Chapter 5 - The Midnight Board
Marlow stepped back from the workbench as if the paper had burned her fingers.
“No,” she said, her voice small and sharp in the underground silence. “That’s not possible. I’m a line worker, Mr. Bridger. I bend wood. I don't own trusts. I didn't sign anything like that.”
“Look at the date, Marlow,” James said, turning the parchment toward her.
The date was December 24 of the previous year. The time written beside the notary seal was 10:15 PM.
The notary seal belonged to Thomas Vance—the old town attorney who had handled Amos’s affairs for half a century before passing away in his sleep last spring.
“Amos brought Thomas to the south shop with him that night,” Marlow whispered, the pieces of that frantic, terrifying evening suddenly crashing together in her memory. “There was an old man waiting in the truck with the motor running. Amos came inside with two clipboards. He asked me to sign an equipment log verification before he went down to the boiler room. He said... he said he needed my witness mark that Bay 4 was clear of fire hazards.”
Her hands flew to her mouth.
“He tricked you,” James said softly. “Because he knew you would never agree to take the burden if he told you what it was. He knew you were the only person on the south line who had been there long enough to understand what the craft actually meant—and the only one who didn't owe Deirdre Kemp a dime in back loans or company favors.”
“This isn't legal,” Marlow said, her chest heaving. “A court will throw this out in five minutes! Deirdre will say he was out of his mind, that I coerced him, that—”
“Deirdre can't throw it out if the original seal was registered with the county recorder before Thomas died,” James interrupted. His eyes were ablaze with a cold, triumphant fire. “Thomas Vance didn't leave his records to the firm. He deposited his ledger with the county probate clerk in Concord. Deirdre’s spent the last year thinking she had total control of the board because she held my father’s proxy votes. But without this forty-nine percent, she can't authorize the relocation to North Carolina. She can't sell the patent to the plastic conglomerate. She’s completely paralyzed.”
A sudden thud from above made both of them freeze.
It wasn't the sound of falling snow. It was the heavy, metallic clank of the iron storm grate slamming shut over their heads.
Then came the sound of a heavy padlock clicking into place.
“James?” Marlow whispered, her voice tightening.
James lunged for the stone stairs, taking them three at a time. He hit the heavy iron grating with his shoulder, pushing with all his weight. The grate didn't budge an inch. A new, heavy chain had been wrapped through the iron bars from the outside.
A shadow fell across the square of moonlight filtering down through the mesh.
“I really hoped you wouldn't be quite so predictable, James,” Deirdre’s voice drifted down, muffled by the falling snow but perfectly clear.
She wasn't wearing her party gown anymore. She was wrapped in a long, dark shearling coat, her breath rising in frosty puffs through the iron bars. Standing behind her, holding a pair of heavy bolt-cutters and a spool of chain, was Carl—his face bruised where he had clearly been confronted, but his expression sullen and obedient.
“Deirdre!” James roared, slamming his fist against the iron. “Unlock this grate immediately! This is corporate sabotage!”
“No, darling,” Deirdre said with a light, chilling laugh. “This is an unfortunate workplace safety incident. An abandoned, condemned drying cellar with structural fire damage. Carl noticed the unauthorized breach during his final perimeter sweep and secured the hazard to prevent transients from freezing to death inside.”
“You know what’s down here,” James said, his voice steadying, trying to buy time. “We have the trust deed, Deirdre. We have the Lake Placid patent records. You can't sell the company on Monday.”
Deirdre knelt down, her gloved fingers resting on the frozen iron bars. Through the grate, Marlow could see the glittering diamonds on her fingers catching the moonlight.
“The trust deed requires two trustees to appear in person before the county probate judge to contest an executive sale, James,” Deirdre said softly. “The emergency board meeting is at nine o'clock tomorrow morning. By noon, the purchase agreement with Apex Plastics will be signed, sealed, and wired to the escrow account in New York. If the trustees fail to register an objection before the transaction closes, the company assets convert automatically to cash equivalents. And the trust simply receives forty-nine percent of the liquidation value.”
She paused, tilting her head.
“Which is roughly eleven cents on the dollar after our restructuring fees are deducted. Marlow’s little cooperative will have just enough money to buy Pippa a few nice winter coats. Assuming, of course, that Marlow is available to collect her mail.”
“You’re going to leave us down here to freeze?” Marlow cried out, stepping onto the stairs behind James.
“Freeze? Heavens, no,” Deirdre said, rising to her feet. “The temperature in that cellar never drops below forty-five degrees—Amos designed the insulated brickwork too well for that. You’ll be slightly hungry, extremely uncomfortable, and entirely absent from the nine o'clock board meeting. Carl will 'discover' the broken lock tomorrow afternoon during the post-holiday safety sweep. You’ll be released with profuse apologies from management. But the company will already belong to Apex.”
“Deirdre!” James shouted, throwing his entire body against the grate.
The chain rattled, but the heavy link held fast.
“Have a very Merry Christmas, James,” Deirdre’s voice faded as her boots crunched away through the heavy snow. “And Marlow... don't worry about the cake. I’ll make sure Pippa gets a small box from the bakery on Monday.”
The sound of their truck engine started up in the distance, roared into the storm, and slowly died away into the howling wind.
Silence returned to the brick vault.
James dropped his forehead against the cold iron of the stairs, his chest rising and falling in deep, ragged breaths.
Marlow stood three steps below him in the dark, her hand clutching the black pigskin ledger against her ribs. In the silence, the distant toll of the St. Jude’s church bell began to chime across the valley.
Midnight.
May you like
It was Christmas morning. And they had exactly nine hours before the legacy of Amos Bridger was wiped off the map forever.
***
