Chapter 4 - The Old Quarry Road
The drive out toward Dublin took forty-five minutes, winding past the gleaming glass office parks and housing developments that had sprung up like concrete mushrooms over the last two decades. But as Samuel turned the truck down the unpaved, state-maintained stretch of Old Quarry Road, the pavement gave way to crushed gravel, choked on either side by dense, overgrown pine thickets and rusted chain-link fences bearing fading county warning signs.
Samuel killed the headlights a quarter-mile before the coordinates Jonathan had pulled from the deed. We crept forward in the dark, the truck’s tires crunching softly against the gravel until Samuel nosed the vehicle into a dense stand of cedar trees just off the shoulder.
Through the windshield, a pair of amber work lights cut through the mist hanging over the clearing.
A heavy-duty backhoe sat idling near the tree line, its hydraulic bucket resting on a pile of freshly churned earth. Next to it stood a dark, late-model SUV with its engine running. Two men in high-visibility vests were shining flashlights along the rusted fence line, while a third man—taller, wearing an expensive wool overcoat that looked entirely out of place in the mud—was holding a cell phone to his ear.
Even from fifty yards away, I recognized Marcus Vance from his photos in the Columbus Dispatch.
"They're digging," Jonathan murmured, gripping the door handle.
"Wait," Samuel cautioned, putting a heavy hand on Jonathan’s shoulder. "Look at what they're unearthing. That's not just grading work."
Through the binoculars Samuel handed us, I watched as the backhoe’s bucket scraped away a thick layer of topsoil and clay, exposing the rusted corner of a large, heavy-gauge steel container buried deep into the hillside. Painted across the side of the container, half-faded by decades of rust, were hazardous material placards.
"An old runoff vault," Samuel whispered. "County records probably listed it as removed back in '88. But it was never pulled out. It was just buried."
"And if that vault is still there," Jonathan said, his voice dropping an octave, "leaking whatever industrial solvents were stored inside into the local watershed..."
"Then the entire logistics park project is dead," Samuel finished. "Not just delayed—terminated by federal environmental agencies. Vance would face criminal prosecution, millions in fines, and total ruin."
My mind raced. Brandon hadn't just sold our land; he had partnered with a man who was illegally unearthing an environmental disaster to push a commercial real estate deal through before any regulatory body could inspect the site. Brandon was tied to Vance not just by gambling debts, but by a felony conspiracy that went far beyond our family.
As we watched, a second vehicle turned down the gravel road, its headlights sweeping across the clearing.
It was Brandon’s sedan.
The car skidded to a halt near the SUV. Brandon tumbled out of the driver's seat, slamming the door behind him. He looked frantic, his tie loosened, his hair disheveled. He marched straight up to Marcus Vance, gesturing wildly toward the open pit and the rusted vault.
Even without hearing their exact words, the body language was unmistakable. Brandon was arguing, pointing back toward Columbus, looking over his shoulder as if he expected the police—or ghosts—to appear at any second.
Vance didn't yell. He simply listened, his face an impassive mask of cold authority. Then, slowly, Vance reached inside his overcoat and pulled out a small, flat object that caught the glare of the work lights.
"What is he holding?" I breathed against the cold glass of the truck window.
Jonathan didn't answer. He opened the passenger door before Samuel could stop him.
"Jonathan, no!" I hissed, scrambling out after him.
May you like
"He's my son," Jonathan said, his voice trembling slightly, but his stride steady as he stepped out of the tree line and into the mud of the clearing. "And it's time this family finished our business."
---
