Chapter 8 - The Confrontation at Bellevue Crest
Dr. Wallace stood paralyzed, his jaw hanging open as if he had just witnessed a corpse rising from the grave.
"R-Raymond..." the doctor stuttered, retreating backward until his shoulders hit the wall.
"You... you were comatose... it's medically impossible!"
"What was impossible was that I trusted you for twenty years, Samuel," Raymond said, his voice gathering raw power with every breath.
He took one step forward, the brass pole striking the floor with an ominous, echoing clatter.
"You took thirty pieces of silver to turn my own body into a torture chamber."
Before Wallace could speak, Christopher burst through the doorway, his face bruised and his eyes feral with desperation.
He didn't see Raymond standing at first; his focus was entirely on me.
"You're dead, you little b—"
Christopher choked on his own words as his gaze drifted to his uncle.
The color completely drained from Christopher's face, leaving him a sickening shade of chalk.
"Uncle Raymond?" Christopher gasped, stumbling back into the door frame.
"You look disappointed, nephew," Raymond growled, stepping between Christopher and the crib where Theodore had begun to cry.
"You expected me to be cold by now, didn't you?"
"You expected the coroner to sign my death certificate while you uncorked my vintage champagne."
Christopher’s expression shifted rapidly from shock to cold, sociopathic rage.
He realized his life, his freedom, and his stolen fortune were all evaporating in this single room.
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sleek, folding pocket knife, clicking the four-inch steel blade open.
"It doesn't matter," Christopher hissed, his eyes darting frantically between Raymond and me.
"The guards at the gate won't make it up the mountain in time."
"I'll finish you both right now and tell the police it was a home invasion gone wrong!"
Christopher lunged forward, aiming the blade directly at Raymond's throat.
Despite two months of forced atrophy, Raymond's survival instincts were razor-sharp.
He sidestepped the awkward charge, brought the brass pole down across Christopher’s wrists with a sickening crack, and sent the knife spinning away.
Christopher screamed in agony, clutching his broken wrist as he crashed to the floor.
Wallace made a mad dash for the balcony doors to escape into the winter night.
I stepped directly into his path, swinging Raymond's heavy silver water pitcher with both hands.
The solid metal connected squarely with Wallace's jaw.
The corrupt doctor dropped to the floor like a sack of wet flour, completely unconscious.
Raymond turned toward me, his chest heaving, a faint, proud smile touching his lips.
"You have quite an arm, Nora," he said softly.
Below the windows, sirens howled in a deafening chorus as high-powered spotlights flooded the bedroom from the courtyard.
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Heavy combat boots echoed up the grand staircase.
The federal marshals had finally breached the estate.
