Chapter 8 - A Wolf at the Iron Gate
The black town cars were idling on the wet asphalt of the main approach,
their exhaust pipes sending white plumes into the cold Georgia air.
Raymond Mason stepped out of the rear of the center vehicle.
He was sixty-eight years old,
silver-haired,
dressed in a charcoal wool overcoat with a silk scarf tucked neatly beneath his chin.
He carried a gold-topped malacca cane,
a symbol of patriarch authority he had coveted since my father’s coffin was lowered into Oakland Cemetery.
Beside him stood Arthur Finch,
the most ruthless family law attorney in the state of Georgia,
flanked by two uniformed Fulton County sheriff’s deputies who looked distinctly uncomfortable holding an emergency custody warrant in the rain.
I sat waiting for them on the covered portico of the main house,
flanked only by Frank and three private guards with their hands folded behind their backs.
The wheels of my chair were locked.
A silver thermos of black coffee sat on the tray attached to my right armrest.
I did not offer them a seat.
I did not offer them a roof against the downpour.
Raymond climbed the stone steps slowly,
his cane clicking against the wet limestone,
a faint,
patronizing smirk playing upon his thin lips.
“Dominic,”
Raymond said,
his voice smooth,
resonant,
practiced from decades of boardroom takeovers.
“You’re looking surprisingly well for a man who spent the night hallucinating with a septic fever.”
“Save the family pleasantries,
Raymond,”
I replied,
my voice cutting through the hiss of the rain.
“You’re trespassing on private property.”
“Not entirely,
nephew,”
Raymond said,
gesturing with his cane toward the attorney beside him.
Finch stepped forward,
opening a leather portfolio,
pulling out a sheaf of papers stamped with the seal of the Superior Court.
“Mr. Dominic Mason,”
Finch droned,
reading off the page with bureaucratic indifference.
“We have an emergency ex parte order signed by Judge Hollingsworth.
It authorizes Raymond Mason,
as legal guardian of the Julian Mason estate,
to take temporary protective custody of the minor child known as Noah Foster,
pending forensic paternity verification.”
“Judge Hollingsworth took eighty thousand dollars in campaign donations from your PAC last November,
Raymond,”
I said,
taking a slow,
deliberate sip from my thermos.
“His signature isn’t worth the paper Finch printed it on.”
Raymond’s smirk tightened into a thin,
venomous line.
“The boy is a Mason,
Dominic.
He carries our blood.
He does not belong in the care of a destitute cleaner with a record of evictions,
unpaid debts,
and a former partner currently awaiting trial for violent felony charges.
I am stepping in to protect the family name.”
“You didn’t care about the family name when you locked the fire exits at the Decatur warehouse,”
I said softly.
The silence that followed was so absolute that the deputies behind Raymond exchanged quick,
nervous glances.
Raymond’s fingers tightened on the gold handle of his cane.
“You are delirious,
Dominic.
The fever has clearly affected your cognitive abilities.”
“The girl has Julian’s personal journals,
Raymond,”
I lied,
watching the color slowly drain from my uncle’s weathered face.
“Written in Savannah.
Notarized by his attending physician before he died.
Detailed records of every payment you wired to his offshore account in the Cayman Islands to keep him from testifying at the coroner’s inquest.”
Raymond took one step forward,
his veneer of Southern gentleman dignity cracking,
revealing the feral,
desperate predator underneath.
“You give me the child,
Dominic,
or by sundown,
I will have Child Protective Services and forty federal marshals tear this compound down to its foundation.”
“You can try,
Uncle,”
I said,
my voice dropping into a register that made the hair on the back of Frank’s neck stand up.
“But if one deputy puts a boot across that threshold,
Frank will upload the security archives from the old server bank in Charlotte directly to the Department of Justice.
The archives you thought you wiped.”
Raymond stared at me,
his breath hissing through his clenched teeth.
“You’re bluffing.
The server was destroyed.”
“Would you like to bet your remaining freedom on my memory,
Raymond?”
I asked,
leaning forward in my chair.
May you like
“Because I don’t forget anything.
Especially not the night my son died.”
