Dad drove the cemetery truck east with Carter’s tracker hidden beneath the passenger seat.
Vale watched through the dining-hall window until the first SUV followed.
“Two vehicles took the bait.”
“How many remain?” I asked.
“At least one.”
Reagan checked the rear exit.
“Carter?”
“Probably.”
Dad’s voice came through the old phone.
“I’ll circle south and dump the tracker near the quarry.”
“You’re not playing hero,” I said.
“I’m driving a maintenance truck.”
“With armed men following you.”
“Then I’ll drive responsibly.”
I almost told him that was not funny.
It was.
That irritated me more.
Vale led us through the dining hall’s kitchen and out a delivery entrance into dense trees.
We moved on foot for nearly a mile before reaching a county maintenance road.
Reagan had left a second vehicle there weeks earlier.
“Why?” I asked.
She unlocked it.
“Because Carter started following me after Camden’s death.”
Vale looked at the car.
“You never told me.”
“I stopped telling anyone everything.”
“Claire would approve,” I said.
Reagan gave me a tired look.
“No. She would tell me I’d learned the wrong lesson.”
That answer sounded honest.
We drove toward Dennis Industrial.
The company occupied forty acres outside town, bordered by railway tracks on one side and old manufacturing buildings on the other.
I had spent half my childhood there.
Dad used to bring me on Saturdays when Mom needed quiet. I learned multiplication by counting machine parts. At sixteen, I could identify most production equipment by sound.
Now the front sign read DENNIS INDUSTRIAL SYSTEMS—CARTER DENNIS, PRESIDENT.
Seeing his name beneath Dad’s made my stomach tighten.
Reagan parked behind an abandoned textile warehouse across the tracks.
“The main building will be monitored.”
“I know another entrance.”
Vale looked at me.
“Camden?”
“No. Me.”
When I was seventeen, a group of us used to sneak from the employee lot to the railway diner through a gap behind the loading dock.
Dad eventually discovered it.
Instead of closing it, he installed a gate because he knew employees would simply create another route.
Carter probably never knew.
The gate was still there.
Its padlock had rusted.
Vale broke it with a tire iron.
We crossed behind the loading area.
The factory was quiet.
Carter had reduced overnight production after taking control.
Through high windows I saw idle machinery and half-empty floor space.
“What happened here?” I whispered.
Reagan answered, “Carter sold three production lines.”
“For cash?”
“For debt.”
The company Dad had protected at the expense of nearly everything was being dismantled anyway.
I wondered if he knew.
We entered through an old tool room.
My employee badge obviously no longer worked.
Reagan’s did.
The green light surprised all of us.
“Carter hasn’t disabled you.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“He thinks I’m still useful.”
“Are you?”
She looked at me.
“To him? I intend to be.”
The archive room had moved from the lobby to the third floor after renovation.
I knew because I had helped box the old photographs shortly before my arrest.
Carter had supervised the project.
That memory suddenly mattered.
“He specifically asked me to pack the lobby photographs.”
Vale stopped.
“Did he know about Claire’s clue?”
“I don’t know.”
Reagan said, “Maybe he knew there was something in the photographs without knowing which one.”
We reached the archive.
Locked.
Reagan’s badge failed.
Vale produced a small pry tool.
I stared at him.
“Do detectives normally carry that?”
“Retired habits.”
“You’re not retired.”
“Emotionally.”
The door opened.
Boxes filled metal shelves.
Years written in marker.
Company picnics.
Awards.
Construction.
Press.
I found the oldest section.
No incorporation photograph.
Reagan searched another shelf.
Vale checked catalog sheets.
“There’s a removal log.”
I took it.
One entry had been added six months before my arrest.
ORIGINAL LOBBY PHOTO—TRANSFERRED TO EXECUTIVE STORAGE.
Authorized by C. Dennis.
Carter.
“Executive storage where?”
Reagan pointed upward.
“His office suite.”
Vale looked toward the hall.
“That will have cameras.”
“Then we move quickly.”
Carter’s office had once been Dad’s conference room.
The door was unlocked.
That bothered me.
Inside, a wall of photographs displayed Carter shaking hands with politicians, clients, charity directors.
No old company picture.
I searched cabinets.
Reagan checked behind framed certificates.
Vale went directly to the desk.
“Locked drawer.”
“Break it.”
He did.
Inside were casino markers, two passports, cash, and a small black notebook.
I picked it up.
Names and numbers.
Not the Kestrel ledger.
Personal debts.
Carter owed more than eight million dollars.
“He’s worse off than Dad knew.”
Reagan looked over my shoulder.
“Those are old.”
“How old?”
“Before your arrest.”
I turned pages.
Several debts had been crossed out.
Beside each was a Kestrel code.
Carter had used the network to erase what he owed.
Vale said, “Found something.”
Behind a cabinet was a flat archival case.
We placed it on the desk.
Inside lay a large framed photograph.
Dennis Industrial’s original incorporation ceremony.
Dad stood in the center, younger by decades.
Mom beside him.
Three other people.
I recognized one immediately.
A much younger Reagan.
Dad had never seen this photograph.
That much was obvious from everything he had said.
Vale stared at the fifth person.
His face lost color.
I looked at him.
“Who is that?”
He did not answer.
Reagan did.
“Howard’s father.”
The room went quiet.
I studied the man.
Older than Mom and Dad. Dark suit. Silver tie. One hand resting on a folder marked KESTREL DEVELOPMENT.
“What was his name?”
Vale answered.
“Arthur Vale.”
“Financial crimes?”
“No.”
“What?”
“My father was a banker.”
Reagan said, “He financed Dennis Industrial’s expansion.”
Vale stared at her.
“You knew.”
“Claire discovered it later.”
“Discovered what?”
“That Arthur wasn’t simply financing Camden.”
Vale looked toward me.
“He was using the company?”
Reagan nodded.
“Kestrel began because Arthur proposed the structure.”
I thought of Dad insisting he had created it.
Maybe he had created the machinery.
Someone else had supplied the purpose.
“Why isn’t Arthur’s name on the ledger’s first page?”
Reagan touched the photograph.
“Because Claire couldn’t prove whether he had designed the illegal transfers from the beginning or whether others corrupted his proposal.”
Vale stepped away.
“My father died twenty years ago.”
“Officially,” Reagan said.
Vale turned sharply.
“What does that mean?”
She hesitated.
I noticed.
“So did Dad,” I said. “Apparently death certificates have limited authority in this family.”
“Reagan.”
Vale’s voice was dangerous now.
She opened her mouth.
The office lights came on.
A speaker above the door clicked.
Carter’s voice filled the room.
“I wondered how long it would take you.”
Vale drew his gun.
The office door locked automatically.
Carter laughed through the speaker.
“Howard, you really should know better than to carry a weapon into a building where every door is electronically controlled.”
I searched the ceiling.
Camera.
Carter was watching.
“You planted the photograph,” I said.
“No.”
“Then you wanted us to find it.”
“I wanted you to find enough.”
“For what?”
“To stop believing Camden’s version.”
“Dad never knew Arthur Vale was involved.”
“Exactly.”
Vale stepped toward the camera.
“Where are you?”
“Close.”
“What did my father do?”
Carter was quiet.
Then he said, “Ask Reagan.”
Vale looked at her.
Reagan said nothing.
Carter continued.
“She’s known longer than any of you.”
“Knew what?”
“That Arthur Vale didn’t die twenty years ago.”
Vale’s face changed.
“No.”
“He disappeared.”
“Carter.”
“And Claire found him.”
Vale stared at Reagan.
“Where?”
Reagan whispered, “Switzerland.”
“When?”
“Six months before Claire got sick.”
Vale looked as though the floor had moved.
Carter’s voice returned.
“Would you like the interesting part?”
Nobody answered.
“Arthur came back.”
I looked at the office door.
“When?”
“Three years ago.”
My arrest.
Carter continued.
“Same month Finnley discovered Benton Materials.”
Vale’s gun lowered slightly.
“My father is alive.”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
Carter laughed.
“You’ve been working for him.”
Vale went still.
“What?”
“The anonymous source who kept sending you information about Kestrel. The one who knew which inmates were targeting Finnley. The one who arranged Camden’s private clinic.”
Vale looked toward Reagan.
She had tears in her eyes.
“You knew?”
“Not at first.”
“When did you know?”
“After Camden’s crash.”
Vale’s face hardened.
“And you said nothing.”
“He threatened Finnley.”
“Everyone threatens Finnley,” I said. “Apparently that’s the preferred method of communication.”
Carter’s voice came through again.
“Arthur built the modern Kestrel network. Claire discovered it. Camden ignored it. Reagan infiltrated it. Howard spent his career cleaning up consequences without realizing whose consequences they were.”
“And you?” I asked.
“I learned from the best.”
The lock clicked.
The office door opened.
No one stood outside.
Carter said, “You have five minutes before security arrives.”
“Why let us leave?”
“Because I need Finnley to take the ledger somewhere.”
My hand went to my jacket.
He knew I still had it.
“Where?”
“You’ll understand soon.”
The speaker went silent.
Vale grabbed the photograph.
Reagan took the black debt notebook.
We left.
At the stairwell, my old phone vibrated.
Dad.
“I lost them.”
“Good.”
“Where are you?”
“Dennis Industrial.”
Silence.
Then: “Why?”
“We found the photograph.”
“What’s on it?”
I looked at Vale.
“Arthur Vale.”
Dad said nothing.
“You know the name.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought he was dead.”
“He isn’t.”
Dad inhaled sharply.
“Finnley, leave the building.”
“We are.”
“No. Right now.”
“Dad—”
“Arthur Vale was the first person Claire ever told me to fear.”
The stairwell lights went out.
Emergency lighting came on.
Then a phone rang inside Carter’s office behind us.
Not ours.
An old landline.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Vale turned.
“Don’t.”
He walked back anyway.
We followed.
The phone continued ringing.
Vale answered.
“Hello?”
His expression changed.
A man’s voice was faintly audible.
“Howard.”
Vale gripped the receiver.
“Dad?”
The voice answered.
“Bring Finnley to me.”
Click here to continue reading: PART 11: Arthur Vale Offered Me the Truth Behind My Conviction, but His Version Revealed Carter Had Never Been the Person Giving the Final Orders
The Day I Walked Out of Prison, My Stepmother Told Me My Father Was Dead and His House Was No Longer Mine
Part 10 of 20
