Chapter 5 - The Trap at Dalton Manor
By nine o'clock that evening, the storm had turned into a full gale. Rain lashed against the high arched windows of Dalton Manor, and thunder rolled across the valley like heavy artillery.
The mansion was completely dark save for a single amber light burning in the ground-floor library.
At 9:30 PM, a black Audi pulled up the gravel driveway, its headlights cutting through the sheets of rain.
Julian stepped out of the vehicle, wearing a high-collared coat to cover the white bandage taped over his cheekbone. In his right hand, he carried a heavy leather briefcase; in his left, a loaded .38 caliber revolver he had retrieved from his lawyer's safe-deposit box.
He didn't trust his mother anymore. She knew too much. The plan had shifted.
Emily would be taken to the airport by Sterlingâs men at midnight. But Martha? Martha would suffer an unfortunate "fatal accident" tonightâa tragic fire caused by an old woman leaving the kitchen stove burning after a long day of emotional distress.
Julian unlocked the front door, slipping quietly into the dark foyer.
"Mother?" Julian called out, his voice smooth, relaxed, his hand resting inside his coat pocket on the grip of the revolver. "I know you're here. The old truck is parked down the lane."
Silence answered him. Only the tick of the grandfather clock in the hall.
Julian walked slowly toward the library where the single lamp was glowing.
He pushed the door open.
Sitting in a high-backed leather armchair in the center of the room was Martha.
She was wearing her best navy Sunday dressâthe one she wore to churchâclean, ironed, and free of apron stains. Her gray hair was pulled back neatly. On the small tea table beside her sat a silver pot of Earl Grey tea, two porcelain cups, and a small, black recording device.
"Hello, Julian," Martha said calmly, her hands resting folded in her lap.
Julian paused on the threshold, his eyes narrowing as he looked around the shadowy corners of the room. "Where are the police, Mother? I expected a swat team."
"There are no police here, Julian," Martha said softly, pouring a cup of tea. "I didn't call them. I told Detective Vance that I wanted to talk to my son alone first."
Julian chuckledâa cruel, dry sound. "You always were gullible. You really think you can appeal to my conscience? You think a mother's love is going to make me confess and walk into a cell?"
"No," Martha looked up at him, her eyes steady as stone. "I know you don't have a conscience. I stopped looking for one eight hours ago. I invited you here because I wanted to look you in the eye and ask you one question."
Julian stepped into the room, leaning against the edge of the mahogany desk, his hand still inside his coat. "Ask it. We have two hours before Emilyâs plane leaves."
"When did you stop being my boy?" Marthaâs voice was barely above a whisper, rich with thirty years of heartbreak. "Was it when your father died? Was it when I worked three jobs so you could wear fancy clothes to prep school? Or were you born with this darkness inside you?"
Julian laughed out loud, throwing his head back.
"Oh, Mother," Julian sneered, stepping closer to her chair. "You really are pathetic. You want to blame yourself? You want to think you missed a sign? The truth is, I was never your boy. I used you. I used your stupid, pathetic sense of duty. Every time you scrubbed a floor, every time you took an extra shift, I laughed at you! You were nothing but a free servant who cooked my meals and covered my tracks!"
"And Clara?" Martha asked quietly. "Did you laugh at Clara when she died in that tub?"
"Clara was an idiot!" Julian snapped, his face contorting into ugly, arrogant fury. "She begged me! She cried just like Emily did! 'Please Julian, I love you!' They all think love matters! Money matters! Power matters! Clara gave me twenty million dollars, and Emily is going to give me forty more! And do you know what the best part is, Mother?"
Julian pulled the revolver from his coat and pointed it directly at Marthaâs forehead.
"The best part is that everyone will believe me," Julian whispered, his finger tightening on the trigger. "A grieving husband whose wife committed suicide... and whose poor, senile mother died in a tragic house fire tonight. I inherit everything. The Vance empire, the Dalton estate, the insurance... and nobody can stop me."
Martha looked at the black barrel of the gun resting three inches from her eyes.
She didn't blink. She didn't scream.
Instead, a small, sad smile touched the corners of her lips.
"You're wrong about one thing, Julian," Martha said softly.
Julian froze. "What?"
"I didn't call the police to the house..." Martha reached down and tapped the silver tea pot. "...because they were already inside."
CRACK-BANG!
The heavy floor-to-ceiling glass windows of the library shattered inward in a shower of brilliant, sparkling crystal!
Four heavily armed State Police Tactical Officers burst through the rain, red laser sights painting Julianâs chest, shoulders, and forehead in glowing crimson dots!
"STATE POLICE! DROP THE WEAPON! DROP IT NOW!"
Julian spun around in blind panic, raising the gun toward the windows.
THWACK.
A non-lethal beanbag round fired from an officerâs shotgun struck Julian square in the chest. The impact lifted his two-hundred-pound frame off his feet, slamming him backward across the mahogany desk. The revolver clattered harmlessly across the hardwood floor.
Before he could recover, three tactical officers tackled him to the rug, twisting his arms behind his back, the heavy metallic CLICK-CLICK of steel handcuffs echoing through the ruined library.
Detective Evelyn Vance stepped through the shattered window frame, holding a high-gain directional microphone and a digital receiver.
"We caught every single word, Julian," Detective Vance said coldly, looking down at him as he groaned on the floor, spit and blood leaking from his mouth. "The confession. Clara Miller. Emily. The arson plot. Itâs all on a federal wiretap."
Julian twisted his neck, glaring up at his mother through the blood running into his eyes.
"You betrayed me!" Julian screamed, his voice cracking into a high-pitched, pathetic screech as the officers dragged him to his feet. "I am your son! You ruined me! You ruined everything!"
Martha stood up slowly from her armchair. She smoothed down the skirt of her navy Sunday dress.
She walked over to where her son was pinned against the wall by two officers. She looked at his bleeding face, his expensive suit ruined, his power vanished, leaving behind only a small, weak, pathetic coward.
May you like
"I didn't ruin you, Julian," Martha said, her voice resonant, clear, and utterly devoid of fear. "I raised you. But tonight... I finally put an end to you."
She turned her back on him and walked out of the dark mansion into the cleansing rain, never looking back.
