The Collapse

Silas Vane didn't run like a criminal; he ran like a man who knew he was already dead. The side exit led to the narrow alley that backed onto the loading docks, a slick, trash-strewn canyon of brick and shadow. He stumbled, his expensive shoes sliding on the wet cobblestones, his breath coming in ragged, painful gasps.

"You can't outrun us, Silas!" Beatrice’s voice echoed down the alley, distorted by the wind. She was gaining on him, the fire axe dragging against the pavement with a rhythmic *scrape-scrape-scrape* that sounded like a butcher sharpening a blade.

Vane looked back. Beatrice was a silhouette in the smoke, her face a mask of rage and blood. She wasn't the weak, malleable girl he had manipulated for years. She was the executioner.

He reached the end of the alley. A chain-link fence blocked his path.

"Damn it," he hissed.

He grabbed the wire, his manicured fingers slipping on the cold metal. He tried to climb, but his strength failed him. He was sixty years old, soft from a lifetime of delegated violence.

He dropped back to the ground, panting.

He turned around.

Beatrice stood ten feet away. She wasn't running anymore. She was walking, slow and deliberate.

"Please," Vane whispered, backing against the fence. "Beatrice. Think about the money. I have accounts... offshore... I can give you everything."

"I don't want your money," Beatrice said. She raised the axe. "I want your head."

"Drop the weapon!"

The shout came from the street.

Sheriff Brady stood at the mouth of the alley, his service weapon drawn. But he wasn't aiming at Beatrice.

He was aiming at Vane.

"Jim," Vane gasped, relief flooding his veins. "Thank God. Arrest her! She's crazy!"

Brady walked closer, his boots heavy on the pavement. He looked at Vane, then at Beatrice.

"Put the axe down, Ms. Hawthorne," Brady said. "I can't let you kill him."

"Why not?" Beatrice spat. "He owns you."

"He did," Brady said. "Until the checks bounced."

He looked at Vane.

"Grand larceny. Fraud. Murder. And... flight risk."

Vane stared at him. "You wouldn't dare."

"Watch me," Brady said.

He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his belt.

"Turn around, Silas."

Vane looked at the handcuffs. He looked at Beatrice, who was still gripping the axe, her knuckles white.

He realized then that there was no escape. The law had finally caught up to the legend.

But Silas Vane was not a man who surrendered.

He reached into his jacket.

"Don't!" Brady shouted.

Vane didn't pull a gun. He pulled a small, black remote.

The detonator.

"If I go down," Vane snarled, his thumb hovering over the button, "the whole block goes with me."

"It's a bluff," Beatrice said.

"Is it?" Vane smiled, a grotesque baring of teeth. "The warehouse is wired, Beatrice. Not just the office. The foundation."

He pressed the button.

Nothing happened.

Vane frowned. He pressed it again. Harder.

Still nothing.

"Battery dead?" Brady asked dryly.

"No," Vane whispered. "The signal... it's jammed."

He looked up.

On the roof of the adjacent building, a figure stood silhouetted against the moon.

Marcus.

He was holding a small, black device. A signal jammer.

"Technology has improved since the eighties, Silas," Marcus called down.

Vane roared in frustration. He threw the remote at Brady.

And then he ran.

He didn't run toward the street. He ran toward the pier. Toward the water.

"Stop him!" Beatrice screamed.

Brady fired a warning shot into the air.

Vane didn't stop. He vaulted over a pile of crates and sprinted onto the wooden dock.

The river was churning, swollen by the floodwaters. Debris swirled in the current—logs, trash, pieces of the burning manor upstream.

Vane reached the end of the pier. He looked back one last time.

The police were closing in. Beatrice was right behind them. The helicopter spotlight pinned him against the black water.

"I am the Hawthorne legacy!" he screamed into the wind.

And then he jumped.

He hit the water with a splash that was swallowed instantly by the roar of the current.

Beatrice ran to the edge. She looked down.

The water was black, impenetrable.

"He's gone," Brady said, holstering his gun. "No one survives that current in flood conditions."

"He's a cockroach," Beatrice said, her voice bitter. "Cockroaches float."

She stared at the spot where he had vanished.

"He didn't drown," she whispered. "He escaped."

Brady put a hand on her shoulder. "We'll drag the river. We'll find him."

"You won't," Beatrice said. She turned away from the water. "But I will."

She walked past Brady, past the gathering crowd of reporters, past the flashing lights. She didn't look back at the warehouse, or the fire, or the ruins of her inheritance.

She just walked into the night, the axe still heavy in her hand.

The hunt wasn't over. It had just gone underground.