Chapter 5 - The Skiff at Cathlamet
The grey Lincoln Navigator pulled off the highway two miles outside the tiny logging town of Cathlamet, turning down a steep, gravel road marked only by a rusted sign that read Deep Water Marina - Private Slip Access.
The road ended at a dilapidated wooden pier that stretched fifty yards into a tidal slough off the main river channel. The wood was black with rot and river moss, the pilings groaning against the current. Tied to the very end of the pier was a white, thirty-foot aluminum crabbing vessel—the kind with a high bow, a small, enclosed cabin, and a wide, open rear deck meant for hauling iron pots out of the surf.
Spencer Hack was already out of the SUV when the Tesla rolled quietly down the gravel slope, its electric motor silent against the sound of the rain and the lapping river water.
Spencer was frantic. He was tossing heavy duffel bags from the rear cargo area onto the wet wood of the pier, his expensive leather jacket soaked through, his hair plastered to his forehead.
"Lorraine! Get the kid out of the car!" he shouted over his shoulder, his voice thin and panicked in the wind. "The boat’s idling! The keys are in the lock! Move!"
Lorraine stepped out of the passenger side, her face swollen from crying, her hands trembling as she reached into the back seat to pull Madison into the rain. She looked up then, her eyes catching the silver silhouette of Brennan’s car stopping thirty feet away.
"Spencer," she gasped, her voice catching in her throat. "Spencer... they're here."
Spencer froze. He turned slowly, a heavy canvas bag clutched in his left hand. His right hand dropped instantly into the pocket of his soaked jacket, his fingers wrapping around a shape that made Arthur’s eyes narrow.
"Brennan," Spencer called out, trying to force his old, smooth salesman's smile, but his jaw was twitching violently. "Arthur. Look, you guys got this all wrong. We’re just taking a trip. Lorraine needed to get away after the dinner. The pressure... it’s been a lot for her."
Brennan stepped out of the driver's seat, his face dark with a rage that had been building since midnight. "Shut up, Spencer. Where is the money?"
"The money is in a secure investment fund, Brennan!" Spencer shouted back, taking a step toward the boat. "It’s out of your reach! If you call the cops, if you try to stop this boat, I’ll file for an immediate corporate injunction against Bio-Tech for unauthorized data tracking. I know you used your company's network to find us. That’s a federal violation, pal. You’ll lose your board seat before the week is out."
Arthur stepped out of the passenger side then. He didn't look at Spencer. He looked at his daughter, who was standing in the downpour, holding Madison tight against her chest, both of them shivering from the cold and the sheer, unadulterated terror of the moment.
"Lorraine," Arthur said, his voice loud and clear over the wind. "Look at me, birdy."
Use of the old childhood nickname made Lorraine flinch as if she’d been struck. She looked at her father, her blue eyes wide behind the sheets of rain.
"He told you I was in a home, didn't he?" Arthur asked softly, taking a slow step forward, his boots sinking into the wet river gravel. "He told you that if you didn't sign those papers, he’d tell Brennan you were skimming from the family trust anyway. He setup you up, Lorraine."
"Dad," she sobbed, her knees buckling slightly. "He... he said Brennan would hate me. He said I’d lose Madison. He had the bank statements from my old divorce... he knew I owed money to the state..."
"She signed the documents, Arthur!" Spencer interrupted, his voice turning vicious as he realized the narrative was slipping away from him. He pulled his right hand out of his pocket, revealing a small, black semi-automatic pistol. He didn't point it at Arthur or Brennan; he pointed it down toward the aluminum deck of the boat. "She’s my wife. She controls the LLC that bought the lake house. If I say we’re selling it and moving to the coast, we’re moving. Now back off! Both of you! Get back in the car or I swear to God I'll drop this bag into the river and we can all watch a million dollars float out to sea!"
Arthur looked at the gun, then looked at the rotten timber of the pier beneath Spencer’s feet. For thirty-eight years, Arthur had built rigs that simulated structural collapses—collapses that had to look fatal but remain perfectly safe for the actors. He knew down to the inch how much weight a decayed four-by-four spruce beam could take before the dry rot gave way.
Spencer was standing directly over the main hinge of the tidal ramp—the spot where the floating dock met the fixed pier. The wood there was green with river slime, completely unsupported from below.
"Brennan," Arthur said quietly, not taking his eyes off Spencer. "Get the tow strap out of the back seat."
"Dad?"
"Do it now, son."
Spencer sneered, leveling the gun toward Arthur’s chest now. "You think you're on a movie set, old man? You think this is an effect? You take one more step and I’ll put a hole in you."
"You won't shoot, Spencer," Arthur said, his voice dropping into that chillingly calm register. "Because if you shoot, the state patrol hears the discharge from the highway, the marina logging system registers the time, and you become a murder suspect instead of a white-collar thief. A thief can buy his way out of a cell with a good lawyer. A murderer stays in the dark until he dies."
Arthur took another step forward.
Spencer panicked. He lunged backward, intending to drop onto the deck of the boat and throw the throttle forward.
But his heel hit the green, slimy timber of the tidal ramp with the full, sudden force of his two-hundred-pound frame.
The wood didn't just break; it disintegrated. The rotten spruce snapped with a sharp, explosive crack that sounded exactly like a theatrical primer charge. Spencer’s leg went straight through the decking up to his thigh, his arms flying outward as he lost his balance. The small black pistol slipped from his fingers, hitting the aluminum gunwhale of the boat with a dull clink before sliding down into twelve feet of murky, fast-moving river water.
The canvas bag of money flew through the air, landing flat on the wet wood of the floating dock three feet out of his reach.
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"Lorraine! Run!" Arthur shouted.
Lorraine didn't hesitate. She grabbed Madison by the hand, bypassed her screaming, trapped husband, and ran down the gravel slope straight into her brother’s open arms.
