Chapter 3 - THE WOLF AT THE FOOT OF THE STAIRS
The attic ladder was down. There was no way to hide that I was up here. The rectangular opening in the ceiling yawned like an open grave, casting a sharp beam of light down into the second-floor hallway.
"Dad?" Ryan’s voice was closer now, vibrating up the central staircase. The casual tone was gone, replaced by a low, measured cadence that made the hairs on my neck stand up. "You shouldn't be snooping around things that don't belong to you. You've always had this bad habit of sticking your nose where it gets broken."
I stuffed the thick manila envelope into the inner lining of my heavy winter coat and zipped it up tight. I looked at Eleanor. Her eyes were wide, white rims showing in the dim light, her entire body shaking so violently that her teeth chattered audibly.
"Stay down behind the insulation," I whispered directly into her ear. "Don't make a sound. No matter what happens to me, stay hidden."
I stepped toward the hatch just as Ryan’s leather boots reached the top step of the second-floor landing.
I started climbing down the folding wooden ladder, deliberately making heavy, calm steps. I needed to keep him downstairs. I needed to draw his attention away from the far corner of that freezing roof space.
When my boots touched the hallway floor, I turned to face my son.
He didn't look like someone who had just stepped off a sunny beach in Miami. He was wearing a dark windbreaker, dark jeans, and black leather gloves. His face was pale, his jaw clenched so hard the muscles jumped. In his right hand, held loosely against his thigh, was a heavy brass tire iron.
"Ryan," I said, keeping my voice level, forcing sixty-three years of fatherhood into my spine. "You told me you were in Orlando."
"I flew back on a red-eye this morning," he said, taking a slow step toward me. His eyes darted up to the open attic hatch behind my head, then locked onto mine. "Melissa is still down there. Or at least, she thinks I'm asleep in the hotel room. Imagine my surprise when Tasha calls me hysterical, saying you barged into my house talking about noises in the attic."
"You put an eighty-one-year-old woman in a crawl space, Ryan." I didn't mince words. The pretense was dead. "Her daughter's mother. In the dirt, with a bucket and cold water, like an animal."
Ryan let out a dry, barking laugh. It sounded utterly hollow. "An animal? Do you know what memory care costs, Dad? Ten grand a month! Ten thousand dollars for a woman who doesn't even know what year it is! That money belongs to this family. To my future. She was going to bleed Melissa's inheritance dry while rotting in some sterile bed. I gave her a roof. I gave her food."
"You locked her up to steal her land. And you beat your wife to make her sign the papers."
Ryan’s face darkened, the smugness evaporating into a terrifying, dead-eyed rage. "Melissa is weak. Just like you. Always crying, always feeling guilty. She doesn't understand what it takes to build real wealth in this world. She wanted to hand four hundred acres of prime lakefront timber over to a trust for Eleanor's care. Can you believe that? Giving away millions to strangers."
He raised the tire iron slightly, testing its weight.
"You always looked down on me, Dad," Ryan hissed, closing the distance between us until he was less than ten feet away. "You and your pathetic high school history teacher salary. Your little moral high ground. You gave me twenty grand for the down payment on this house and acted like you bought me the world. Well, I'm taking the world now. And I am not letting an old man who can barely walk down a flight of stairs take it away from me."
"Call the police, Ryan," I said quietly, watching his hands, gauging the distance between his brass bar and my skull. "Turn yourself in. If you stop right now, maybe Melissa won't testify to the worst of it. Maybe there's still a fragment of your soul left to save."
"My soul?" Ryan sneered, his eyes gleaming with madness. "My soul is just fine, Dad. But your heart... you've had high blood pressure for ten years, haven't you? Tragic thing. An aging father, climbing up into a dusty attic, suffering a massive coronary. Falling down the wooden stairs. Striking his head on the oak floor."
He lunged.
The tire iron cut through the air with a vicious whistle. I threw my left arm up, twisting my torso. The brass slammed into my forearm with bone-jarring force. Pain flared white-hot through my arm, but adrenaline surged through my veins like liquid fire.
I didn't back down. I drove my shoulder straight into his chest, using all my body weight to ram him back against the banister.
Ryan grunted, his footing slipping on the polished wood. We crashed together against the railing, his breath hot and sour against my face. He brought his knee up hard into my ribs, knocking the wind out of me. I gasped for air, collapsing onto one knee as my vision swam with dark spots.
Ryan stood over me, raising the brass bar high with both hands, his face twisted in a murderous grin.
"Goodbye, Dad."
Before he could swing, a high-pitched scream tore through the second floor.
From the top of the attic stairs, a heavy glass gallon jug of water came tumbling down. It struck Ryan squarely across the shoulder and neck, shattering on impact.
Gallons of freezing water and shards of thick glass exploded over him. Ryan stumbled back, cursing loudly, wiping water and blood from his cheek.
Above us, standing precariously on the top rung of the wooden ladder, was Eleanor. Her eyes were fierce, burning with a rage that fifty years of quiet grandmotherhood had never shown.
"Get away from him, you coward!" she screamed.
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Ryan looked up, his jaw slack in shock, then snarled like a rabid dog. He raised the tire iron toward the ladder. "You old bitch—"
I didn't give him the chance. Gathering every ounce of strength left in my legs, I tackled him at the knees.
