Chapter 29 - The Vault Beneath the St. Jude Chapel
With Cabin 14 compromised, Daniel knew they had only one option left. They couldn't go to local police, and federal marshals were being manipulated by Harold Vance’s warrants.
There was only one place in Blackwood County where Harold couldn't use official surveillance without raising flags: the decommissioned St. Jude Chapel, five miles north along the abandoned rail spur. It had belonged to Emily’s grandfather Sebastian before the state seized the surrounding land.
They moved on foot through the freezing mist, Mason riding Daniel’s back, wrapped in a heavy wool blanket. By 3:00 AM, the crumbling gothic spire of St. Jude Chapel emerged from the fog like a jagged tombstone.
Daniel forced the rusted iron latch on the chapel’s heavy oak doors. Inside, the nave was cold, damp, and smelling of ancient incense and decaying wood. Moonlight filtered through cracked stained-glass windows, casting long, fractured shadows across rows of rotting pews.
"Where is the vault?" Daniel asked, scanning the perimeter.
Emily led them toward the altar. Beneath the faded velvet pulpit runner was a bronze floor ring set into the stone flags. Daniel grabbed the ring, bracing his legs, and hauled upward with all his strength.
With a grinding groan of counterweights, the stone slab lifted, revealing a spiral staircase descending into absolute blackness.
Daniel clicked on the tactical flashlight attached to the captured rifle. The beam pierced the damp darkness, revealing clean, modern concrete steps—recently renovated, untouched by dust or cobwebs.
"Someone has been using this," Daniel muttered, his weapon raised as they descended.
At the bottom of the stairs lay a massive, bank-grade steel vault door, standing slightly ajar.
Daniel pushed the door open.
Inside was not a dusty cellar. It was a fully powered, climate-controlled surveillance bunker.
Banks of glowing monitors lined the far wall. Daniel’s breath seized as he saw the live feeds:
Monitor 1 displayed their house on Elm Street—forensic vans and tactical units crawling over the driveway.
Monitor 2 showed the county jail—the door to Vanessa’s cell standing wide open, yellow police tape fluttering in the wind.
Monitor 3 displayed the hospital room where Victoria Vance was supposedly being treated under armed guard—the bed was empty, IV lines ripped and dangling.
And in the center of the vault sat a long steel table.
Sitting on the table, illuminated beneath a single overhead halogen light, was Emily’s original platinum wedding band, resting atop a freshly printed ultrasound dated three weeks ago.
Next to the ultrasound was a child’s handwritten note, scrawled in blue crayon:
May you like
*MOMMY HAS A NEW BABY IN HER TUMMY. YOU CANNOT HAVE MASON BACK.*
***
