Chapter 4 - The Drive to VermontThe rain began to fall as my armored black SUV cut through the desolate, tree-lined highways leading north toward the Canadian border. In the passenger seat sat two of my most trusted capos, while I sat alone in the back, staring out the rain-streaked window.
The sound of the tires hissing against the wet asphalt was hypnotic. For hours, I listened to the rhythmic slap of the windshield wipers, marveling at how much texture the world possessed. Every drop of rain had its own distinct pitch as it struck the glass. Every shift of the engine told a story of mechanics and motion.
Yet, beneath the sensory wonder, a cold, calculated fury drove me forward.
Arthur Turner had been dead for ten years, but his ghost was still running my life. He had turned my childhood into a silent prison, robbed me of my mother’s voice, and turned my entire existence into a psychological experiment in isolation.
Dr. Harrison was going to tell me every single detail about the surgery, or I was going to find out how much pain an eighty-year-old retired surgeon could endure before his heart gave out.
At 3:00 AM, our convoy turned off the main interstate onto a narrow dirt road flanked by towering pine trees. Lake Willoughby stretched out to our left, a vast, ink-black expanse reflecting the pale light of a crescent moon.
Dr. Harrison’s property was a sprawling two-story timber cabin surrounded by high security fencing—ironically, the kind of fortress built by a man who knew how many enemies he had made in a lifetime of dirty secrets.
“Cut the lights,” I commanded from the back seat.
The SUV rolled forward in total darkness, its engine muffled by custom dampeners. We stopped fifty yards from the front gate.
I opened the door and stepped out into the damp, pine-scented air. The sound of crickets chirping in the brush sounded like a chorus of tiny metallic shears. It was jarring, beautiful, and completely foreign.
“Boss, want us to breach the door?” my capo, Tony, asked, stepping out behind me with a suppressed submachine gun in his hands.
“No,” I said, checking the weight of the Colt in my holster. “Dr. Harrison is an old man. Let’s not wake up the whole lake before we get our answers.”
I walked up to the iron gate, bypassed the digital keypad by snapping the exterior housing and shorting the manual relay with a pocket wire, and pushed it open. The hinges groaned—a high-pitched squeak that made me grit my teeth.
We moved across the manicured lawn with the silent grace I had practiced my entire life. Decades of relying on foot-vibrations made me a ghost on grass and gravel alike.
I reached the front porch, drew my pistol, and kicked the heavy oak front door with enough force to shatter the deadbolt housing.
CRACK.
The door flew inward, slamming against the drywall inside.
“Federal agents! Stay down!” Tony shouted as he and the other capos flooded the entryway, sweeping the ground floor with tactical flashlights.
I walked in behind them. The cabin smelled of old paper, pipe tobacco, and peppermint tea.
A light flickered on at the top of the wooden staircase.
An old man in a flannel bathrobe and wire-rimmed glasses leaned over the banister, squinting down into the darkness, holding a trembling cane in one hand and an oil lamp in the other.
“Who... who is down there?” Dr. Harrison called out, his voice thin and trembling with ancient panic. “I’m an old man! Take whatever you want, just don't hurt me!”
I walked up the stairs, each step creaking beneath my boots. The capos parted, letting me pass.
I stopped three steps below the landing, looking up at the man who had stolen thirty-seven years of sound from my head.
Dr. Harrison squinted through his thick glasses, his eyes adjusting to the flashlight beam. Then, as he looked at my face—at the sharp jawline, the cold gray eyes, and the unmistakable Turner family resemblance—all the blood drained from his face.
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“V-Vincent?” the old man whispered, dropping his cane. It clattered down the stairs, bouncing off the steps until it hit the floor below.
“Hello, Doctor,” I said, my voice echoing up the stairwell like a judgment from God. “It’s been a long time. Too bad I couldn't hear you say goodbye.”
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