Chapter 9 - The Desperate Strike
Freedom was running out for Vanessa Vance.
With her father locked in a county cell awaiting federal indictment and her mother completely unhinged, Vanessa had been released on her original quarter-million-dollar bond, confined to her parents’ empty mansion with an electronic ankle monitor.
She was facing five to eight years in state prison. Her graduate school admission had been rescinded. Her social circle had abandoned her like rats fleeing a burning ship.
She had nothing left to lose.
It was 2:15 on Sunday morning when the storm hit Oak Creek. Heavy sheets of rain lashed against our bedroom windows, thunder rolling in low, violent rumbles across the sky.
Daniel was asleep beside me, his arm draped instinctively over my waist. Emma was down the hall in her room, sound asleep with her nightlight glowing.
Suddenly, a sharp, metallic sound cut through the hum of the rain.
*Snap.*
Daniel’s eyes opened instantly. He didn’t groggily wake up; he transitioned from sleep to combat readiness in a fraction of a second. He lifted his arm off me, sliding out of bed without making a sound.
“Stay here,” he whispered into my ear.
He slipped into his trousers, retrieved his service-issued tactical flashlight from the nightstand, and moved silently toward the hallway.
I couldn’t stay in bed. My maternal instinct pulled me straight toward Emma’s bedroom. I crept down the dimly lit hallway, my heart pounding in my throat.
Downstairs, the floorboards creaked.
Then came the smell.
The acrid, chemical stench of gasoline drifted up the stairwell.
*Panic seized my chest.*
“Daniel!” I screamed.
From the base of the stairs, a voice shrieked—a hysterical, broken, manic sound.
“You took everything from me, Clara!”
It was Vanessa.
She stood in the center of our living room, soaked to the bone from the torrential rain, her eyes wide, wild, and completely detached from reality. In her left hand, she held a red plastic gas can, fuel sloshing across our wooden floorboards, our sofa, and the curtains. In her right hand, she clutched a heavy brass lighter.
Around her ankle, the black casing of her electronic monitor hung loose, severed with heavy wire cutters.
“Vanessa, stop!” I screamed from the top of the stairs. “Emma is upstairs!”
“I don’t care!” Vanessa screamed, tears mixing with the rain streaming down her face. “Dad is going to prison! The house is being seized! My life is over because of you and your little bastard! If I’m going to hell, you’re burning with me!”
She flicked the lighter. A small, orange flame blossomed in the darkness.
She never had the chance to lower it.
Daniel descended the stairs like a phantom. He didn’t shout. He didn’t hesitate. He vaulted over the lower banister, his tactical flashlight striking Vanessa’s wrist with brutal, precise force.
The lighter flew from her hand, skittering harmlessly across the damp floor.
Vanessa shrieked, swinging the heavy gas can at Daniel’s head, but Daniel caught her arm, swept her feet out from under her, and pinned her facedown into the soaked rug, his forearm pressed firmly against the back of her neck.
“Get Clara and Emma outside!” Daniel barked at me, his voice cutting through the madness. “Now! Call 911 from the front lawn!”
I didn’t look back. I sprinted into Emma’s room, ripped her from beneath her duvet, wrapped her in a blanket, and carried her out the back door into the pouring rain.
Standing on the wet grass under the flashes of lightning, holding my weeping, terrified daughter against my chest, I heard the sirens wailing in the distance.
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Inside our house, Daniel held the thrashing, screaming monster who had tried to murder her own flesh and blood until the blue lights of six police cruisers illuminated our neighborhood in blazing strobes.
***
