Chapter 9 - The Reckoning of the Whitmans
By 8:00 AM, the blizzard had passed, leaving the valley bathed in blinding, brilliant sunlight.
The silence of the snow was broken by the thunderous roar of three state police helicopters hovering above the cottage, their rotors whipping the snow into white clouds, while eight state police cruisers and two ambulances plowed through the snowdrifts up the narrow gravel road.
Detective Karen Miller walked through the front door of the cottage, surrounded by armed state troopers.
She froze in the doorway.
Corey Whitman was sitting in the corner of the room, handcuffed to the iron stove leg, his face covered in severe second-degree burns and his jaw horribly bruised, sobbing pitifully as a paramedic examined him.
Outside on the porch, the hired guard and Lorraine Whitman were both in hand cuffs, sitting in the back of a state police cruiser, Lorraine screaming hysterically at the officers about her family's political connections while a trooper calmly rolled up the window to shut out her voice.
Detective Miller walked over to the bed.
I was sitting up, dressed in a clean sweater, wrapped in a warm blanket, holding my four-hour-old daughter close to my breast as she nursed peacefully.
"Valerie," Miller said, her sharp eyes softening into a look of profound, overwhelming respect. "Are you okay?"
"We are perfect," I said, my voice strong, clear, and quiet.
Miller looked at Corey, then at the iron fireplace poker lying on the floor, and finally at the heavy cast-iron skillet sitting on the stove, its handle still stained with soot.
"The State Attorney General’s office executed federal arrest warrants three hours ago," Miller said, pulling out a legal document. "Judge Raymond Whitman was arrested at his home for judicial corruption, conspiracy, and obstruction of justice. His wiretaps proved he personally funded the private investigators who tracked your car."
She stepped closer, looking down at my daughter's tiny face.
"Corey and Lorraine are being charged with federal kidnapping, home invasion, aggravated assault, and violation of a multi-state protective order," Miller continued. "Neither of them will ever see the outside of a federal penitentiary for the next twenty years."
I looked over at Corey. He looked up at me from the floor, his eyes filled with a pathetic, desperate plea for mercy.
I didn't feel hatred toward him anymore. Hatred required energy, and Corey Whitman was no longer worthy of a single joules of my life force. He was nothing—a small, weak man who had tried to hide his inadequacy behind his mother's apron and his family's money.
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"Take him out of my house," I said flatly.
The troopers grabbed Corey by his arms, hauling him to his feet, and dragged him out into the freezing snow, his cries fading into the vast, silent valley.
