Chapter 11: The Trojan Horse
Dawn was breaking over Oak Creek, casting long, pale shadows across Main Street. Clara’s bakery van, a white Ford Transit with The Crumb & Crust painted in elegant cursive on the side, idled at the rear loading dock of the Pendelton Foundation.
Clara gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles white. She had changed out of her torn, dirt-stained apron and into a fresh, crisp white chef’s coat she kept in the back of the van. She tied her auburn hair back into a severe bun, splashing cold water on her face to wash away the soot from the watchtower. She had to look the part: the stressed, overworked local business owner just trying to fulfill a contract.
Julian was hidden in the back of the van, wedged between towering racks of aluminum catering trays.
"You ready?" Julian whispered through the metal partition.
"If I don't come back in ten minutes, drive away," Clara whispered back.
She stepped out of the van, grabbing a large insulated coffee dispenser and a heavy box of assorted pastries. Balancing the load, she marched up to the reinforced steel door of the loading dock and kicked it three times with her sneaker.
A moment later, the door swung open. A young, exhausted-looking deputy stood there, his hand resting instinctively on his utility belt. He blinked at her in confusion.
"Delivery for the crisis management team," Clara said briskly, projecting a tone of pure irritation. "Eleanor Pendelton’s assistant prepaid for a forty-person breakfast spread. I need to get this upstairs before the coffee goes cold, or she’s going to dispute the charge on my merchant account."
The deputy frowned, looking from Clara to the logo on the van. "Ma'am, the building is closed. Official police business."
"I know it is," Clara snapped, shifting the heavy coffee dispenser with a loud sigh. "I was at the funeral, remember? I'm the one who had a panic attack and smashed the casket because I thought I saw a rat."
The deputy’s eyes widened slightly in recognition. The official police narrative had clearly circulated—Clara wasn't a fugitive; she was a hysterical woman who ruined a funeral.
"Look," Clara continued, softening her voice to a sympathetic hum. "You guys have been up all night. There are three more boxes of ham and cheese croissants in the van. If you let me set this up in the lobby breakroom, I'll leave the extra boxes down here for you and your partner. I just need a signature so I can get paid."
The mention of warm food did the trick. The deputy’s shoulders slumped. "Fine. But I have to escort you. And you leave the extra boxes on the desk."
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"Deal," Clara said, stepping past him into the sterile, fluorescent-lit corridor of the basement. As the heavy steel door clicked shut behind her, she knew Julian was slipping out of the van, moving toward the external utility access panel they had discussed.
The clock was ticking.
