Chapter 3 - The Dead Man Outside the Window
Roman Calder had heard men scream before.
He had heard bones break, gunshots echo through warehouses, and dying men whisper names they wanted carried home.
But nothing frightened him quite like hearing the voice of a dead man.
“Stay behind the table,” he told Eleanor.
Another bullet punched through a glass rack.
A sheet of emerald-green glass dropped and shattered.
Roman pulled his phone closer.
“Marcus. The man outside. I need him alive.”
“I'm moving.”
“No shots unless you have to.”
“Understood.”
A car engine roared.
Tires screamed against wet pavement.
Then the shooting stopped.
Roman remained crouched beside Eleanor.
She was pale.
A thin cut marked her cheek.
Blood had begun to slide toward her jaw.
“Are you hurt anywhere else?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Just this.”
He pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket.
“Hold it against the cut.”
She obeyed.
His hand was still resting over hers when she looked up.
“You recognized him.”
Roman hesitated.
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Julian Marlow.”
Eleanor frowned.
“Vincent's brother?”
Roman nodded.
“But Julian died in the cathedral explosion.”
She stared at him.
“Then someone made a mistake.”
Roman looked toward the shattered windows.
“Or someone wanted me to believe he died.”
Police sirens rose in the distance.
For most people, they would have been a welcome sound.
For Roman, they merged with the endless shriek inside his skull until his vision blurred.
Eleanor saw him close his eyes.
She touched his forearm.
“Roman.”
He opened them.
“Don't listen to the sirens,” she whispered. “Look at me.”
It was an impossible instruction.
He had spent seven years trying not to listen.
But he focused on her eyes.
Her breathing.
The pressure of her hand.
The sound did not disappear.
Yet for several seconds, he was no longer drowning in it.
A minute later, Marcus entered through the rear door.
His jacket was soaked.
“Van's gone. I got the plate, but it's probably stolen.”
“Did you see the passengers?”
“Two men. One drove. The other fired.”
“Julian Marlow?”
Marcus stared.
“That's impossible.”
“I heard him.”
Marcus didn't argue.
He had served Roman for eleven years and had learned that his employer rarely confused voices.
“Police are outside,” Marcus said. “We need to give them the scene.”
Roman looked around the studio.
Eleanor's father's work had survived decades of storms, financial hardship, and public disgrace.
Now shards of it lay beneath a table.
An amber panel had been destroyed.
Three antique windows were broken.
A framed photograph of Samuel and Eleanor stood crooked on a shelf.
Roman felt something ugly rise inside him.
He knew the men who controlled violence in Ashport.
He had been one of them for too long.
And now their world had entered the one place where Eleanor had tried to preserve something beautiful.
“I'll pay for the damage,” he said.
Eleanor stared at him.
“You can't replace everything that's broken.”
The words struck him harder than she intended.
He looked at the destroyed amber panel.
“No,” he said quietly. “I can't.”
Detective Lena Ortiz arrived ten minutes later.
She was forty-two, sharp-eyed, and had spent most of her career investigating organized crime.
Roman knew her well enough to understand that she didn't trust him.
Ortiz knew him well enough to understand that he rarely volunteered information without a reason.
They had never liked each other.
But tonight, she looked at the shattered studio and set their history aside.
“Ms. Voss, are you safe?”
Eleanor nodded.
“Physically.”
Ortiz introduced herself, asked for an account, and arranged for a crime-scene team.
Roman described the van and the threats.
He did not conceal Julian's name.
Ortiz stopped writing.
“Julian Marlow?”
“Yes.”
“The man buried at Saint Gabriel Memorial Cemetery?”
“That one.”
“Mr. Calder, Julian Marlow's death was confirmed by the medical examiner.”
“Then find out who confirmed it.”
Ortiz studied him.
“Is this some kind of power struggle?”
Roman's expression hardened.
“It may be attempted murder.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“It's the answer you need tonight.”
Eleanor stepped between them.
“Detective, my father kept restoration records that may be connected to the cathedral bombing.”
Ortiz turned toward her.
“Samuel Voss?”
“Yes.”
“I remember the case.”
“Then you remember how he was treated.”
Ortiz's expression softened slightly.
“I wasn't assigned to the original investigation.”
“But you've read the file.”
“Yes.”
“Did it ever make sense to you?”
Ortiz didn't answer immediately.
Roman watched her.
That hesitation was interesting.
Finally, she said, “Some parts didn't.”
“Which parts?” Eleanor asked.
“The security footage disappeared before investigators obtained it. There were conflicting reports about how the suspect entered the restricted corridor. And the explosive debris was cataloged by an outside security consultant before our technicians arrived.”
Roman felt cold.
“Who?”
Ortiz looked directly at him.
“Marlow Protective Services.”
Vincent's former company.
Roman stared at her.
“How did I never hear that?”
Ortiz's expression was unreadable.
“Perhaps because you were in a hospital.”
The siren seemed to intensify.
Roman could almost feel the scar pulsing beneath his collar.
“Detective,” Eleanor said, “I think there's something beneath Mr. Calder's scar that came from the explosion.”
Ortiz glanced toward him.
“Has a doctor confirmed that?”
“Not yet.”
“Then that's the first thing you should do.”
Roman gave a humorless smile.
“For once, Detective, we agree.”
Before leaving, Ortiz photographed Samuel's notebook and letter with Eleanor's permission, arranged to document the originals, and warned them not to handle anything further without recording where it came from.
She promised to request the old medical examiner records.
Roman didn't mistake that for friendship.
But it was a beginning.
By midnight, Eleanor had finished giving her statement.
She stood beneath the broken front window, staring at the street.
“You can't stay here tonight,” Roman said.
“I know.”
“Do you have somewhere safe?”
“My friend Nora has a guest room.”
“Call her.”
Eleanor looked at him.
“You're not going to insist I stay at your mansion?”
Roman paused.
“Would you agree if I did?”
“No.”
“Then there wouldn't be much point.”
She gave him a tired smile.
He returned it.
For the first time in years, Roman found himself wishing a conversation could continue without a reason.
But Eleanor was exhausted.
And he needed answers.
Marcus drove her to Nora's house after she called ahead and agreed to the arrangement.
Roman remained behind until the police finished.
As he stepped toward his car, his phone rang.
Vincent.
Roman answered.
“Where have you been?” Vincent demanded.
Roman leaned against the SUV.
“Busy.”
“I heard about Eleanor's studio. Is she alive?”
“Yes.”
“Thank God. I told you that woman was trouble.”
Roman stared across the dark street.
“Funny.”
“What?”
“You seem more concerned about her notebook than the shooting.”
Silence.
Then Vincent said, “Roman, we've been brothers for twenty-three years.”
“I know.”
“You can't seriously believe I'd hurt you.”
Roman closed his eyes.
He remembered Vincent visiting him in the hospital.
Standing beside his mother at her funeral.
Helping him bury men they had both loved.
He remembered trusting Vincent with passwords, business accounts, property titles, and his life.
And for the first time, he wondered how much of that life had belonged to someone else.
“Tell me something,” Roman said.
“What?”
“Where was Julian buried?”
Vincent didn't answer.
Roman waited.
Finally, Vincent spoke.
“Why are you asking about my dead brother?”
“Because I heard his voice tonight.”
The silence changed.
It became heavy.
Dangerous.
Then Vincent whispered, “You should have left that church alone.”
Roman's blood turned cold.
“Vincent?”
But the call ended.
Roman lowered the phone.
Marcus glanced at him.
“Everything all right?”
Roman stared at the dark screen.
“No.”
He opened the passenger door.
“Take me to Saint Gabriel Memorial Cemetery.”
The cemetery lay on a hill overlooking the harbor.
Rain drifted through the trees.
Rows of headstones shone beneath weak security lights.
Marcus accompanied Roman to the Marlow family plot.
There stood a gray granite marker.
JULIAN THOMAS MARLOW.
1984–2019.
Beloved Brother.
Roman stared at the dates.
He had attended the funeral.
He remembered Vincent standing beside the coffin, pale and shaking.
He remembered putting one hand on his friend's shoulder and promising that whoever had planted the bomb would pay.
He remembered the sealed casket.
No viewing.
The remains were too badly damaged, the funeral director had said.
Roman had believed that too.
Marcus stood beside him.
“You think the body wasn't Julian's?”
“I think someone wanted it buried quickly.”
“Why?”
Roman touched the cold granite.
“Because Julian knew who planted the bomb.”
Marcus considered that.
“Or because he planted it himself.”
Roman looked toward the dark harbor.
Below them, cargo cranes rose like skeletal giants.
Blackwater Terminal's lights burned along the waterfront.
Seven years earlier, Roman had rejected Vincent's invitation to invest in the development.
At the time, Vincent had told him the project was a chance to control Ashport's future.
Roman had believed he simply meant money.
Now he wasn't so certain.
“Find every ownership document connected to Blackwater Terminal,” he said.
Marcus nodded.
“And Roman?”
“What?”
“If Vincent's involved, who else knows?”
Roman stared at the grave.
“That,” he said, “is what scares me.”
The following morning, Eleanor arrived at Saint Gabriel's Cathedral before sunrise.
The police had advised her to stay away.
Roman had asked her to take the day off.
Nora had begged her not to leave the house.
Eleanor ignored all three.
She had a centennial window to finish, and something inside her father's notebook had become impossible to forget.
The missing petal is not missing.
She stood beneath the enormous circular frame and studied its measurements.
Twelve visible petals.
A central oculus.
The eastern passageway beyond the scaffolding.
Her father had insisted the original design contained thirteen sections.
But the cathedral's current blueprints showed twelve.
Why?
She examined the drawings again.
Then she noticed something.
The thirteenth section had not simply been removed.
It had been covered.
A later stone reinforcement concealed an arched recess at the base of the window.
The alteration had been approved after the bombing.
By the private restoration committee.
Eleanor's pulse quickened.
She climbed the scaffold.
The cathedral was quiet except for her footsteps.
At the third level, she reached the stone reinforcement.
Fresh mortar covered the edge.
Not seven-year-old mortar.
Fresh.
Someone had repaired it recently.
She knelt.
Using a flashlight, she examined a narrow seam.
A thin strand of blue glass protruded from the stone.
The same shade as the fragment from the workbench.
Her breath caught.
She photographed it.
Then she heard a voice below.
“You really are your father's daughter.”
Eleanor froze.
A man stood beneath the scaffold.
Tall.
Lean.
Wearing a dark raincoat.
His hair had begun to gray at the temples.
A burn scar ran across his left cheek.
Eleanor recognized him from an old newspaper photograph.
Julian Marlow.
The dead man.
He looked up at her.
“Samuel was stubborn too.”
Eleanor gripped the railing.
“What do you want?”
Julian smiled.
“The notebook.”
“I don't have it.”
“Then tell me where it is.”
Eleanor pulled her phone from her pocket.
Julian raised one hand.
“I wouldn't.”
Behind him, another man stepped into view.
He carried a pistol.
Eleanor's stomach dropped.
Julian looked around the cathedral.
“Beautiful place, isn't it?”
She said nothing.
“My brother always hated churches. Too many people talking about forgiveness when they really wanted punishment.”
He took a step closer.
“Your father should have minded his own business.”
Eleanor felt rage cut through her fear.
“My father didn't kill anyone.”
Julian's smile disappeared.
“No. He didn't.”
The words shocked her.
For seven years, Samuel Voss had been publicly blamed for the security failures surrounding the bombing.
Now the man who had supposedly died in that explosion stood beneath her and admitted Samuel had not been responsible.
Eleanor kept her voice steady.
“Then who did?”
Julian looked toward the eastern transept.
“The wrong question.”
“What's the right one?”
“Who was the bomb meant for?”
Eleanor's heart hammered.
“Father Brennan?”
Julian laughed softly.
“Brennan was inconvenient. But he wasn't the dangerous one.”
She stared at him.
Julian continued.
“The dangerous one was a man who controlled half the harbor and didn't realize someone was stealing the other half right under his nose.”
Roman.
Eleanor understood.
The explosion hadn't simply been designed to silence Father Brennan.
It had been meant to kill Roman Calder.
Julian stepped toward the scaffold.
“Give me the notebook, Eleanor.”
She backed away.
The armed man followed Julian.
Eleanor glanced toward the upper walkway.
There was no safe way down without passing them.
“I'm not giving you anything.”
Julian sighed.
“Your father said the same thing.”
He looked at the gunman.
“Bring her down.”
The man started climbing.
Eleanor took another step backward.
Her heel struck a loose board.
She nearly lost her balance.
Then a deep voice rang through the cathedral.
“Take another step toward her, Julian, and you'll regret surviving the first explosion.”
Everyone froze.
Roman Calder stood beneath the western arch.
Marcus Reed stood beside him.
And for the first time in seven years, Roman was looking directly at the man whose funeral he had attended.
Julian slowly turned.
His face lost its color.
“Roman.”
Roman walked forward.
He wasn't shouting.
He wasn't even visibly angry.
But Eleanor saw the terrifying calm settle over his expression.
“Get your man off that ladder.”
Julian hesitated.
Roman glanced toward the gunman.
“Now.”
The man stopped climbing.
Julian gave a small gesture.
He descended.
Roman continued walking.
“Seven years,” he said quietly.
Julian swallowed.
“Roman, listen—”
“Seven years of flowers on a grave that shouldn't exist.”
“It's complicated.”
“Then simplify it.”
Julian looked toward the eastern passage.
Roman followed his gaze.
That was the mistake.
The gunman moved.
Marcus shouted.
A shot cracked across the nave.
The bullet struck a stone column.
Roman shoved Marcus behind a pew as a second shot followed.
Above them, Eleanor dropped flat against the scaffold.
Julian ran toward the eastern service corridor.
Roman saw him disappear through a narrow doorway.
The same doorway sealed after the explosion.
The gunman fired again.
Marcus returned fire from cover.
The man stumbled backward, dropped his weapon, and collapsed with a wounded shoulder.
Roman started toward the corridor.
Then Eleanor screamed.
“Roman! Stop!”
He froze.
She was pointing toward the doorway.
A thin black cable ran across the threshold.
It disappeared behind the newly repaired stone.
Roman's eyes narrowed.
A trap.
Julian had led him directly toward it.
Eleanor shouted again.
“Don't touch anything!”
Roman backed away.
Marcus called the police.
Julian vanished through the restricted passage.
And Eleanor, still crouched high above the cathedral floor, stared at the blue glass protruding from the mortar.
Because she had just realized the thirteenth petal wasn't hidden behind the wall.
May you like
It was part of the wall.
And someone had built a new trap around it.
