Chapter 8 - The Doors of Room 412
The downtown Grand Continental Hotel was a towering monolith of glass and steel, gleaming wetly under the neon lights of the Seattle skyline.
We bypassed the main lobby entirely, taking a private service elevator straight up to the fourth floor. The carpeted hallway was dead silent, save for the muffled rumble of thunder echoing from outside. Two men in dark suits and federal windbreakers stood quietly outside the heavy mahogany door of Room 412.
One of them nodded to Marcus Vance, tapping a small earpiece. "The local precinct has the stairwells and exits covered. They aren't going anywhere."
Walter gripped his walking cane, his knuckles turning white. He raised his hand and knocked three times on the heavy wood of the door.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Inside, the muffled sound of frantic voices cut off instantly. Footsteps shuffled across the carpet.
The door swung open.
My mother, Diane, stood in the doorway. She was dressed in an expensive silk blouse and travel slacks, her hair perfectly styled—the picture of a woman ready for a luxury Caribbean cruise. But the moment she saw Grandpa Walter, Marcus, and me standing there in a wheelchair supported by federal marshals, all the color drained completely from her face.
She opened her mouth, but no words came out.
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"Hello, Diane," Walter said smoothly, brushing past her into the suite as if he owned the place. "I trust your packing is finished?"
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