Chapter 8 - The Ghost of Arthur Hawthorne
The car rolled to a silent halt beside a decrepit grain silo in the middle of abandoned farmland. The radiator had been pierced during the collision; the engine block was cracked and dead.
""Foot patrol from here,"" Frank muttered, grabbing two survival bags from the trunk. ""There’s an old airstrip three miles east. My pilot has a turboprop waiting.""
The rain turned into a freezing drizzle as they marched through muddy cornfields. Julian carried Leo, guarding the baby against the harsh elements, while Elena leaned heavily on his shoulder, exhausted and bruised.
They reached the rusted hangar by 3:00 AM. Inside sat a twin-engine plane, its propellers stationary. A single bare bulb illuminated the workbench where a man in a trench coat stood reviewing flight manifests.
When the man turned around, Julian froze in his tracks. The gun slipped inches from his grasp.
The man had the same piercing grey eyes, the same sharp jawline, and the same quiet authority. He had aged, with deep wrinkles around his eyes and a walking cane in his right hand, but there was no mistaking him.
""Father?"" Julian breathed, his voice cracking.
Arthur Hawthorne, presumed dead for seven years following a catastrophic bridge collapse, stepped into the light. He looked at Julian, then down at baby Leo, a faint, melancholic smile playing upon his lips.
""Hello, Julian,"" Arthur said softly. ""I'm sorry it took such a disaster for us to meet again.""
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Julian stepped forward, anger and confusion warring within his chest. ""You let me mourn you! You let Beatrice destroy our lives, and you hid in the shadows like a coward!""
Arthur sighed, his expression weary with decades of regret. ""If I had stayed alive, Julian, Beatrice would have killed you when you were just a boy. My death was the only thing that bought you enough time to grow up.""
