Chapter 4 - The Fire and the Proof
My heart felt like it was going to burst out of my ribs. I shrank back against the hood of Dad’s car, clutching the handles of my baby brother’s car seat so tightly my knuckles turned white.
"Julian, please," Dad begged, his hands raised in front of him, keeping his body positioned squarely between the three men and us. "Take whatever money I have in the house. Just don't hurt my children."
"I don't want your pocket change, Arthur!" Julian barked, stepping deeper into the garage. "I want the land patent! I know Sarah found it. Give it to me, or we search the house room by room while you watch from the floor."
One of the large men stepped forward, grabbing Dad by the collar of his coat and shoving him hard against the side of the car. The heavy metal rattled violently.
"Dad!" I screamed.
"Stay back, Emily!" Dad yelled, struggling against the man's grip.
In that fraction of a second, while Julian and his thugs were focused entirely on wrestling Dad to the ground, my seven-year-old brain remembered Mom’s letter.
You're going to be the best big sister in the world... Protect him, even when the shadows come.
I looked down at the briefcase sitting on the workbench three feet away. Dad had set it down right next to his old toolbox. Beside the toolbox was a heavy plastic bottle of dark windshield washer fluid and a bright orange emergency flare Dad kept for winter driving.
I didn't think. I just acted.
I grabbed the emergency flare, twisted the cap off just like Dad had showed me during our camping trips, and struck the friction cap against the top.
SKRRR-CRACK!
A blinding, brilliant fountain of red fire and dense white smoke erupted from the flare, sizzling furiously in the dim garage.
Julian screamed in shock as I thrust the flaming red flare directly toward his face. He scrambled backward in terror, tripping over his own boots and crashing hard onto the concrete driveway.
"What the hell?!" the thug holding Dad shouted, blinded by the sudden thick smoke billowing through the garage.
Dad didn't waste the second I had bought him. He drove his elbow backward into the thug's stomach, wrenching himself free. He grabbed the heavy steel briefcase off the workbench, grabbed my arm with his other hand, and lifted me and the baby car seat toward the side access door of the garage.
"RUN, EMILY!" Dad roared.
We burst out the side door into the freezing morning air, sprinting across our backyard toward the wooden fence that separated our property from our neighbor, Mr. Henderson—a retired police officer who kept two large German Shepherds.
"GET THEM!" Julian’s furious voice screamed from inside the smoke-filled garage.
Heavy footsteps pounded across the grass behind us. One of Julian's thugs was closing the distance fast, his boots tearing up the wet lawn.
"Dad! He's right behind us!" I cried out.
We reached the back gate. Dad slammed his shoulder against the wooden latch, throwing the gate open just as the thug reached out to grab my jacket.
From the other side of the yard, a deep, booming bark echoed. Mr. Henderson’s two massive German Shepherds came charging toward the fence line like twin lightning bolts, snarling wildly at the intruder.
The thug skidded to a halt, cursing aloud as the dogs threw themselves against the chain-link barrier, their jaws snapping inches from his hands.
"ARTHUR! WHAT'S GOING ON?!" Mr. Henderson’s loud, stern voice echoed from his back porch. He stepped out holding a heavy flashlight, his eyes wide as he saw Dad covered in soot, holding me and a baby, while a strange man stood in his yard.
"Call 911, Jim!" Dad shouted, collapse-stepping onto Mr. Henderson’s patio. "It's Julian! He's trying to steal the estate! He attacked us!"
Mr. Henderson didn't ask a single question. He immediately reached into his pocket, pulled out his radio handset, and flipped a switch. "Dispatch, this is Officer Henderson, retired. I have a 10-31 in progress at 414 Elm Street. Shots fired, family under attack. Send all available units immediately!"
Behind us, at the edge of our property, Julian stood near the broken gate, his face red with fury, his clothes covered in garage soot. He looked at Mr. Henderson, looked at the barking attack dogs, and realized his window of opportunity had shattered into pieces.
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"This isn't over, Arthur!" Julian screamed over the barking dogs, turning and sprinting back toward his SUV. "You hear me?! This isn't over!"
The dark SUV screeched its tires, reversing wildly down our driveway and speeding off into the distance just as the faint, beautiful sound of police sirens began to wail in the far distance, growing louder with every passing second.
