Chapter 7: The Morning Flynn Realized
By 4 a.m., Jessi was in a federal medical facility forty miles outside Harrington County.
The transfer had taken ninety minutes.
Reyes had arranged it with two phone calls and a set of credentials that made the County Memorial night supervisor go pale and stop asking questions.
The deputy who had been posted in the hallway outside Jessi's room came back from a coffee run to find the room empty and a federal transport authorization form on the pillow.
I sat beside Jessi's new bed while she slept.
At 6:15 a.m., my secure phone buzzed.
Reyes.
"Flynn went to County Memorial at 2 a.m.," she said.
"He walked into the room.
She was gone.
He stood there for about forty seconds according to the hallway camera, then walked out without speaking to anyone."
"Where is he now?"
"Back at his residence.
He's made eleven phone calls in the last four hours.
Three to his father.
Two to the lawyer who visited the hospital.
Two to a number we're still tracing.
And four to a man named Cord."
"What did he say to Cord?"
"We don't have audio yet.
But Cord drove to Pruitt's house at 3:30 a.m.
and sat outside for twenty minutes.
Then he drove away."
Jessi stirred.
Her eyes opened slowly, found me, and settled.
"Where am I?" she asked.
"Safe.
Federal facility.
Forty miles out."
She absorbed that.
"Gerald?"
"Safe.
He and Patty are in protective custody.
His recording is secured."
She closed her eyes for a moment.
When she opened them again, something in her face had shifted — not relief exactly, but the particular stillness of someone who has been braced for impact for a very long time and has just been told they can lower their arms.
"Flynn went to the hospital," I said.
"He found the room empty."
"Good." Her voice was hoarse.
"He needs to be scared for a while."
At 9 a.m., Reyes came into the room with a folder and a woman I hadn't met — mid-fifties, gray suit, the kind of posture that comes from decades of being the most prepared person in any room.
"Luca Vance," Reyes said, "this is Assistant U.S.
Attorney Carol Whitfield.
She's been briefed."
Whitfield shook my hand, then pulled a chair to Jessi's bedside.
She opened the folder.
"Mrs.
Vance.
I've reviewed the drive contents.
I want to confirm a few things with you directly, and then I want to tell you what we're going to do." She looked at Jessi steadily.
"The land transfer records you documented cover eleven parcels of federal conservation land in Harrington County, transferred over a period of six years through a series of shell company acquisitions.
The total value at current market is approximately forty-seven million dollars."
Jessi nodded slowly.
"I found the first one by accident.
A routing number in a county zoning application that didn't match the federal land registry.
I pulled the thread."
"You pulled it very thoroughly," Whitfield said.
"The recording from Gerald Pruitt's phone identifies the man named Cord by first and last name and describes the specific threat made against Pruitt and his family.
Combined with the land records and three additional witness statements your wife was in the process of collecting—" she looked at me, then back at Jessi, "—we have enough to move."
"Move on Flynn?" I asked.
"On Flynn.
On Cord.
And on the two state officials whose signatures appear on the reclassification approvals." Whitfield closed the folder.
"Arthur Sterling's name does not appear directly in the documents.
But his department's incident report — the one describing your wife's injuries as an accidental fall — is going to become a significant problem for him once the federal charges are filed."
Jessi's hand found mine under the blanket.
"How long?" she asked.
"Warrants by end of week," Whitfield said.
"Possibly sooner.
We move quietly until we're ready, and then we move all at once."
She stood, shook our hands again, and left.
The room was quiet for a moment.
"End of week," Jessi said.
"End of week."
She looked at the ceiling.
"Flynn is going to figure out it's over before the warrants come.
He's going to try something."
She was right.
I already knew she was right.
May you like
What neither of us knew yet was that Flynn had already figured it out — and that the thing he was going to try would not involve Cord, or a lawyer, or a phone call.
He was going to walk through a door himself.
