Chapter 8 - Midnight at the DocksThe night air at Port Huron was thick with fog and the scent of rotting algae. The old bait shop was a dilapidated wooden shack at the end of a rotting pier, its paint peeling like sunburned skin. The dark water of Lake Huron lapped rhythmically against the wooden pilings, a heavy, ominous sound.
I sat in the front passenger seat of an unmarked police SUV parked three hundred yards away, hidden behind a row of rusted shipping containers. Detective Vance sat in the back, monitoring the tactical radio feeds. A hidden wire worn by Sarah was broadcasting live audio directly to our headsets.
Through the rain-streaked windshield, I watched Sarah walk down the pier. She was carrying a prop library logbook and a manila envelope stuffed with dummy financial documents. Her silhouette looked small against the vast, black emptiness of the lake.
"Tactical units are in position," a voice crackled through the radio. "Sniper team has eyes on the shack. We have two targets inside. Male and female."
My breath hitched. I squeezed the fabric of my jeans, feeling the faint, pins-and-needles pressure against my palms. My legs were exhausted from the day’s exertion, but they were alive. They were vibrating with an electric current of pure adrenaline.
Sarah reached the door of the bait shop. She knocked three times.
The door swung open, and the dim yellow light from inside illuminated Leo’s face. He looked terrible. His hair was greasy and unwashed, his clean shirt replaced by a stained flannel jacket. His jaw was covered in a rough stubble, and his eyes darted frantically across the dark pier behind Sarah.
"Did you come alone?" Leo’s voice came through the earpiece, sharp and paranoid.
"I'm alone, Leo," Sarah said, her voice steady. "Here's the book. Here's the ID. Now give me the offshore routing numbers. Let us clear Dad's estate."
Freya stepped into the light behind him. She was wearing a heavy trench coat, but her white capri pants were visible underneath, now stained with mud and fish grease. Her sprayed hair was collapsed, hanging in damp, ratty strands around her face.
"Give it to him first!" Freya barked, her voice shrill. "We don't have time for this. The boatcaptain says the weather is turning!"
Leo snatched the logbook from Sarah’s hands, tearing through the pages. Within seconds, his face turned from desperate to utterly enraged as he realized the pages were blank.
"What is this? This is nothing! You tricked me—"
"Go, go, go!" Detective Vance shouted into her radio.
Flashbangs detonated with blinding, deafening cracks, turning the foggy night into an explosion of pure white light. Tactical officers poured out from the shadows, their laser sights cutting through the mist like red threads.
"Police! Drop to the ground! Hands behind your head!"
Through the vehicle window, I watched the entire pathetic spectacle unfold. Leo didn't fight. He didn't pull a weapon. True to his nature, the moment he faced real force, he collapsed. He dropped to his knees on the slimy wooden planks of the pier, his hands flying into the air, weeping openly as the officers slammed him face-down onto the wood—the exact position he had left me in on our driveway four weeks ago.
Freya screamed, kicking wildly at an officer who tried to cuff her, her wedge sandals slipping on the wet wood until she, too, was forced down into the dirt, her face pressed against the gritty planks.
Detective Vance opened the SUV door. "Judith. Let's go finish this."
Marcus had trained me for this exact moment. With Sarah holding one side and Eastman—who had driven up with the tactical backup—holding the other, I stepped out of the vehicle. I didn't use a wheelchair. I used a silver aluminum walker, my feet moving forward with a slow, deliberate, mechanical precision.
The officers parted as I approached the end of the pier. The blue and red strobe lights of the police cruisers cast long, dancing shadows across the wood.
Leo was being pulled to his feet, his hands cuffed tightly behind his back. When he looked up and saw me standing there, his eyes widened in absolute, unadulterated horror. He looked down at my feet, then up at my face, his mouth working silently like a fish out of water.
"Judith," he choked out, trying to summon that old, manipulative warmth, but it fell completely flat. "Jude... thank God you're okay. They forced me to do it. It was my mother. She wanted the money, Jude. She threatened to leave me with nothing. Please, tell them—"
"Shut up, Leo," I said. My voice wasn't a whisper anymore. It was loud, clear, and carried across the water, completely cutting through his lies.
I looked down at his mother, who was glaring up at me with pure, venomous hatred from the ground.
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"You told me that young women these days have no endurance," I said to Freya, my eyes locking onto hers. "You said back in your day, you just sat down for five minutes and got back to work. Well, it took me a month. But I'm back to work now. And your son is going to prison for the rest of his life."
I turned my back on them before the officers could even lead them away. As I walked back down the pier, the silver walker clicking rhythmically against the wood, I didn't feel the weight of their betrayal anymore. I felt the solid, undeniable resistance of the earth beneath my feet.
