Chapter 8 - The Reckoning
By Friday afternoon, federal investigators and two unmarked state police cruisers had cordoned off the Brierfall municipal building. Dale Vance was picked up at his leased lake house outside of Helena while trying to load a suitcase full of bearer bonds into the trunk of his Mercedes. His development partners, caught flat-footed by the ironclad chain of title Silas Vale had preserved for half a century, saw their financing collapse within forty-eight hours as federal subpoenas hit their corporate offices in Seattle.
Warren watched the commotion from the wooden bench outside the depot, sipping a cup of black coffee he had bought at the Copper Elk. The townspeople didn't stare with suspicion anymore; they nodded as they passed—a silent, grudging acknowledgment that the Vale family bloodline still ran as deep and unyielding as the granite under St. Orin Pass.
Ghost sat beside him on the bench, her amber eyes scanning the empty tracks of the county road, her notched ear catching every shift of the wind. Scout was curled up asleep inside Warren’s open duffel bag, exhausted from a morning spent chasing field mice through the depot drifts.
A familiar grey bus groaned to a stop beside the platform, its air brakes hissing as the driver swung the door wide.
"Brierfall!" the driver called out, peering down through the frosted glass. "Going south through Missoula and Boise! Anybody getting on?"
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Warren looked down at the sleeping puppy, then across the snow-covered square toward the dark, comforting rise of Northstar Hollow in the distance. He stood up, adjusted his coat, and zipped the duffel bag closed with a firm, satisfying snap.
"Not today, driver," Warren said quietly, stepping back down onto the solid, frozen earth. "I'm right where I'm supposed to be."
