McLaren rubbed the back of his neck and closed his eyes. He was in a whirlpool, in danger of being sucked down into the darkness and shut away from his friends and help. He heard Ross’ voice as if in a dream, reverberating and distant. When he looked again at Ross, he tried to think of an explanation. “I realized I’d lost it a day or so ago but I didn’t know when or where it happened. My fiancé’d given it to me, so I was anxious to find it, but that seemed an impossible task. I’ve been in Edinburgh and Callander, as well as walked the braes here. I can’t understand how it came to be close to Lanny Clack, but I swear I didn’t put it there or kill him.”
Ross seemed to stare at the broken leather and the wooden bead that had come loose. A tree branch tapped against the outside of the windowpane, interrupting the quiet.
McLaren jammed his hands into his jeans pockets. “So, where do we stand?”
“Jamie Kydd vouches for you. Your record while you were in the job is impeccable, which doesn’t imply you’re lily white now.” He grinned suddenly, the humor coming through in his voice, and tossed the bagged bracelet to McLaren. “You can stop thinking of names to call me. I’ve probably been called a few you’ve never heard of.” His Scottish accent thickened momentarily. “Och, mon, I know who ye are. I’m returnin’ this tae ye even though it’s again’ policy and should technically be held as a piece o’ evidence.”
McLaren eyed the plastic bag as though it were a trap.
Ross’ tone returned to his normal speech. “You’re in the clear. We’re quite aware that there’s no phone signal up at the shieling—don’t worry about that. I’m sorry about the rough time I gave you just now, but I needed to test your mettle myself. I think I can safely let you roam the countryside.”
“Thanks.” Sarcasm seeped into McLaren’s reply.
“I’m to pass on a message from Jamie, by the way.”
“Oh, yes?” McLaren screwed up his mouth, expecting a lecture from his friend.
“He says to quit showing up the bloody English constabulary and come home. Those were his words, McLaren. I’m not going to evaluate any police force, especially English.”
McLaren laughed and got to his feet. “Now I know what a released prisoner feels like.”
“Oh.” Ross paused just outside the door, the lamplight throwing the near side of his face into relief. “Thanks for giving us the number plate of Fowler’s vehicle. We’ve alerted our personnel, as well as other constabularies. I shouldn’t think he’ll go unnoticed for long.”
“He needs to be bagged before he goes off the deep end again.”
“Well, I needn’t say how much you’ve helped us. We appreciate it.”
“Just seemed like the thing to do at the time.” He escorted Ross to the door, promising he’d keep in touch, and got ready for bed.
****
Saturday morning McLaren breakfasted and was on his way back up the trail before the sun cleared the crest of the hills. He walked quickly, wanting to get to the shieling before the snow blew in from the western islands. He exhaled on his hands and flexed his fingers. The cold worked through the leather gloves and into his bones.
He followed the line of fence posts and the footprints from his previous journey, still visible in the snow. As he plunged into the forest he was surprised the darker space held no terrors for him this morning. Perhaps because he knew what the wood held, or because he focused on the hut. He didn’t pause to dissect his feelings. The need to explore was too great.
He’d peered at the map and the diary after breakfast that morning, making certain he had come to the correct conclusion. Harvester may have set the clues for him to find, but McLaren was convinced of their authenticity. He had no doubt about his route. And if he found Harvester following him, he could deal with the man when he had to.
When McLaren arrived at the shieling the snow where he had left the man seemed to shimmer before him. Dozens of shoe prints that had processed the scene and streaks of red mottled the uneven whiteness, and McLaren bent to peer at it. He pinched a portion of the snow and looked at it more closely. It was frozen blood.
He shook his hand, freeing himself of the crime residue. If he’d not known what happened, he might believe a fox or wildcat had made a killing here. Or a hunter had shot a deer. But he couldn’t ignore the truth, and he felt partially responsible for Lanny’s death. Maybe he should’ve taken the man with them.
McLaren shook his head and stood up. No. He would not wallow in guilt. Lanny had killed Hurd Dowell. And although the death penalty had been abolished in Scotland, Lanny probably wouldn’t have escaped King Roper’s clutches for long. It was conjecture on his part, McLaren realized, but Roper didn’t leave loose ends. Look no further than South Yorkshire’s little hospital escape. No, King had long arms. Lanny’s days had been numbered; it didn’t matter if King or someone else got to him first.
McLaren entered the shieling and looked at the same places he had yesterday, but slowing his search now that he could do it leisurely. He tried shifting rocks from their positions in the wall, moved the fireplace stones again, used a stick to poke the sod roof. No treasure proclaimed itself.
He examined the cottage exterior in the same manner, trying to budge stones and moving fallen debris. Again no treasure showed itself.
As he came to the far side of the shieling he saw two sets of stone shelves dug horizontally into a mound of earth. Actually, they were more like bookshelves, for each unit was comprised of four large slabs of stone: three comprising the shelves and the top serving as a roof to hold up the sod. McLaren judged them to be about a foot wide, with chunks of large rectangular rock serving as spacers between the shelves. He stooped over and peered into the dim recesses. They were a foot or so deep.
In the shielings’ heyday they served as storage for the families summering there. The interior of the dwelling was Spartan by any standard; extra space, such as these exterior shelves, would be welcome.
He knelt and peered into the shelves’ dim interiors, then felt around with his hand. At the back of one of the shelves was a piece of paper. On withdrawing it, he saw it was a scrap on which was written a song title. It was small, hardly larger than one half inch by four inches. The paper had faded, leaving an overall yellowish tint and brittleness to the fragment. Two edges had curled and one was broken off. But the title was intact and readable.
“Rock of Ages.”
McLaren frowned. Why hide a hymn title? Had one of the families who grazed their herds here left it, torn from a precious songbook? Was it part of Harvester’s merry chase? Even if it wasn’t, he still had no answer to his question. A hymn title seemed hardly significant. Unless the rock was.
McLaren stood up, his mind racing. The only rock of any significance and readily identifiable was the one on the trail up to the shieling. He’d passed it three times now. How many other spots like that could there be?
But was it too obvious? If Harvester had planted this old slip of paper, wouldn’t he have figured out the title?
Maybe not, he reminded himself. Maybe Harvester’s trail led to the shieling only; maybe Harvester didn’t know about the hymn title. After all, it’d been shoved way to the back and so small he’d nearly missed it. Just because Harvester pointed him to the shieling didn’t mean he had located the treasure. Perhaps the shieling was the end of Harvester’s trail and he hoped McLaren would find or deduce something here that would reveal the money. Perhaps the hymn title was part of the original treasure trail from a half-century ago.
He grabbed his rucksack and crossed the burn, jogged through the forest, and emerged in the open moorland. The boulder sat at the edge of the wood, lichen covered and undisturbed since he’d last passed it.
The area was open and appeared to hold the only boulder, but he canvassed the vicinity. He parted tall clumps of grass and moved fallen boughs. No other rock large enough to qualify for the hymn title showed itself. Unless the rock was on the other side of the hill, this had to be the symbolic X on the treas
ure map, the spot where the silver coins were buried.
He widened his search, not looking for the rock this time, but for Harvester or a dogs’ body of his. If the whole idea of this game was for McLaren to lead Harvester to the buried money, he’d be here watching, wouldn’t he? Unless Lanny’s death had scared off Harvester, or he was late getting to the shieling, perhaps helping Fowler hide.
That made sense. Harvester was the sort to stay in the background, his hands on the reins, watching until the danger was over before stepping into the limelight and claiming the prize. He’d wait for a bit, giving the police time to vacate the crime scene with Lanny’s body, then return and hope he wasn’t too late to meet up with McLaren.
McLaren bent over and parted the snow and cast-off forest debris from the base of the stone. A hole had not been dug for it, as accommodated the huge uprights at Stonehenge. This stone was approximately knee-height and rested on bare earth. He grasped the sides near the top and tugged. It moved slightly. He positioned his right foot against the top of the rock face and pushed. The stone tilted several inches, then settled back into place. He embraced the rock and pulled. It shifted to the left, rolled onto its side, and rolled several feet before stopping against a tree trunk.
Small rocks covered the ground where the stone had sat. McLaren drew his mobile phone from his rucksack and snapped a photo of the area. Then he clawed at the rocks, pushing them away on either side of the enlarging hole. He again paused to take a photo, and took pictures at every stage of the excavation. He’d dug several inches when his fingertips scraped against metal. He scooped out the last handful of rocks and dumped them beside him, impatient to see what he had uncovered. His fingers tapped across the flat piece of metal and found a metal handle. He eased it up from the hole and sat it on the snow.
It was rectangular in shape, perhaps as large as a shoebox, and painted a dull green. Areas of the paint had chipped off or were scratched, perhaps where the rocks had bitten into it. A metal latch, the same color as the box, looked to be rusted shut.
McLaren pushed on the end of the latch. Its hinges squawked but the lid reluctantly opened.
The box nearly overflowed with U.S. currency, paper bills slightly scorched on one end. As though they’d been rescued from a fire. Still in the hole, beneath the box’s location, silver coins and gold ingots winked at him. It was too much for him to transfer back in his rucksack. But he emptied the bills into his sack, then dumped in handfuls of coins and ingots. He’d at least make a start. He could get help to transfer the rest of the cache later. For now, at least, he had evidence of the hoard in case the police didn’t believe him.
He fired off several photos of the money, box and immediate scene before easing the metal box back into the hole and dumping the small rocks on top. Then he rolled the stone back into place. He stood back and looked at it. Aside from the marred snow surface, it looked as though nothing had been disturbed. He scuffed the snow with the toe of his boot and spoiled the snow surface face for several dozen yards up and down the trail. Satisfied no one would be suspicious of the boulder, McLaren returned down the trail.
He’d just entered a section of dense ferns, thick-trunked trees and large boulders when a breaking twig alerted him. He stopped, the hair rising on the back of his neck, and stared into the gloom.
A man stood on the side of the trail. He was tall and thin as a flagpole, with dark hair. Shadow obscured most of his face but even from the shadowy depths below the forehead’s overhang McLaren could feel the man’s dark eyes staring. When he moved his head, sunlight revealed his smile.
McLaren took a step forward but stopped again. The wood felt suffocating, the air unusually cold. Bird song had ceased and the wind lashed bits of ferns and twigs against his legs.
“Mr. McLaren.” The man’s voice sounded cordial, bordering on enthusiastic, but McLaren detected hatred under the honeyed tones. “So nice to see you.” He made no move, either to offer his hand or stand relaxed. The words might’ve played on a recording, for all the welcome they produced.
“Sorry, do I know you? Have we met?” McLaren ran the man’s face through his mind but couldn’t match a name to it.
“We have, but you might not recall it. My name’s Ritchie. Fowler Ritchie.” He waited, as though the name would propel McLaren into action.
It did. Almost as abruptly as the rock Fowler had swung at him Thursday evening.
McLaren stiffened, alert to a possible attack. “You and your pal Lanny knocked me out and dumped me in the Tuarach.”
“Bravo! Doesn’t take you long to add two and two and arrive at the correct answer.”
“The police found your mate.”
“You sure about that?”
“I rang them up, told them the location of the shieling.”
“They may have him, but he won’t tell them much.”
“Are you sure? Science can work wonders these days. I can haul you in, hand you over as Lanny’s killer.”
“Sure. But only if you catch me.”
Fowler opened his knife and advanced toward McLaren, his feet dancing like a boxer’s. He grinned, apparently enjoying the game and the concern on McLaren’s face. McLaren eased out of his rucksack and placed it along the edge of the trail.
“Looks like an explosive cargo.” Fowler nodded almost lovingly at the pack. “The way you set it down, it must be nitro glycerin.”
“You’ll never find out.” McLaren picked up a thick bough and waited for Fowler to lunge. His pocketknife was at the bottom of his pack.
The two men circled, as if in some strange dance. Fowler jabbed at McLaren, who warded off the man’s hand with the stick. Again Fowler charged and again McLaren averted Fowler’s knife. This repeated several more times before Fowler picked up a large rock. Laughing, he weighed it in his hand. “Good ole Lanny wanted everything to look like an accident. You found in the Tuarach, succumbed to exposure. That woman at the bottom of a crevice. ‘Nothing to point to us, our hands clean,’ I believe he said. Well, I’m not Lanny and I don’t give a damn what the coppers think. I’ll be out of the country and I doubt they’ll waste their time or money hunting me.” He tossed the rock, enjoying its weight when it smacked into his palm. “Sorry to rush this, but there’s another apropos saying—time and tide wait for no man, McLaren. It’s been nice.”
He hurled the rock at McLaren’s head, then rushed him with the knife. McLaren knocked away the rock, hitting it with the stick, but the knife attack came too fast for him to recover quickly enough. He flung up his arm, trying to divert Fowler’s hand. The knife blade swerved from its intended target and sliced McLaren’s jacket sleeve, faintly cutting the flesh of his arm. McLaren hooked his foot behind Fowler’s knee and pulled. As Fowler fell, a movement to the side and behind McLaren diverted his attention. He glimpsed a hand grabbing the stick beside him, then felt the blinding pain as it smashed onto the back of his head. He groaned, fell onto the ground, and passed out.
Chapter Fifteen
McLaren’s ringing mobile phone prodded him awake. He moaned, touched his head, and opened his eyes. The branches overhead puzzled him, and for a moment he though he was back in the marshland southwest of Balquhidder. But the ground beneath him was firm and dry, not cold and mushy. He pushed himself into a sitting position and fumbled for his mobile with his left hand. Something was wrong with his right arm. Why did it hurt?
“Yeah?” He hadn’t glanced at the Caller ID display in his hurry to still the noise. “Who is it?”
Jamie’s voice sailed into McLaren’s ear. “Mike. You sound strange. You okay?”
“Other than my head split in two, I think so.”
“What happened to your head?”
“It met a rock. I think.” A twinge of pain shot through his right arm and he glanced at his jacket sleeve. It and his shirtsleeve were slashed, displaying a shallow cut several inches long on his upper arm. The blood had congealed but was still a shiny red. He touched it gingerly and grimaced again. “What’s
going on?”
“You need to call me back, go to hospital to have your head looked at?”
“No.”
“If you got hit on the head, Mike—”
“I’ve had enough of hospitals to last me the rest of my life, thank you very much. October’s escapade is still vivid in my memory.”
“Good that you’ve got a memory if you got clobbered on the head. Look, if you’re hurt, you need to be seen.”
“I’m fine. Just have a splitting headache, no pun intended. Quit the damned mothering, will ya?” He glanced around the area. Hadn’t he fought with some bloke before the blackout? Shouldn’t there be a person lying on the ground? He turned to see behind him. He was the only person there. He crossed his legs, sitting ‘Indian style,’ and rubbed his arm. It hurt like hell. “Okay, what’s up?”
“Too bad you’re so far away. I’d drag you by your hair to see a doctor.”
“Distance does have its advantages. Give.”
“All right. You wanted me to look up some information on those three blokes.”
“Right. George Roper and company. Find anything?”
“I sent the photos to your mobile, so you should have them already. The rest of the information took some digging, but I got it.”
“Good lad.”
“I got a mate to access the military records, which is how I got the information.”
“You’re getting quite good at lying, it seems.”
Jamie groaned and said something derogatory. “Anyway, here’s your data. George Roper died in 1973, age 48, when little baby boy King was two years old.”
“Too bad the dates couldn’t have been reversed.”
“Roper lived in Manchester. 9 Thornton Square. You were right about him serving in Burma in World War Two. He enlisted at the age of sixteen.”
“Sixteen? Wasn’t eighteen the age limit?”
“Officially, but with the rush to get men into the service, birth dates weren’t always confirmed. It wasn’t unusual for sixteen and seventeen year-olds to enlist, but if they were caught later, they’d be discharged immediately.”
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