Chapter 4 - The Strike of the Cane
CLACK.
The sound is not wood against flesh.
It is brass against ash.
A heavy silver-headed walking cane sweeps through the frame, striking the middle of Diane's broom handle with blinding speed.
The ash stick snaps cleanly in half.
The top piece flies across the room, bouncing off the stainless steel refrigerator with a loud metallic clang.
Diane stumbles back two steps, her wrists stinging from the sudden vibration.
Her hands open, dropping the splintered stub onto the rug.
An old man stands in the archway leading from the front foyer.
He wears a dark grey wool cardigan buttoned over a stiff flannel collar.
His silver hair is neatly combed, his thick knuckles wrapped securely around the black walnut shaft of his cane.
Mark’s arm drops from his watch.
His mouth opens, his face draining of color in less than two seconds.
"Dad?" Mark stammers, taking a half-step sideways behind the kitchen island.
"You were in Chicago!"
The grandfather doesn't glance at his son.
He plants the tip of his cane firmly into the floorboard, the rubber ferrule gripping the wood with a dull thud.
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"Put that down before I make you," the old man says.
His voice is low, deep, and heavy as iron.
