Chapter 7 - The Descent to Brierfall
The snowmobiles didn't return, but Warren knew Dale Vance wouldn't give up a million-dollar development deal over a broken jaw. On a crisp, brilliant Thursday morning, Warren locked the cabin door, slung his duffel over his shoulder, and walked down the frozen logging track toward Brierfall, the manila folder tucked safely inside his wool coat. Ghost trotted at his left heel, with Scout bouncing energetically in the deep powder beside her.
The town looked different in the blinding sunlight. The Copper Elk diner was packed with locals, but the conversation died instantly as Warren walked through the door, the bell chiming overhead. Every eye turned toward him—the local loggers who remembered Silas, the town sheriff sitting by the front window with a lukewarm mug of coffee, and Mayor Harris, whose campaign signs had been printed by Dale Vance's development firm.
Warren walked straight to the sheriff's table, pulled out the manila folder, and dropped it squarely on top of the laminate wood surface.
"Morning, Sheriff," Warren said, his voice flat and steady. "You might want to read what's inside before you sign off on any more municipal eviction notices for Northstar Hollow."
Sheriff Miller, a weathered man with graying temples who had known Warren when he was throwing snowballs at the creamery, looked up. He took in the硬-eyed look, the notched German Shepherd sitting quietly by the door, and the heavy legal seals on the documents.
"Is this what I think it is, Warren?" Miller asked, his voice low.
May you like
"It’s thirty years of forged deeds and tax fraud," Warren replied. "Dale Vance and his partners are currently operating on federal timber without a clean title. I suggest you call the state police barracks up in Helena before I walk down to the county prosecutor myself."
The sheriff didn't hesitate. He reached for his desk phone, his eyes never leaving Warren's face. "Pull up a chair, Vale. Looks like you've got some explaining to do, and I've got some phone calls to make."
