Chapter 4 - THE HOUSE BENEATH THE RESERVOIR
The attacker’s name was Raymond Pike.
He had worked as my father’s driver and personal security officer during the year my mother disappeared. Police records showed he had moved to Nevada shortly afterward, but no employer had reported him for nearly two decades.
During questioning, Raymond refused to discuss my grandfather, Samuel Cross, or the fire.
Dad’s attorney arrived within an hour.
That told me Raymond was still working for him.
The fire had damaged one storage room but injured no one. Investigators determined it was deliberately started using an electrical accelerant. Its purpose had been distraction, not destruction.
Someone wanted the cassette.
Thomas was placed under protection.
I returned to Oregon that evening and confronted my mother.
“You knew Dad was involved in Grandpa’s death.”
She closed her eyes.
“I suspected.”
“You never told me.”
“I didn’t want to give you another reason to go after him.”
“He forged my signature on a hundred million dollars in guarantees.”
“I know.”
“He threatened your children, erased you, stole your company, and may have killed your father.”
“I know.”
Her calmness angered me more than denial would have.
“You don’t get to keep saying that.”
Mom rose from the kitchen table.
“You think I don’t wake up every morning knowing what my fear cost all of you?”
“Fear did not make every choice for you.”
“No. But it made too many.”
I placed Samuel’s cassette on the table.
“Where did he hide Grandpa’s will?”
She looked at the tape.
“William had a hunting cabin near Grayhaven Reservoir.”
“That area was flooded when the dam expanded.”
“The original cabin was demolished, but there was a concrete storage cellar beneath it. Your grandfather built it during the Cold War.”
“Does Dad know?”
“He searched the property after William died. He found nothing.”
“Could the cellar still exist?”
“Possibly.”
The next morning, Thomas joined us with a map Samuel had left among old family papers. A red circle marked a section of forest near the northern edge of Grayhaven Reservoir, beyond the current waterline.
The reservoir had been unusually low that summer due to drought.
Part of the original property was exposed.
We drove there with two private investigators and a lawyer.
After three hours of searching through mud, stones, and rotting tree roots, we found a rusted metal hatch beneath a collapsed section of concrete.
Inside was a narrow staircase.
The air smelled of damp earth.
At the bottom, shelves held old tools, sealed document boxes, and a steel safe.
Mom knew the combination.
It was my birthday.
Inside were copies of Grandpa’s revised will, company ledgers, and a handwritten journal.
The will confirmed that Evelyn inherited controlling ownership of Mercer Urban Holdings.
Dad had no legal claim.
The journal was worse.
Grandpa described discovering that Charles had diverted millions of dollars through fake suppliers. He also wrote that Dad had been adding something to his evening whiskey.
On the final page, Grandpa had written:
If I die before Evelyn reads this, Charles is responsible.
Mom began to cry.
I photographed every page.
Then one of the investigators called from the upper level.
“You need to see this.”
Outside, tire tracks crossed the mud.
They had not been there when we arrived.
A black SUV stood on the dirt road beside our vehicles.
The driver’s door was open.
No one was inside.
My phone rang.
Marcus.
“You should have left the dead alone,” he said.
“You followed us.”
“I’m trying to stop you from destroying this family.”
“You mean protecting Dad.”
“You don’t understand what happens if those documents become public.”
“Dad goes to prison.”
“No,” Marcus whispered. “He dies.”
I turned away from the others.
“What are you talking about?”
“There are people behind Hale Development who will not allow an investigation.”
“Who?”
“Investors. Politicians. Men Dad has been paying for decades.”
“Names.”
“I can’t give them to you over the phone.”
“Then meet me.”
He breathed heavily.
“Midnight. The old rail depot on Fulton Street. Come alone.”
The call ended.
Mom grabbed my arm.
“You cannot trust Marcus.”
“I don’t.”
“Then why go?”
“Because fear is how Dad kept all of you obedient.”
At midnight, I entered the abandoned rail depot carrying a recording device and wearing a tracker beneath my coat.
Marcus stood beneath a broken overhead light.
He looked terrified.
“You found the will,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Burn it.”
“No.”
“Nora, Dad did not create the shell companies alone.”
“Who helped him?”
Before Marcus answered, a red light appeared on his chest.
A gunshot cracked through the depot.
Marcus fell.
I dropped behind a concrete barrier.
Footsteps echoed in the darkness.
May you like
Then a voice called from the shadows.
“Give me William Mercer’s journal, and your brother might live.”
