Chapter 4 - The Altar of Deceit
We ditched the farm truck six blocks from St. Jude Central Station and moved through the rain on foot, keeping our hoods pulled down low. The city at 2:00 AM was dark, greasy, and filled with steam rising from the sewer grates.
Every police siren in the distance sounded like it was coming directly for us.
"If the station is monitored, Travis will have men at the main concourse," I said, pulling Evan into the shadow of a brick alleyway opposite the grand limestone facade of the terminal.
"We don't use the main hall," Evan said. "Dad worked on the renovation of this building in 1998. He showed me the old baggage tunnels beneath the lower tracks."
We slipped through a rusted maintenance gate near the freight yards, descending a flight of concrete stairs covered in slippery moss. The subterranean air was thick with the smell of diesel fuel and old damp paper.
Using the light from my phone, we navigated the narrow, echoing brick corridors until we reached a line of dull green metal lockers tucked beneath Track 4.
Locker 40912.
I inserted the silver key. The lock was stiff, protesting with a metallic screech before turning.
Inside the locker sat a dusty black leather briefcase with double combination locks.
"Dad's old work bag," Evan breathed.
"Do you know the combination?"
"Our birthday," Evan said without hesitation. "11-04."
He spun the brass dials. The latches popped open simultaneously.
Inside wasn't money or deeds. It was a thick stack of spiral-bound engineering journals, an audio cassette tape labeled E.V. - CONFIDENTIAL, and a sheaf of medical records dated six years ago—the month our father died.
I opened the top medical folder. The name at the top was not our father’s.
It was Eleanor Vane.
I scanned the typed psychiatric evaluation rapidly:
Patient exhibits severe narcissistic personality disorder, covert grandiose delusions, and violent anti-social tendencies. Patient has repeatedly expressed extreme resentment regarding the terms of the Vane Family Estate. Recommendation: Immediate involuntary psychiatric hold.
Beneath the document was a signed order from a state judge... dated three days before Dad’s fatal "heart attack."
"Dad wasn't sick," I whispered, the horrifying truth dropping like a hammer. "He was going to have Mom committed. She found out."
"And she killed him first," Evan finished, his voice breaking. "She poisoned him, made it look like a coronary, and then used Travis to destroy the medical records."
"Not all of them," I said, holding up the cassette tape. "Dad kept the proof."
Suddenly, the heavy metal door at the end of the baggage tunnel slammed open. High-powered flashlights cut through the darkness, blinding us instantly.
"Drop the bag, Liam!" a voice echoed down the tunnel.
It wasn't Travis.
It was Detective Sarah Miller from the St. Jude Homicide Division—the lead investigator on Evan’s supposed death. Behind her stood four uniformed officers with drawn sidearms.
"Don't move! Put your hands on your heads!" Miller barked.
"Detective, wait!" I shouted, holding my hands up, shielding Evan behind me. "Look at him! Look at the man standing behind me!"
Detective Miller stepped forward, her gun leveled at my chest. She shifted her tactical light slightly to the left. The beam fell straight onto Evan's bruised, bloodied face.
Her breath caught in her throat. She lowered her weapon an inch, her eyes widening in absolute shock.
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"Evan... Vane?" she whispered. "You're dead. I saw you on the autopsy table..."
"You saw a man named Julian Vance," Evan said, stepping out into the light. "And if you don't take this briefcase right now, my mother and cousin are going to kill my brother next."
