Four Thousand Pounds Against the Mahogany Garage Doors
CHAPTER 5: A DEAD MAN’S SEAL
The fluorescent lights of the county sheriff’s briefing room buzzed against the acoustic tile ceiling. Outside, the Endless Mountains were blanketed in six inches of fresh, powdery snow, the temperature plunging toward single digits.
Ellis Crane sat at the metal interrogation table, his sheepskin jacket unzipped, staring sullenly at a paper cup of cold water. Across the table sat Silas Larkin, June Larkin, Ranger Naomi Price, and County Prosecutor David Vance.
On the table between them lay Caleb Larkin’s brass marking hammer, three falsified scale slips, and a forensic printout from the state crime laboratory in Harrisburg.
“Six years ago,” Silas said, his voice quiet, raw with decades of suppressed pain, “my son Caleb was found dead at the bottom of Dead Man’s Gulch. His log truck went through the guardrail during an ice storm. Two days before that crash, Ellis, you went to the state forestry commission and reported that Caleb had used his official inspector’s seal to certify forty thousand board-feet of poached oak from Bear Mountain.”
Crane didn’t look up. “That was six years ago, Silas. The investigation was closed as an accidental fatality. The coroner ruled he lost control on black ice.”
“It’s open again,” Prosecutor Vance said, sliding a manila folder across the table. “Ranger Price had the state crime lab run a microscopic metallurgical analysis on the brass face of this marking hammer. The unique serial number on the strike plate was altered with a hand file—shortly after Caleb died.”
Vance turned the folder toward Crane. “For the past six years, someone has been using Caleb’s altered inspection seal to certify high-value export timber shipped through your sawmill. Every single shipment was routed to Wexler Holdings LLC for overseas maritime export through the Port of Baltimore. Over twelve million dollars in rare black walnut has been laundered through that port.”
“Wexler set it up,” Crane blurted out, his composure finally shattering under the weight of the evidence. “Conrad Wexler financed the entire operation! He bought the offshore holding companies in the Caymans, he paid off the private port inspectors in Baltimore, and he gave me thirty percent of the net wire transfers to keep the wood moving through local yards under falsified firewood permits!”
“And Caleb?” Silas whispered, leaning forward until his face was six inches from Crane’s. “What happened to my boy on that mountain road, Ellis?”
Crane swallowed hard, his hands trembling violently against the cold metal table. “Caleb caught me in Compartment Nine on that Sunday. He found my crew cutting the old-growth walnut with unpermitted commercial feller-bunchers. He took the marking hammer away from my foreman. He told me he was driving straight to the state police barracks in Montrose to file criminal charges.”
“Go on, Ellis,” Ranger Price commanded softly.
“I called Wexler,” Crane whispered, tears of terror welling in his red-rimmed eyes. “Wexler said if Caleb reached the barracks, our entire export contract was dead. Wexler had two of his private estate security guards follow Caleb up the mountain in a heavy four-wheel-drive truck. They didn’t mean to kill him… they just wanted to run him onto the shoulder and take the hammer back. But the road was glazed with black ice. Caleb hit the brakes, the trailer jackknifed, and he went through the timber railing into the ravine.”
The room fell into absolute, suffocating silence.
Silas Larkin sat back slowly in his chair. He closed his eyes. A single tear tracked down the deep, weathered crevice of his cheek, but his hands remained still on the table.
“Where is Wexler now?” June asked, her voice shaking with righteous fury.
“He’s at his mountain estate,” Prosecutor Vance said, checking his watch. “The state police have secured an arrest warrant for second-degree murder, commercial grand larceny, and interstate racketeering. But we have a tactical problem.”
“What problem?” June asked.
“Wexler’s estate sits at the end of a private three-mile access ridge,” Vance explained. “The storm has knocked out the power lines, and the mountain road is covered in six inches of packed ice. The state police cruisers can’t get their vehicles up that twelve-percent grade without heavy tire chains, and their tracked recovery vehicle is stuck forty miles away in Scranton.”
Silas opened his eyes. The grief had hardened into something cold, ancient, and unyielding.
“They don’t need a tracked recovery vehicle,” Silas said, standing up and reaching for his heavy wool cap. “They have my four-wheel-drive Timberjack skidder. Let’s go bring Conrad Wexler down from the mountain.”
