Chapter 4 - The Night of the Sawdust“Stay inside and lock the door,” Wesley commanded, his voice dropping an octave into pure authority.
“Wesley, no!” June grabbed his sleeve. “If those are Hale Ridge’s people, they’re dangerous! Call the sheriff!”
“The sheriff is Constance’s cousin,” Wesley said bluntly. “If I call him now, those guys erase the evidence before he ever turns his lights on. I need photographs of them in the act.”
He grabbed his heavy tactical flashlight and stepped out into the frigid night air.
The temperature had plunged below freezing. The grass crunched like glass beneath his boots as he slipped through the dark toward the side entrance of the cider barn.
Inside, the beam of a high-powered work light swept across the timber framework.
“Hurry up,” a rough voice rasped inside. “We need this section completely detached before the building inspector shows up tomorrow morning at eight. If the frame drops two inches overnight, the inspector condemns the structure on the spot.”
“Relax,” a second voice replied. “The widow isn't even looking out her window. She thinks her old boyfriend from high school is going to save her.”
Wesley crept behind an old tractor tire, raising his phone. He set the camera to night-mode video and began recording.
Clear as day, the lens captured two men in high-visibility vests bearing the logo Hale Ridge Structural Services. One of them was using an impact driver to strip out the remaining structural bolts holding the north truss to the main wall. The other was spraying artificial dry rot solution onto the fresh wood to make the sabotage look like decades of decay.
Wesley hit save. He backed away quietly, but his boot caught a rusted iron hoop lying in the hay.
CLANG.
The sound echoed through the hollow barn like a gunshot.
“Who’s there?!” the first man yelled, spinning around and shining his high-lumen flashlight directly into Wesley’s face.
Wesley didn't hesitate. He thrust his own heavy flashlight forward, striking the man across the wrist. The drill clattered to the concrete floor.
The second man lunged at Wesley with a crowbar. Wesley ducked, the iron whistling past his ear, and slammed his shoulder into the man’s ribs, driving him back into a stack of wooden fruit crates. Crates splintered into kindling, burying the attacker in raw timber.
“Run!” the first man scrambled up, clutching his shattered wrist, and bolted out the rear doors toward the sedan.
Wesley didn't pursue them. He ran straight back to the damaged truss.
The men had removed two critical lag bolts. Without them, the weight of the loft was causing the main beam to groan under tension. A deep, sickening CRACK echoed through the rafters above.
The roof was settling. Fast.
Wesley dove under the support beam, grabbed a solid four-by-four oak post lying near the cider press, and jammed it beneath the sagging joint just as a shower of dust and splinters rained down on his head.
He locked his shoulders, driving the post upward with everything he had, fighting the crushing weight of the ceiling until the wood bit into the floor.
Outside, the sedan roared to life, tires screeching as it tore down the driveway.
June ran into the barn, her phone in hand, eyes wide with terror. “Wesley! Are you okay?!”
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Wesley stood under the temporary brace, sweat dripping down his forehead despite the freezing air. His breath came in ragged gasps.
“Call the state engineering board,” Wesley panted, looking up at the cracked timber. “Tell them we have an emergency structural crime scene. And tell them to bring the state police.”
