Chapter 7 - The Recalled Steering Column
The sound of Arthur's Mercedes engine was an ugly, distorted roar that cut through the high wail of the campus alarms. Through the high glass windows of the lab, we could see the silver sedan swerving violently across the manicured lawns of the quad, its tires tearing up the sod where the graduation chairs had stood only three days ago.
"He's insane," Julian whimpered, backing away from the windows toward the rear emergency exit. "He’s completely lost it. He’s going to ram the building."
"The doors are reinforced steel, Julian," I said, my voice dead calm as I watched the silver car spin out on the wet grass, its headlights cutting through the gathering dusk. "But the steering column... that recall notice was for an electronic lockup when the vehicle exceeds forty miles an hour on a tight turning radius. Look at his front wheels."
On the lawn below, the Mercedes attempted to make a sharp left turn toward the lab pavilion steps. But instead of pivoting, the front wheels suddenly jammed straight ahead, the electronic stabilization system locking the brakes on the right side while the engine continued to rev at full throttle.
The car skipped over the stone curb, hit the low brick masonry of the old university sundial, and flipped over onto its side with a massive, crunching crash that filled the quad with the sound of breaking glass and escaping steam.
"Oh my God," Paige gasped, dropping the wrench onto the floor with a loud clatter.
For five long seconds, the only sound was the high, thin shriek of the building alarms and the rhythmic hiss of coolant spraying against the hot engine block of the overturned car.
I didn't run down the steps. I walked slowly out of the lab pavilion, down the concrete ramp, my boots crunching on the gravel path. Paige and Julian followed behind me like ghosts, their breath catching in their throats as the blue and red lights of four state trooper cruisers came screaming through the main campus gates, their sirens dying down into a low, rumbling growl as they surrounded the wreckage.
Marcus Vance stepped out of the lead cruiser, a heavy tactical vest over his grey suit, his hand resting on his service weapon as his men approached the silver car with their flashlights drawn.
"Audrey!" a wet, cracked voice shrieked from the passenger window of the overturned vehicle.
It wasn't Arthur.
It was Victoria. She was crawling out of the shattered side glass, her expensive designer clothes torn and covered in grey soot, her face smeared with blood from a small cut on her forehead. She fell onto the wet grass, her fingers clawing at the dirt as she looked up at me standing on the path above her.
"Help him, Audrey!" she sobbed, pointing a shaking hand back into the dark interior of the cabin where Arthur’s legs were pinned beneath the collapsed steering column. "He didn't mean it! It was the business! The company was going under! We did it for the family! We did it for Julian!"
"No, Mother," I said, my voice carrying across the quiet lawn, cold and clear as the evening air. "You did it for the shadow. You built a house out of lies and expected me to be the foundation that held it up while you kicked me in the face."
Two state troopers reached down, lifting Victoria from the grass and sliding the heavy steel handcuffs over her wrists. She didn't shriek this time; she just collapsed into a quiet, shuddering whine as they led her toward the rear seat of the cruiser.
Marcus Vance walked over to the driver's side, looking through the broken windshield at Arthur, who was drifting in and out of consciousness, his face grey beneath the dashboard lights. The state line marksmen were already clearing the hunting rifle from the backseat, their movements efficient and silent.
"He’s alive, Miss Vance," Marcus said, turning to look at me, his eyes grave but filled with a profound, quiet respect. "The paramedics are three minutes out. He’s going to spend the next six months in a federal medical facility before his trial starts."
He looked past my shoulder at Julian, who was standing near the lab doors, his hands trembling in the pockets of his canvas jacket. "And as for your brother... the white-collar unit has a warrant for his arrest regarding the Newark transaction. Julian, step forward and keep your hands where we can see them."
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Julian looked at me, his eyes wide and dark with a final, desperate plea for a leverage he no longer possessed. "Audrey... please. We’re blood."
"Blood is just a biological fluid, Julian," I said softly, turning my back to him as the state troopers moved up the ramp to take him into custody. "Data is the only thing that doesn't lie. And your account is completely dry."
