Chapter 7 - The Elm Street Arrest
The garage on Elm Street was a large, corrugated iron structure that smelled of old motor oil, burnt rubber, and cheap coffee. Mark Bennett stood near the hydraulic lift, a cigarette dangling from his lower lip as he watched a mechanic adjust the transmission on a vintage Mustang.
He looked up when he heard the glass door of the office slam open.
Claire walked into the shop floor. She wasn't wearing her library apron or her reading glasses. She looked tall in her dark trench coat, her hair damp from the mountain mist, her boots leaving wet, muddy tracks across the oil-stained concrete.
"Claire?" Mark said, taking the cigarette from his mouth and laughing nervously. "What are you doing here? I told you my head was splitting this morning. I had to come down here to see about some parts for the sedan."
"The sedan belongs to Apex Medical Holdings, Mark," Claire said, stopping five feet from him. The mechanics in the shop stopped working, the sound of wrenches dropping against the iron floor echoing through the rafters. "The company you own with Vanessa."
Mark’s cigarette fell from his fingers, landing with a tiny hiss in a puddle of steering fluid. "What... what are you talking about? Who told you that?"
"Your mother told me," Claire said.
Mark blinked, a look of profound, stupid confusion crossing his face. "My mother can't talk, Claire. She’s a vegetable. You’re losing your mind from the stress."
"She talked this morning, Mark," Claire said, stepping closer until he could see the reflection of his own navy blazer in her dark pupils. "She told me about the silver box. She told me about Vanessa coming into our house while I was working the extra translation shifts to pay for your 'infusions.' She told the state police everything."
Mark’s eyes darted toward the office door behind her, his muscles tensing as if he were preparing to run through the back alley where the delivery trucks were parked.
"Don't bother," Claire said smoothly. "Walter’s parked across the driveway with his sedan. And he’s not alone."
As if on cue, the high-pitched, warbling siren of a Maple Ridge police cruiser cut through the afternoon air. Two white-and-blue vehicles pulled onto the gravel lot outside the garage, their red and blue lights flashing against the corrugated iron walls.
Mark turned back to Claire, his face twisting into an expression of desperate, pathetic rage. He grabbed her by the lapels of her coat, his fingers digging into the fabric. "You bitch! You’re going to destroy everything! We had a plan! We were going to be out of this dump by Christmas!"
"You had a plan, Mark," Claire said, her hands coming up to lock around his wrists with a strength she had spent eight months developing while lifting his mother from her bed. She twisted his arms down until he was forced to release her. "My plan was just to take care of my family. It’s a shame you didn't qualify."
Officer Miller, a man Claire had known since high school, stepped through the garage door with his leather holster unbuckled. "Mark Bennett? Put your hands on the lift, please. We have a warrant from the county prosecutor for corporate fraud and domestic exploitation."
Mark didn't fight. He let the officer pull his arms behind his back, his face pressed against the cold steel of the hydraulic lift as the handcuffs clicked into place. As they led him out past the vintage cars and the grease pits, he looked back at Claire, his voice cracking like a dry stick.
"Claire! Who’s going to pay the mortgage? The bank’s going to take the house anyway! You can't keep it without my name on the title!"
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Claire didn't follow him to the car. She stood in the center of the oil-stained garage, her breath steady, her voice quiet but absolute.
"The title was cleared ten minutes ago, Mark," she said to the empty shop. "Your name’s been erased from the valley."
