Chapter 5 - what charles whitmore buried)
The Marston property stood ninety miles north of the city.
Police advised Daniel not to go.
Daniel went anyway.
Torres went with him.
So did Claire.
The boys remained under guard with Claire’s sister.
The old Whitmore lake house had been renovated by its new owners, but the boathouse at the far end of the property looked almost exactly as Daniel remembered it.
Weathered cedar walls.
Dark green roof.
A narrow pier extending into gray water.
The owner was shocked to learn that the structure apparently did not belong to him.
Property records confirmed Ruth’s claim.
The boathouse belonged to an entity called Alder Foundation Trust.
Charles Whitmore had created it nineteen years earlier.
Daniel stood on the dock.
The lake was calm.
Too calm.
He remembered the storm on the night Peter disappeared.
He remembered police lights reflecting on the water.
He remembered his father standing under an umbrella while divers searched.
He remembered screaming at Charles because Charles would not let him join the search boats.
Now every memory felt contaminated.
Torres removed the silver key from the evidence bag.
“You’re certain this is safe?”
“No.”
“That was not reassuring.”
Daniel almost smiled.
The key opened the side door.
Inside, dust covered an old workbench.
Fishing equipment hung from hooks.
A small wooden boat rested on a trailer.
Nothing looked unusual.
Claire walked toward the rear wall.
“There.”
A metal plate had been installed behind a row of life jackets.
Daniel moved them.
The plate contained a keyhole.
The Marston key fit.
The wall released with a click.
A narrow stairwell descended underground.
Torres radioed the officers outside.
Then they entered.
At the bottom was a concrete room preserved like a time capsule.
Metal filing cabinets lined one wall.
A desk occupied another.
Shelves contained videotapes, audio cassettes and medical files.
Daniel turned on a lamp.
The light flickered.
Claire touched one of the cabinets.
Every drawer had a name.
Some Daniel recognized.
Business executives.
Politicians.
Judges.
Doctors.
Others were ordinary people.
Then Claire found hers.
WHITMORE, CLAIRE.
Daniel pulled the drawer open.
It was empty.
Next to it was another.
WHITMORE, DANIEL.
Also empty.
Then Peter.
The drawer was full.
Daniel removed the first file.
The label read SUBJECT P7.
He opened it.
Peter’s photograph was clipped to the first page.
Under it were typed observations.
Resistance to suggestion.
High emotional attachment to younger sibling.
Persistent recall despite pharmacological intervention.
Daniel read the next line.
Primary vulnerability remains Daniel.
He nearly dropped the file.
Claire placed a hand on his arm.
Torres moved to the video shelves.
“These tapes are dated.”
Daniel looked.
Most were from eighteen or nineteen years earlier.
Torres selected one labeled P7 SESSION 14.
An old television with a built in player sat on the desk.
She inserted the tape.
Static appeared.
Then Peter.
Twenty four years old.
Alive.
Strapped to a chair.
Daniel stopped breathing.
Peter looked exhausted.
A man’s voice came from behind the camera.
“Tell me what happened on the boat.”
Peter stared forward.
“My father had me taken.”
“That is not what happened.”
“Yes, it is.”
“You became intoxicated.”
“No.”
“You took the boat during a storm.”
“No.”
“You struck your head.”
“No.”
“You fell into the water.”
“No.”
“You were rescued by strangers.”
Peter laughed weakly.
“You can keep saying it.”
The unseen man asked, “And what do you remember?”
Peter looked directly toward the camera.
“I remember my father standing on the dock.”
Daniel felt tears in his eyes.
Peter continued.
“I remember Daniel screaming my name.”
The unseen man said, “Daniel was not there.”
Peter smiled.
“You’re bad at this.”
The tape cut.
Claire covered her mouth.
Daniel inserted another.
Peter looked thinner.
A date indicated six months had passed.
The unseen doctor asked, “Who is Daniel?”
Peter remained silent.
“Who is Daniel?”
“My brother.”
“Daniel Whitmore died when you were a child.”
Peter looked confused.
The doctor repeated the statement.
Peter’s eyes filled with tears.
“No.”
“He died in an automobile accident.”
“No.”
“You attended the funeral.”
“No.”
“Your father helped you through your grief.”
Peter shook his head violently.
“No.”
“Tell me who Daniel is.”
Peter whispered, “My brother.”
The recording ended.
Daniel sat down.
For eighteen years he had believed Peter was dead.
During some of those years, Peter had apparently been tortured into believing Daniel was dead.
Claire touched his shoulder.
“We’re going to find out what happened.”
Torres opened another cabinet.
Inside were financial records.
Payments from Whitmore Development to shell companies.
Medical research expenses.
Security contracts.
One name appeared repeatedly.
DR. ELIAS VOSS.
Claire looked at Daniel.
“Doctor.”
Torres searched the name on her phone.
“Neurologist. Psychiatrist. Former director of Mercer Behavioral Health.”
“Still alive?”
“According to public records, no.”
Daniel almost laughed.
“That doesn’t mean much in this family.”
Voss had supposedly died nine years earlier in a house fire.
No body had been conclusively identified.
Torres continued searching.
“He worked with your father for seventeen years.”
Daniel turned back toward the shelves.
A red box sat apart from the others.
On the lid, Charles had written by hand.
FOR DANIEL ONLY.
Daniel opened it.
Inside was a single digital recorder.
He pressed play.
His father’s voice filled the underground room.
“If you are hearing this, then either I have failed or Peter has come home.”
Daniel closed his eyes.
Charles continued.
“There are things I did that cannot be forgiven.”
Claire looked at Daniel.
“I told myself I was protecting our family. Later I told myself I was protecting the company. Eventually I stopped pretending.”
The recording crackled.
“Peter discovered what Voss was doing. He intended to go to the authorities. I stopped him.”
Daniel’s hand shook.
“I believed I could erase enough of what he knew and then give him a new life. I was wrong.”
Charles inhaled.
“Peter escaped. Voss wanted him killed. I refused. That decision created the war you may now be standing inside.”
Torres leaned closer.
Then Charles said something none of them expected.
“Daniel, Peter is not your enemy.”
Daniel opened his eyes.
“Voss is.”
A long pause followed.
“And if Voss is still alive, do not trust the person closest to you.”
The recording ended.
Claire whispered, “Adrian.”
Daniel stared at the machine.
“No.”
“Who else?”
Daniel did not answer.
Because one other possibility had entered his mind.
Someone closer than Adrian.
Someone who had access to his life long before Adrian did.
Someone Charles had personally selected.
Ruth.
Then a sound came from the stairs.
Torres raised her weapon.
A shadow crossed the doorway.
Daniel turned.
A man stepped into the room.
Older.
Thin.
Dark hair streaked with gray.
A scar crossed his left temple.
May you like
Peter Whitmore looked at his brother for the first time in eighteen years.
“Hello, Danny.”
