"The court finds that the emergency petition filed by Cascade Valley Holdings is not merely without merit, but constitutes a willful, fraudulent attempt to subvert the administration of justice through the criminal interception of interstate transport and the unauthorized alteration of airline records."
Albright brought his wooden gavel down with a sharp, explosive crack that echoed through the courthouse.
"Petition dismissed with prejudice," Albright ruled. "The commercial lien claimed by Cascade Valley Holdings is declared null, void, and extinguished of record. Title to parcels seven through ten is hereby confirmed absolutely in the estate of Julian Vance, with Arthur Vance recognized as sole surviving administrator and lawful heir."
The judge turned his gaze to Agent Vance and Deputy Calder.
"Agent Vance, I am executing an immediate judicial order releasing Julian Vance’s footlocker from federal seal into the custody of Deputy Calder. Tom, you take your cruiser to Pangborn, you cut that cable, and you bring Julian’s uniform directly to the chapel on Fifth Street."
Albright then leaned over the bench, pointing his gavel directly at Sterling Finch’s chest.
"Mr. Finch, you will not leave this building. Deputy Miller is standing at the back door of this courtroom. I am referring the certified logs of terminal fourteen, along with your company's filings, to the United States Attorney for the Eastern District of Washington and the Chelan County prosecutor for grand jury indictment on charges of wire fraud, conspiracy, and evidence tampering."
Sterling Finch sank back into his chair, his hands trembling as he stared at the polished cedar table, unable to look at the room full of orchard men who were now standing in the gallery, watching his ruin in absolute, unbroken silence.
Judge Albright looked down at me, his stern face softening into an expression of quiet, enduring respect.
"Arthur," the judge said softly. "It is five minutes to ten. Go bury your brother."
CHAPTER 4: What The River Kept
The snow came down off the Wenatchee heights in thin, granular pellets that rattled against the stained-glass transom of the Methodist chapel on Fifth Street. Inside, the pine pews were filled to the oak wainscoting with orchard men in dark mackinaws, their heavy boots leaving damp ovals of road grit on the runner.
Tom Calder had kept his word. At twenty minutes past ten, the rear doors of the vestibule swung back against their brass catches, and four uniformed members of the American Legion post carried Julian’s olive-drab steel chest down the center aisle. The red federal wire seal had been severed with heavy aviation snips; its jagged copper core lay coiled in the palm of Calder’s glove like a dead wasp. Across the scarred lid of the locker, draped straight and pinned against the latches with brass collar stays, hung my brother’s four-pocket service coat, the silver ribbons on the left breast catching the pale light of the altar candles.
I sat in the front pew beside Martha Corliss. On the bench between us rested the leather ledger her father had kept locked in the title vault for thirty-two years, its green linen cover damp from the morning sleet. Every few minutes, my thumb moved across the embossed seal stamped on the front leaf—the cold mark of the Chelan County auditor that had stood between forty-two acres of red delicious trees and an asphalt overrun strip since before the reservoir took the lower falls.
David Ross sat two rows behind us, still wearing his carrier tunic, his flight cap resting upside down across his knees. He did not bow his head during the opening invocation. His eyes remained fixed on the flag draped across the pine trestles at the communion rail, his shoulders squared with the rigid stillness of an airman who had spent forty years answering for the souls listed on his manifest.
Reverend Miller did not deliver a standard eulogy. He read four verses from the Book of Isaiah about the desert blooming with springs of water, and then he closed the heavy pulpit Bible and looked directly at the men sitting in the back third of the nave.
"Julian Vance took thirty-two mortar splinters out of the Ashau Valley," the reverend said, his voice flat and unadorned against the cedar beams. "He carried seven of them in his hip until Tuesday night. He did not spend forty years digging irrigation laterals along the river bench so someone could turn his father's nursery rows into a parking apron for twin-engine commuters. We will commend his bones to the cemetery on the bluff, and we will leave the fence where his grandfather set the cedar posts."