Chapter 8 - THE CATCH
“She’s taxiing!” Marcus shouted, sprinting up beside Richard at the perimeter fence, his pistol raised, though he knew at this distance a handgun was useless against a moving jet.
Richard grabbed the chain-link fence with both hands, shaking it with blind, furious strength.
“Stop!” he screamed over the deafening whine of the turbine engines. “STOP!”
The Gulfstream picked up speed, its landing lights cutting blinding white beams across the dark asphalt as it taxied toward the main runway for takeoff.
Suddenly, from the highway behind them, the dark night erupted into flashing blue and red strobes.
Three State Police cruisers came screaming down the access road with sirens wailing at maximum pitch, swerving past the abandoned Mercedes van and plowing straight through the secondary maintenance gate, scattering gravel everywhere.
The lead cruiser slammed to a halt directly across the tarmac taxiway, blocking the Gulfstream’s path.
Inside the jet cockpit, the pilot must have seen the flashing police cruisers barreling toward them. The jet’s nose swerved violently to the left, tires squealing on the runway as the pilot attempted to abort the takeoff roll and pivot toward the grass safety strip.
It was too late.
The heavy jet clipped the wingtip against a perimeter light pole with a blinding flash of orange sparks, spinning sideways before coming to a violent, jarring halt in the muddy field beside the runway.
Silence rushed back in, broken only by the whining spool-down of the jet engines and the blaring sirens of the police cruisers converging on the wrecked aircraft from all sides.
Marcus lowered his weapon, letting out a long, slow breath.
“Well,” Marcus said dryly. “Looks like she missed her flight.”
Richard didn't answer. He started walking across the tarmac toward the grounded jet, his boots clicking rhythmically against the cold concrete.
Troopers had already surrounded the aircraft. The emergency exit door of the Gulfstream popped open, and an inflatable slide hissed as it deployed toward the ground.
A moment later, two state troopers emerged from the cabin, escorting a disheveled Eleanor Hawthorne down the slide. Her designer coat was torn, her hair was wild, and her face was twisted in an ugly mask of fury and humiliation as the steel handcuffs snapped onto her wrists.
As she was led past Richard on the tarmac, she stopped, lifting her chin with a defiant sneer.
“You can lock me up, Richard,” she spat out, her eyes flashing with malice. “You can freeze my accounts. But you’ll never find Leo’s body. I made sure of that the night the tide came in at Blackwood Bay.”
Richard didn't flinch. He didn't yell. He looked at her with a profound, terrifying calm—the cold stillness of a man who had already grieved his son, and was now ready to deliver judgment.
“Eleanor,” Richard said softly, his voice cutting through the wailing sirens. “Leo wasn't the only one who kept journals in the basement.”
Eleanor’s defiant smirk faltered for a fraction of a second. “What... what are you talking about?”
“Thomas found the security cameras you hid in the conservatory three years ago,” Richard lied smoothly, holding her gaze with absolute authority. “We have the footage of you on the eastern cliff the night Leo disappeared. The state police are already dredging Blackwood Bay with sonar. They’ll find him by morning.”
Color drained completely from Eleanor’s face. The iron mask of control shattered entirely, and she let out a strangled, hysterical sob as the troopers roughly shoved her into the back of a squad car and slammed the heavy metal door shut.
Richard watched the taillights of the cruiser disappear down the highway toward the precinct.
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Then, he turned and looked up at the vast, starry Connecticut sky.
“Rest in peace, son,” he whispered into the night wind.
