Scammed

by Ron Chudley

  Walter was as Greg had last seen him, glowering from the pillow in the hospital bed on that final night. The anger that had filled him then returned. Don’t call me a loser, he retorted to the unwelcome shade. If it hadn’t been for your foul temper, both you and Mum would still be alive.

  And if you’d kept your eye on your wallet, none of this would have happened.

  Be that as it may, you as good as killed her.

  Get real! She was dying anyway.

  At least I tried to do something to make things right. Better than throwing a stupid tantrum and breaking your hip.

  And throwing away seven hundred thousand dollars of my bread wasn’t stupid?

  “It was the only decent thing I did,” Greg replied, realizing that he was babbling out loud into the wet leaves. God, he was a loser, finding refuge in tit-for-tat blame fantasies starring his dead father, maudlin nonsense that would change nothing. There was only one clear course of action open to him now.

  Sighing, he hauled himself to his feet. With little interest, he noticed a subtle change in the previously unbroken black. The tree he’d bumped into stood out as a lighter patch in the gloom. Dawn was approaching. Okay, that would make what he had to do all the easier.

  Somewhere up ahead, through woods that were emerging from the receding night, was the Cowichan River. Part of his world since early childhood, the waterway had lately become a major player in the sad drama in which he was immersed. It had snatched his mother, provided a disposal chute for a villain and, during a wild storm, almost taken Greg himself to its soggy bosom. And now . . . ? Now it was time for it to do its last and best work.

  Thoughtfully, wishing to be peaceful in what he’d decided were to be his last moments, Greg made his way through the trees. He saw he was nearing the place where he’d buried the dog. Well, that was appropriate, too. What better companion to see him off on his final journey? Quietly, he drifted on. By now the dawn light was brightening fast. At one point Greg paused, gazing upward through the branches to a patch of open sky, gray, tinged with palest pink. His dad would have done a bang-up job of depicting a sky like that. Ornery old codger, he mused. But you sure could paint up a storm. Too bad about the money. Then he turned his attention back to the river.

  When at last he emerged on the bank, there was enough light to make a clear reflection on the smooth surface of the water. He gazed at the scene tranquilly—then noticed something new; off to the left, very still but unmistakable in silhouette, was the figure of a man.

  Jay.

  He was standing at the water’s edge, looking downstream. Nearby, one end in the water, was a canoe.

  Greg’s jaw dropped in stupefied understanding. So this was the escape route that Jay had boasted the police would never think of, what he’d called his “back door.” He’d hinted that Greg had reason to know it well, which was all too true. Greg even remembered noticing the canoe, but it had never occurred to him to make the connection. In wretched hindsight, the plan was obvious: if anything went wrong, if Jay became trapped while the police were guarding exits and watching highways, he’d simply slip away down the river. Probably he even had another vehicle stashed farther downstream. It was so neat and easy, only one puzzle remained: why had he delayed so long?

  Abruptly, the figure by the shore came to life. Jay’s head tilted to survey the pale sky, turned back to look at the river, nodded in what looked like satisfaction—and Greg had his answer. Of course! Since trying to navigate treacherous waters in the dark was an obvious recipe for disaster, Jay had been waiting for the dawn.

  Amazement, admiration and outrage mingled in a surge of emotion so strong that Greg was momentarily paralyzed. Then, as the other man leaned forward, preparing to launch the canoe, the spell broke. Unbidden, unstoppable, a sound erupted from deep inside the watcher, a roar of pure, brilliant rage. Arms extended, hands reaching and flexing, he charged down the riverbank, intent on only one thing: to claw out the throat of this destroyer.

  He’d covered perhaps a quarter of the distance by the time Jay made a surprised recovery. Whirling, he dipped his hand in his pocket. It reappeared and there was an explosion and a flash of flame.

  Part of Greg’s rampaging mind knew exactly what was happening. He even noted the whine of a bullet passing his ear. But it didn’t stop him. Though he had recently contemplated suicide, his mortality was utterly irrelevant. All he wanted was to get his hands on Jay. Nothing else mattered.

  The second shot very nearly put an end to everything. What felt like the kick of a heavy boot was delivered to his shoulder, spinning him sideways. He tottered, nearly went down, righted himself and rushed on. Now he was almost upon his adversary, feeling no pain, lost in the delicious anticipation of revenge. The next shot tore at his side, again making him stagger, but he’d reached his target. Crashing into Jay, his arms went out in a rugby tackle, batting the weapon away and propelling both of them into the water.

  Struggling to keep his balance, Jay desperately tried to free his gun hand, but he lost his footing and collapsed backward. Greg on top, both men were half submerged. Thrashing, pummelling, Jay got his arm loose. He couldn’t get the gun around to fire, so he used it as a club, repeating his earlier assault on his opponent’s head. This time the blow wasn’t so effective, merely glancing off Greg’s forehead. Then the gun twisted out of Jay’s fingers and fell in the river.

  Stunned, Greg was aware that Jay had lost a major advantage. Renewing his attack, he began to throw punches, not skillful but with furious energy. His right fist finally connected solidly. This caused violent pain in his own shoulder, but he didn’t care. Always a nonphysical person, he was finding this brutality wonderfully satisfying. He kept pounding away, rewarded by the feel of his knuckles making contact with the other’s eye.

  Jay gave a yell and delivered a vicious blow, which, by good fortune, Greg managed to parry. Jay pulled away and scrambled upright in the water. Greg came after him, grabbing his clothing and using Jay to haul himself upright. Jay swung about and belted him between the eyes.

  A universe of bright stars obscured Greg’s vision. Before it had time to clear, Jay hit him again. Greg cursed and, ignoring the renewed blows, went for Jay’s throat. The two were face to face, thumping and flailing, up to their knees in the water. Then Greg got in a lucky blow. He felt his knuckles land on Jay’s jaw. The other man slipped and fell flat, plunging beneath the water.

  The light was now strong enough to let Greg see the submerged figure. It was scrabbling about on the bottom, disoriented, making no attempt to rise. In deadly satisfaction, Greg backed off. The bastard’s drowning, he thought, which seemed so appropriate that he laughed. But quickly came the knowledge that he couldn’t let it happen. Pounding the man in a rage was one thing—coldly watching him drown quite another.

  Angry but unable to resist, Greg moved in again. Jay was still beneath the surface, arms and legs moving vaguely, as if he were losing consciousness. Greg readied himself to pull the man up, aware of the blossoming agony in the various parts of him that had been pummelled, bludgeoned or shot. He’d better hurry, he realized, or he was going to fail in this task too. Breathing deeply, he leaned down and grasped the back of the drowning man’s jacket.

  It was as though Jay had been awaiting that moment. At the instant of contact, he twisted, pulled in his legs and sprang upright. His body, face and hair streamed water. His mouth sucked in air, but his eyes were wide, unblinking and filled with maniacal intent. Clutched in his hand was a rock the size of a brick.

  Greg had a fraction of a second to register this last detail before it descended.

  THIRTY-NINE

  He was floating on his back in the warm shallows. The sun was red on his closed eyelids, and he could hear the sounds of birds, far-off dogs and nearby laughter. This had always been one of his favourite things on the hottest days of summer, relaxing in the Cowichan River, with the frenetic world a comfortable distance away. He opened his eyes, turning lazily to watch the shore. H
is sister was playing in the shallows downstream, shadowed as usual by that Lucy kid from next door. His father had an easel set up on the grassy sward overlooking the water and was painting away, oblivious to the broiling sun. His mother, more sensibly, was reading under an umbrella.

  But as he watched, something strange happened; his father threw down his paintbrush, marched down the bank and, fully clothed, walked into the river. Oblivious to the current, he kept on till his head vanished beneath the surface. Next, his mother dropped her book and did the same. Neither parent reappeared. Greg then saw that it was not his sister that little Lucy was playing with, but her own mother. Calmly, as if on cue, the pair walked hand in hand into the water and disappeared. Only then did the full horror of what was happening dawn upon him. He should be doing something about this, but found he couldn’t move. Thick weeds clung to his legs. He jackknifed his body, plunging down to find what was restraining him: not weeds, but human hands. A ghastly array of clutching fingers, reaching up out of the gloom, attached themselves to his arms and head, dragging him inexorably down. His mum and dad hovered side by side, faces dark with condemnation. Little Lucy was there too, and her mother, but immersion had turned her into an old woman. Her eyes stared, in a manner he somehow remembered, and of all the phantoms, her expression was the ugliest. Coward, she croaked. Murderer! Then all were moving toward him, fingers reaching to rend him apart . . . and suddenly it all faded.

  He opened his eyes to discover he was in big, white room, lying in a bed.

  “Greg?”

  He turned toward the soft voice. A young woman was sitting nearby, someone he didn’t at first recognize—then, with a shock, he did. Instead of the drowned child of his nightmare, this was the grown-up Lucy. “Hello, Greg,” she said gently. “Welcome back.”

  “Back?” His voice was a whisper, issuing from a throat that felt as dry as ancient parchment. Instantly, Lucy was up, proffering a container with a straw.

  “Drink,” she said. Then, answering his question. “Back from the dead, I guess.”

  The way he felt, that sounded about right. As he sipped from the straw, feeling the water soak the parchment, he realized he had no idea where he was or what had happened. So he asked, “Where am I?”

  “Duncan Hospital. Mother’s here, too.”

  “Your mother . . . ?” Then it all came back, the horrible litany of events, with such force that he could only stare numbly, until at last the—impossible—significance of her words penetrated. “Did you say—here? Your mother? But I thought—you told me . . .”

  “She was dead? I know. I’m terribly sorry. After you set me free, I was nearly out of my mind, and I thought . . . But she was still alive. In a diabetic coma. By the time I’d realized that and given her a shot, you’d gone. I’m so sorry. If you hadn’t come when you did, she certainly would have died.”

  “And you said she’s here?”

  Lucy almost laughed. “Yes, Greg, just down the hall.”

  “And she’s going to be okay?”

  “As well as she ever can be, yes. They say I can take her home in a couple of days.”

  He considered that for a moment. “How did I get here?”

  Lucy gave a strange smile. “Well, the reason you’re not in a much worse place, actually, is because you were shot.”

  Shot, yes, he remembered that now. “What do you mean?”

  “By the time it got light, Mother and I had gone to the hospital. The police were still at the house, but they didn’t know where you’d gone, or what had happened to Jay. No one thought to check the river. But then they heard shots coming from there, and everyone went running. By the time they found you, you were unconscious, face down at the edge of the water. Evidently, they got you out and gave you CPR only just in time.”

  Greg thought about that for a while. Now he could differentiate, through the general chorus of aches, the places at his shoulder and side where the bullets had struck. Not very successfully, he attempted a grin. “What didn’t kill me saved my life, eh?”

  “In effect, yes.”

  “Well, lucky me.” Then another figure scuttled unpleasantly back to centre stage. “But I guess Jay got away?”

  Lucy at last permitted herself a really big smile. “He probably would have. But when the police arrived, they saw the canoe—it was my dad’s—they must have taken it from the shed—disappearing around the bend.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “They radioed into town and set up an ambush.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “Caught Jay just downstream of the old highway bridge.”

  “Well, hallelujah!” Greg lay quiet for a long time, savouring the thought of that.

  “Don’t you want to know about the money?”

  So much good news had broken that Greg hadn’t even thought of it. “Oh, yeah.”

  “It was all there. When they arrested Jay, they found it in the canoe. One of the cops, who didn’t know about it, opened up the bag and nearly wet himself. That, and the cash Jay gave Trev, is all safely stored with the Duncan RCMP.” She smiled, and he realized that she was holding one of his hands. “So you see—now that we haven’t lost either you or Mum—we aren’t in such bad shape at all.”

  “Little thanks to me, I’m afraid.”

  Lucy gave him that straight look that had always slightly intimidated him. “Nonsense,” she said briskly. “You may have made some unwise decisions early on, but what you did in the end was kinder and braver than anyone had a right to expect. Your parents would have been proud of you. I know I am.” She leaned down and kissed him, briefly but with purpose. “Now get some rest. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  After she was gone, Greg lay still, staring out the window. The pain in his body, though muted by drugs, was a background symphony. If not truly deserved, it felt appropriate, a reminder of the real world and of the extraordinary fortune that had allowed him to be here at all. Outside, the sky was sliding into night. He didn’t know what day it was and didn’t care. Soon he slept.

  Ron Chudley is the author of a number of TouchWood mysteries including: Old Bones (2005), Dark Resurrection (2006), Stolen (2007), and Scammed (2009). Act of Evil, (2010), is the first in the Hal Bannatyne series. Ron has also written extensively for television (including The Beachcombers) and for the National Film Board of Canada, and has contributed dramas to CBC Radio’s Mystery, The Bush and the Salon, and CBC Stage. He lives with his wife, Karen, in Mill Bay, BC.

  Other Titles by Ron Chudley

  “A moody psychological novel with a series of finely drawn characters.” —The Globe and Mail

  “His characters are skilfully realized and the redemption is startling and tempting. A satisfying read from cover to cover.” —Hamilton Spectator

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Seaweed on the Rocks

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  Copyright © 2009 Ron Chudley

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, audio recording or otherwise—without the written permission of the publisher or, in the case of photocopying, a licence from Access Copyright, Toronto, Canada.

  Originally published by TouchWood Editions Ltd. in 2009

  with ISBN 978-1-894898-88-1.

  This electronic edition was released in 2011.

  e-pub ISBN: 978-1-926741-45-1

  e-pdf ISBN: 978-1-926741-44-4

  Cataloguing data available from Library and Archives Canada.

  Edited by Marlyn Horsdal

  Proofread by Christine Savage

  Front cover photo by Yungshu Chao / istockphoto.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  TouchWood Editions acknowledges the financial support for its publishing program from the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund, Canada Council for the Arts and the British Columbia Arts Council.

  www.touchwoodeditions.com

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen