land money, Richard," I said, taking a slow step toward him, the breaker bar dragging against the floor with a low metallic rasp. "It was blood money. You murdered Earl Brennan."
"I didn't murder anyone!" Richard screamed, his slick politician composure completely shattering into raw, unhinged terror. "Earl was going to ruin everything! He was going to put me in federal prison over a couple of rusted barrels buried in the swamp! He wouldn't take the money! I offered him fifty grand to walk away, and he threw it in my face!"
"Where is he, Richard?" I demanded, my chest heaving as tears of rage burned in the corners of my eyes. "Where is my partner?"
Richard didn't answer. He couldn't.
Because standing right in the wide-open frame of the destroyed bay door, bathed in the blinding late-afternoon sunlight, were four black State Police cruisers, their blue and red strobe lights flashing silently against the brick walls of the alleyway.
Three uniformed state troopers stepped out of the vehicles with their sidearms drawn, followed by a tall woman in a dark trench coat holding an open federal badge folder.
Behind them stood Toby Brennan, his canvas backpack strapped tight across his shoulders, his light gray eyes looking past the police straight at me.