Secret Trust

By McCaid Paul

MY NAME IS MICK JOHNSON, AND FOR ELEVEN YEARS, I WAS LIVING A LIE.  Five months have passed since Mick was living in the deep woods of Summersville, where a monster controlled his every move.  Now, with his only chance at a fresh start, Mick hopes to begin a new life free from his painful past.  Until a secret reveals itself, one

• Language: English
• Publisher: McCaid Paul Books
• Release date: Oct 14, 2018
• ISBN: 9780999614532

McCaid Paul

McCaid Paul is a Southern writer raised in the pines of rural Florida. He is the author of Dead River, The Forgotten Headline, Mooch & Marlow, and others. His short works have been published in the Blackwater Review of Northwest Florida State College. When he's not daydreaming about new stories, you can find him taking long hikes in the woods, fishing for hours at a time on the Choctawhatchee or drinking too much coffee and sweet tea. To learn more, visit him online at mccaidpaulbooks.com or on Instagram, Facebook, and TikTok @mccaidpaul.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

ALEXANDER SOLOMON STIRRED from his sleep. He threw the thick covers off his frail frame and put a trembling hand on the chair next to his bed. After a few attempts, he managed to lift himself.

Sharp pains in several places reminded him of his age and a blinding headache made the old man wince. Every day he drew nearer to death, which he expected to happen within weeks, if not days. His lifetime of business was almost over.

Alexander grabbed the metal cane from his nightstand and made his way down the hall to his office. He took careful steps, relying on the cane for balance.

When he reached the office door, he stood and took in the room as if seeing it for the first time. An ancient wooden-oak desk filled one corner of the room. Long bookshelves lined with thick law books linked the desk to several large filing cabinets, stuffed with dusty cases from decades before. On the other side of the room was where his legal assistant, Kathleen Flood, worked.

Propping the cane against his desk, he slowly sat in the chair in front of the computer. He let out a long sigh as he moved the cursor, revealing a picture of a newspaper article where a large headline read: The Johnson Family Vanishes.

He reflected back to the day he saw that headline for the first time. That was many years ago and now, due to the circumstances, it was imperative that Kathleen research the case of the missing family. If the rumor was true, then they needed to move quickly to get things in order.

He sent Kathleen to investigate the rumors the previous day by going into the inner caverns of the old court records vault. It was the place she’d worked for eighteen years, before Alexander hired her. He expected her to arrive at any time to deliver the report of what she’d found.

He paid Kathleen generously, not only for her capable sleuthing among the deeds, title abstracts, and court cases, but for her noble ability to keep her mouth shut. Confidentiality was priceless for a law firm, especially the cases Alexander Solomon was hired to handle. Such was the Baird Family Trust, an eighty-year-old secret document designed to reward the great grandchildren of the old hermit millionaire, Hamilton Lewis Baird.

Just when Alexander feared he would pass on into eternity before an heir was found again, a boy fell out from under his nose by the name of Mick Johnson.

He heard the door open to the law office and knew it had to be Kathleen. He looked up and saw the mature woman smiling down at him, holding a folder. Her hair was pulled back into a bun and her large grin revealed a row of perfectly straight, coffee-stained teeth.

I verified the birth certificate of the children, Mr. Solomon. They all perished in a tragic accident, except for one male child, an infant.

Alexander’s eyes lit up. That’s right, he muttered, more to himself than to his assistant. The infant was located on the fire department steps. The family was never found. The child was placed in a caring home and raised without knowing anything about his future benefactor. Unfortunately, Hamilton Lewis Baird, the great grandfather of the boy, was buried in the Chapel Hill Cemetery for several years before Mick was found.

Now we have legal proof that will hold up in court, Kathleen said. It’s no longer a rumor.

She threw the folder on the desk and the frail man reached for it. The boy will turn twelve in a few months. He isn’t aware of the trust fund his great grandfather left for him, but the new lawyer should inform him as he’s supposed to.

Alexander nodded. He gazed at his computer, at the large headline and newspaper article. The picture of the family was cut off from this photo which he found online.

Speaking of it, here it is, Mr. Solomon, Kathleen said as she pulled something out of her bag. The old man knew exactly what it was.

He grabbed a pen off his desk and opened the letter.

Alexander Solomon was soon to die. The ninety-five year old man couldn’t keep up with the trust fund any longer. Someone else had to manage it now.

Kathleen watched as her boss signed the letter that appointed Cody Barney as the new Executor. Alexander noticed she was upset, a glint of nostalgia in her eyes. It would be tough for her to let go of the past; he had been over the fund for so long.

When he was done, he sat the pen down and looked back up at her.

He’s the only one we can trust with this.

Yes, he is, Kathleen agreed.

They sat there staring at each other for several moments, knowing that their decision would be for the better.

1

FREE

THE SOUND OF a tree limb falling in the woods quickened Clara’s pace. With the gun clamped in her hand, she ran for her life. She dodged large rocks and roots, even a branch that looked like a monster’s claw, reaching out for her.

Clara didn’t dare look back, not even to see if Mr. Welch was coming after her, clutching his gunshot wound as the blood dripped down his clothes. She just focused on what was ahead.

I’m free, she thought. I’m finally free.

Eleven years of her life spent in captivity. Eleven years robbed of everything she loved. But not anymore.

She jumped over a large rock, almost falling in her attempt. Ahead, the path curved.

Her words came back to her. You couldn’t keep me locked up forever, Richard. I’ll find my brother. The words she whispered to her captor right before she ran off into the darkness. The words she had been waiting to say for over a decade.

She stayed on the path. Wherever it led, she didn’t care. As long as it didn’t lead back to the barn where she spent all that time.

Even though it was night, the moon the only illumination, Clara could still make out what lay ahead. She spotted the roots, anthills, rocks, and even that monster-like branch well before she fell over them.

Her lungs felt like they were on fire and her legs begged her to stop. She swung her arms like a wild monkey, helping to keep momentum. A panicked bird flew off a branch as she passed, alarmed at the noisy intruder. Clara knew she sounded like a mighty Sasquatch, breaking the tranquility of the woods as she took in loud rasping breaths and ran, kicking up leaves and running over sticks. She struggled to breathe; she didn’t know if she could keep going any longer without collapsing from exhaustion.

Just as she was about to stop and collect her breath, her body was lit up by a sudden brightness coming from behind. She slowed to a jog and then stopped, turning toward the light. She squinted her eyes and held an arm over her head.

The light was blinding.

It came closer and then she could hear it: the sound of an engine, sticks snapping under tires.

Clara stood in shock for several seconds as the car sped toward her, showing no sign of stopping. She threw her arms into the air, waving them above her head.

HELP! She cried. Please! I need help!

The car accelerated, its headlights seeming to light the world. She continued to yell, waving her arms as the vehicle roared down the path like a charging lion. The car was only a hundred feet away now. It didn’t stop, it just kept coming closer.

Clara’s heart pounded faster. "Stop! Please stop!"

She started to run, but paused when the vehicle slowed. It came to a stop several inches away. Her heart skipped a beat when the car door flung open and the driver jumped out.

Clara, the voice said. You don’t have to run. It’s okay now. I’m here.

Clara stared, her eyes getting wide in fear. You, she choked. Get away from me!

Clara, the voice said again, the driver’s words dripping with revenge. You need to come with me right now. I’m not going to hurt you. Just do as I say.

No, she muttered. She took a step back. No!

Don’t make me do this. Just get in the car!

Clara backed farther away. Get away from me!

She clutched the gun harder.

The gun. She forgot she had it.

Then you leave me with no choice. The driver jumped back in the car, quickly closing the door.

The vehicle roared to life, hurtling toward her. She ran, her adrenaline kicking her into turbo speed.

NO! She screamed, as she swung her arms and ran faster than she ever had. Her life depended on it. It felt like she flew through the woods, her brown hair flowing behind her and her arms steering her around the curve in the path.

Her foot hit a root and she was thrown onto the ground, the breath knocked out of her. She looked over her shoulder at the car that barreled toward her at rapid speed. She rolled over, her body once again illuminated by the car’s headlights, facing the vehicle that was now only feet away. It was over. She was going to die.

Clara began to close her eyes, bracing for the impact. But something caught her attention.

The gun. Laying in the leaves.

In a split second, she grabbed the gun and fell onto her back, aiming the weapon in front of her.

She pulled the trigger as many times as she could, the gunshots impacting the windshield. The glass busted, cutting into the driver as their screams pierced the night. The car swerved at the last minute, missing Clara by inches. She closed her eyes and turned her head away as the car collided with a tree. With a deafening crash, mixed with shattering glass and bending metal, the tree descended onto the car.

Clara sprang up. The gun fell from her bloody hands. She darted into the woods, abandoning the path.

It was obvious she wasn’t thinking straight. If she had been, she would have gotten off the path when the car was chasing her. She had let her fear consume her, almost to the point of death. If she had just thought it through…

Her heart raced. She could barely keep herself from going back and making sure the person was dead, but she knew the tree had to have finished them off.

The woods were usually full of life. She remembered when she went hunting with her dad and heard the many different sounds: crickets chirping, hawks crying above the treetops, and the crows’ harsh, nasal caws.

The woods were eerily quiet. Clara almost expected a bear to jump out at her from the tall undergrowth. An image of a wild beast watching from the shadows creeped into her mind. She shook the thought away.

Clara had to find shelter. She didn’t know if she was getting any closer to town. She couldn’t keep going very much longer or she would collapse.

Off the path, the woods were far more treacherous. Branches slapped Clara’s face, slinging loose strands of her dirty hair into her mouth, making her choke. Thorns tore through her ragged clothing, scratching at her skin.

Clara slowed to a jog, and then to a fast walk. She gasped for breath, taking in the woody scent. Her mouth was dry and bitter, like a parched rag. She longed for something to drink.

Just as she was about to stop, a loud noise put her on alert. As it passed by, she could make out the sound of an engine—a car. Clara paused with her hands out in front of her, staring ahead toward the noise.

Her sudden instinct was to run. The person was back. They followed me, she thought, and they aren’t going to stop until I’m dead.

Clara ignored her sudden notion. That couldn’t be true. The car was in no shape to drive and she was sure the driver had been killed.

The car came from in front of her. That could only mean…

A road.

She darted, almost screaming in elation.

Thank you, thank you, thank you!  Someone would find her! She’d be saved! She would tell them everything. How she was really alive and was held in a barn for eleven years by a crazy man. How she had to find her brother, Mick. She had dreamed of this happening and now it finally would.

Mr. Welch told her that he saved her brother. He told her that no one else survived. He told her most of everything, usually whispering his news to his captive through the cracks of her cell.

Mick found the car.

Robert Smith is dead.

Clara remembered his most previous visit, his words like knives, ripping her open.

Your brother will never find you.

You’ll always be mine.

He had never been more wrong.

Clara was lucky to be alive; she almost died from the bullet that tore through her shoulder right after her dad was killed. She still remembered her little sister’s pleads before the gunshot silenced them, and her dad’s blood covering the leaves.

So much death, in such little time.

Clara hoped she would never have to endure that torture again. Her first priority was getting out of this forest alive.

She would tell whoever rescued her that she was the daughter of the missing Johnson family who disappeared eleven years ago and that Mr. Welch kept her and tortured her for the same reason he saved her brother Mick and—

But she couldn’t. Not yet, at least.

Clara would tell the person who picked her up something different. She would tell them that she had gotten lost, ran away from a party, and needed a way home. She would tell them to drop her off at the crossroads and convince them that she didn’t live far from there.

Clara couldn’t come out and tell everyone who she was. She would have to do that later; she had to find her brother first.

She smiled, walking fast toward her destination. The road couldn’t be that much farther ahead.

Clara would lie about everything. Even her name and age. It was risky, she knew, but she didn’t want to arouse suspicion just yet.

She’d have to make the story as convincing as she could. She knew she looked like a former captive, or a person living on the streets. Her hair was ratty, her ribs and cheekbones close to pushing through her skin, an obvious sign of malnutrition. The last time she’d been fed was a few days ago; the old man was away, or so she’d been told. Instead, someone else took Clara to their house and hid her there so the police wouldn’t find her when they were conducting their investigation on Mr. Welch’s property. The