Chapter 5: The Descent
Julian did not waste time interrogating Walter further. The faint blue tinge around Arthur's lips told him that whatever chemical had entered the IV line was beginning to compromise his circulatory system.
"Get Clara," Julian ordered Walter. "Bring her to the wine cellar. If you betray us, Walter, I won't call the police. I will hunt you down myself."
"I am aware of your capabilities, Mr. Julian," Walter replied with a stiff, formal bow. "The girl will be in the cellar in three minutes."
Julian lifted his father into his arms. The once-towering industrialist felt remarkably light, his bones sharp through his linen nightshirt, his breath rattling in shallow, labored gasps. Carrying him down the back service corridor, Julian avoided the main halls, descending deep into the foundations of the estate where the modern plaster gave way to nineteenth-century rough-hewn granite blocks.
The wine cellar was cold, smelling of damp earth, vintage oak casks, and cobwebs.
Moments later, the heavy oak door swung open, and Walter appeared, supporting Clara Evans by her uninjured side. The nurse was pale, her fractured wrist bound tightly against her chest with an improvised splint, but her eyes were clear, focused, and resolute.
"Arthur," Clara breathed, stumbling toward the bench where Julian had placed the old man. She ignored her own throbbing wrist, immediately pressing her fingers against Arthur's carotid artery. "His pulse is thready. Over one hundred and forty. Julian, what was in that syringe?"
"We don't know," Julian said, unlocking a heavy iron door concealed behind an antique port cask. "Walter thinks Nicholas is back."
Clara looked up, her brow furrowing through the pain. "The brother? The one who died at sea?"
"The brother who ran when his debts came due," Julian replied, pushing the iron door open.
Beyond lay a narrow, arched brick tunnel, its concrete floor sloping downward toward the shoreline. Cold, salt-scented air rushed through the opening, carrying the distant, muffled roar of waves breaking against the granite bluffs.
"This tunnel was built during Prohibition to move bootleg whiskey from the cove," Julian said, lifting his father once more. "It runs two hundred yards to the private boathouse. We take the twin-engine launch across the bay to the harbor clinic in Camden. The municipal hospital has an emergency toxicology unit."
"The launch won't start, Julian," a voice echoed from the darkness of the tunnel.
Julian stopped dead on the threshold.
From the shadows twenty paces down the brick corridor stepped a man. He was tall, dressed in a black waterproof sailing coat, his dark hair cut sharp and slicked back. In his gloved right hand, he held a compact semi-automatic pistol, held low and level with the unhurried precision of an executioner.
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On his left ring finger, catching the dim bulb of the cellar, gleamed the heavy gold signet ring of the Blackwood family.
"Nicholas," Julian said, his voice turning to ice.
