An Unfolding Trap

by Jo A. Hiestand

  McLaren glanced at his watch. He’d not lain there that long. Perhaps fifteen minutes. Had Fowler picked up the rucksack? Did the person who slugged McLaren from behind have it? They were a team, no matter who had the bag, else Fowler would’ve yelled out when the second man appeared. It obviously wasn’t Lanny, so it had to be Harvester.

  McLaren’s stomach tightened, as though he was about to be sick. Harvester wouldn’t stop with the sack if he were after the entire hoard. Even if he weren’t certain how extensive the treasure was, he’d not let McLaren out of his sight until he was sure of the extent of the cache.

  McLaren shoved his mobile into his pocket and walked back to the village.

  He cleaned up a bit, got his car, and drove into Callander. At Boots Chemists he bought a pocketknife, two nylon rucksacks, a packet of sterile gauze pads, a roll of adhesive plaster, and a bottle of antiseptic. At the local bakery he bought a tomato, cheese, and ham sandwich, a small bag of Galaxy Minstrels chocolates, and a bottle of pear/raspberry juice. Back at his room in the guesthouse, he dressed his cut and ate lunch.

  Harvester’s assumed involvement in this latest event stirred a memory in McLaren’s mind. That email he’d read at Jean MacNab’s guesthouse mentioned Harvester would be at the Station, that he’d be available to help Lanny. On reading it, McLaren had assumed it meant the police station at Ashbourne where Harvester worked. But that made no sense, not if the man needed to be close by to help. What other Station could it be? Something obvious to him and Jean. Some place, for the word was capitalized in the email.

  McLaren took out his map and scanned the area around Balquhidder. The Station had to be in the vicinity if Harvester was to come to Lanny’s aid quickly.

  A minute’s search showed him Balquhidder Station, northeast of Auchtubh. A smile spread slowly across his face. It had to be the correct place. Jean MacNab had rushed a bit too quickly over her reply to his question about the place no longer serving as a train depot, now catering to people on holiday. What better place for Harvester to hole up than in one of the holiday park’s cabins or stationary caravans? Charlie Harvester, practically under McLaren’s nose.

  He rinsed out the empty juice bottle and pitched the sandwich wrapper into the wastepaper bin, slipped into his jacket and grabbed his car key, and slammed the door behind him.

  The drive wasn’t long, less than fifteen minutes, but it seemed like another world as McLaren drove into the resort. Tall trees and quiet enveloped him and he parked near the entrance. Now that he was here, what did he expect? To see Harvester walking down the road?

  Inquiring at the office for Harvester probably wouldn’t gain him anything. The clerk or the owner might be suspicious and, if they were safety-minded, wouldn’t give out information on Harvester’s accommodation. It was laudable but didn’t help him any. But there was another way to spot the man if he were here.

  McLaren opened his phone and punched in Harvester’s mobile number. A cranky “Yes? What is it?” sounded in his ear, and McLaren thought how well he’d imitated that raspy noise to Jean MacNab. He took a deep breath, hating to have Harvester’s voice so close. “I need help.” He mentally said a prayer, hoping he sounded enough like Fowler Ritchie to prod Harvester into activity.

  “What’s wrong? Where are you?”

  “At the Rock.”

  “The Boar’s Rock?”

  “Yeah. McLaren’s leaving. What do you want me to do?”

  Harvester muttered a few choice words. “You’re an idiot, for one thing, out in the open like that where anyone can see you.”

  “No one’s here. It’s too bloody cold.”

  “All right. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Keep McLaren in sight. Stop him if you have to. Oh, and to convince me you’re not one hundred percent useless, did you get something from that woman and plant that note at the dog’s grave?”

  McLaren smiled but kept the humor from his tone. “Yeah, sure. What do ya think? That’s why we got McLaren, ain’t it?”

  “Congratulations. Something went right. I’d give just about anything to’ve been there when he discovered he wasn’t following Liza Skene. God, how long I’ve waited to pay McLaren back. I applaud your work. Now that we’ve got him, don’t let him get away. See you soon.” Harvester rang off and McLaren slid down in the driver’s seat, his eyes on the park entrance, his heart beating faster than the wind-stirred boughs.

  Harvester drove past McLaren five minutes later. The car wasn’t the one with which McLaren was familiar, but the man had probably taken the train north and hired a car, as McLaren had done. Harvester took no notice of McLaren, his gaze on the road before him.

  McLaren sat still for two minutes, making certain the man hadn’t forgotten something and was returning. When he’d counted off the time, he eased up and glanced in his rearview mirror. No sign of Charlie Harvester. Fine, but what did that get him? The man still was free to carry out his plan. But at least McLaren knew for certain that Harvester was here, that he was involved in the murder scheme.

  McLaren drove back to the village, unsure if he felt comforted or uneasy knowing Harvester was trying to kill him.

  Back in his room at the bed-and-breakfast, he brewed a cup of tea. He hadn’t seen Harvester walking around Balquhidder, but his car was parked below the Boar’s Rock. McLaren uttered a prayer of thanks for his hired car, a different make and model from the one Harvester knew. He took a sip of tea and was reaching for the map when his mobile rang. He grabbed the phone and sat on the foot of his bed.

  “Hello. This is McLaren.”

  “Michael, it’s Ross Gordon.”

  “Should I be worried?” He kept his voice light, hoping his response didn’t sound as cynical as it came out.

  Ross laughed. “Not at all. In fact, that’s the reason for the call. We found the murder weapon and you’re in the clear.”

  “The knife that killed Lanny?”

  “Yes. It took a bit of doing, but the lads located it in the shieling. Under the hearthstone, to be precise. Only one set of fingerprints was on it. Care to guess?”

  “Fowler Ritchie.”

  “I doubt if you could’ve stabbed Lanny without your gloves smearing Fowler’s prints. So we’ve crossed you off our list.”

  “I’ll sleep better tonight for knowing that, thanks.”

  “The lab also found some fresh spittle on Lanny’s jacket. Perfect match to Fowler’s DNA. I can’t believe it’d be conveniently sitting there if Fowler hadn’t had a hand in Lanny’s death.”

  “Thank God for his anger, then.”

  “Also, as a touch of icing on the cake, we checked mobile phone records. You, or someone, did make a call at the time you stated. I realize you could’ve given your phone to someone else to make the call, but the café owner confirms you were there. Also, your signature on the credit card receipt matches your signature at the guesthouse where you’re staying. I don’t doubt you were there when you said you were.”

  “That’s nice to hear.”

  “Again, Michael, I’m sorry I put you through the wringer, but I had to see if there was a crack in your story. I should’ve just gone with Jamie Kydd’s trust in you, but I had to investigate.”

  “No need to apologize, Ross. Any decent copper would’ve done the same. Thanks for letting me know.”

  “Fowler probably hid the knife because he didn’t want it found with him. That’d be as damning as the fingerprints.”

  “Speaking of finding,” McLaren added, “I’d appreciate someone official around when I go back to dig up the money.”

  “Money?”

  McLaren told Ross about the Corregidor money and the tangle of people involved in it.

  When Ross recovered from his astonishment he suggested he bring a constable. “Not only as another back to haul, if we have to, but he can watch for Charlie Harvester. That’s if I get permission to come. I’m sure I will, so don’t worry. But I have to notify my boss.”

  “Please do. I don’t want you to be for
mally disciplined.”

  “I’d rather not endure that either, thanks.”

  McLaren hesitated, as though considering something. “If you can, better make that two constables, Ross. Fowler Ritchie might show up, alone or with Harvester. They’re working together, unless Harvester’s finished off Fowler, and also assuming Harvester’s getting so close to me and the buried loot that Fowler’s outlived his usefulness.”

  “Not to mention one less portion to divvy up.”

  “Not the first time that will have happened. But no other people know about it. And I can’t see Harvester letting anyone else in on this. I think they’re the only ones who might appear.”

  “Two of my men, then, for security, but no more. We don’t want a squad tramping over the ben or advertising something big is about to happen.”

  They agreed to meet behind the kirk in one hour and McLaren rang off, feeling his adventure was nearly over. It would be good to get home.

  Fifty minutes later McLaren walked to the kirk. The wind came off the loch, stiff with sleet and the scent of wet soil. He arranged his muffler about his neck, tried to ignore the cold pouring through his sliced jacket sleeve, and adjusted the rucksack higher on his back. He carried the second one under his good arm.

  Ross Gordon and two police constables armed with shovels and nylon rucksacks greeted him on the far side of the building, nodding quietly so as not to draw undue attention. One of the officers took the second rucksack from McLaren, and they fell in line behind him and silently climbed the hill.

  The route by now was familiar to McLaren, so he was surprised when the line of fence posts gave way to the forest and the path branching off to the left. The large rock sat where he’d left it, the soil and snow around it showing no evidence of anyone hunting there. McLaren slid out of the rucksack and walked up to Ross.

  “The Corregidor money Frank Papadakis stole is beneath that rock.” He gave Ross a brief accounting of the story and his own hunt for the money. “I lost most of the dollars when my rucksack was stolen after the fight. Also a gold bar and a silver coin. But there are enough bars and coins down there to make most anyone happy, I think. Especially the American government.” He stood back as the two constables rolled the rock away. One man stood guard and the other one dug.

  “I know you’d rather be doing this.”

  The constable drew the box from the hole.

  McLaren lifted his cut arm and shrugged. “I’ll get to play another day. Discovering it was the biggest thrill.”

  The constable filled in the hole, replaced the stone, and waited as Ross and McLaren counted the money and put it into the rucksacks.

  “Bloody heavy, isn’t it?” Ross grinned as he lifted a sack.

  “It’s the kind of weight I don’t mind carrying, though.” McLaren grabbed a rucksack and slipped his arms through the shoulder straps. He glanced around the spot. The constable slowly pivoted on his heels, scanning the wood and open land for any threat.

  “Odd how that changes one’s perspective on many things. Constables, if you please.” Ross stood lookout while the two men seized the remaining bags. He gave the place one last scrutiny. “Right. Let’s go.”

  The trip back to the village kirk went smoothly. Sleet belted them sporadically but the wind had calmed. Neither was there a hint of Harvester or Fowler.

  The constables went ahead to the police vehicle, leaving Ross and McLaren several dozen yards behind. As the constables unlocked the car and stowed their two sacks inside, Harvester and Fowler emerged from the other side of the kirk. Each man held a semi-automatic pistol.

  McLaren stopped short, holding out his arm to retain Ross from moving. Fowler ran up to the police vehicle and suggested the constables sit on the ground. Harvester grinned and greeted McLaren with a salute of his weapon.

  “Well, McLaren. At long last.” Harvester eased forward and snatched the two rucksacks. He dragged them several yards away before motioning to Fowler. “Not like our other encounters, is it? I’ve got the upper hand this time, mate.”

  “You’ve no chance of getting away with this.” McLaren’s old anger boiled inside him. “You’re daft pulling something like this in the open.”

  Iron-gray clouds streamed across the length of the loch, rolling through the glen with the threat of a storm. The water rippled where the wind dug into its usually smooth surface, and the color of the sky reflected off the depths. Afternoon light, dimmed to a somber smoky hue, plunged the village and landscape into an early dusk.

  “Not many people about.” Harvester nodded to Fowler, who walked up to him, lugging the two sacks. “Even if they did see us and ring up the cops, we’ll be gone before they can get here. That’s the advantage of robbery in a village, McLaren. The law is stationed so far away.” Fowler took one of the rucksacks and was slipping it over his shoulders. “Ready?” asked Harvester.

  Fowler grunted and fastened the clasp across his chest. “More than you can imagine. I’ve been waiting for this moment for months.” He raised the gun slightly and fired from waist level. The bullet slammed into Harvester’s thigh, and the man fell to the ground, his hands gripping his leg, his head thrown back in pain.

  McLaren started to lunge for Fowler, but Ross held him back. Fowler ran toward the loch, firing at McLaren. The constables dashed after Fowler as McLaren hurried to Harvester.

  Fowler ran to his car and flung himself into the driver’s seat. The engine started with an angry growl and he slammed his foot on the accelerator pedal. The tires squealed as they dug into the ground. Chunks of soil and small rocks flung off as the car screeched down the road.

  Harvester sat on the ground, holding his leg. McLaren had bandaged it with the items he’d bought at Boots. And though it wasn’t a professional job, it stemmed the bleeding.

  The rain, cold and heavy, had lessened slightly, but the clouds still threatened. McLaren, alone with Harvester, stood looking at the man’s pain-ridden face. He’d had dreams about Harvester, wondered what he would feel if he ever had the upper hand and could vent his hatred of the man who had ridiculed his friend and ended his own police career. Now that Harvester sniveled at his feet, McLaren was surprised his hatred ran so deep.

  Fowler obviously had no idea where the loch road led; he knew only that he had to escape. The car’s headlights cut through the encroaching dusk, marking the snake of black tarmac hugging the loch. He passed a large building on his right, perhaps a hotel. The car flew past it and seemed to merge with the night. He jammed on the brakes when the road unexpectedly ended past Loch Doine. Seeing no exit there, he turned around and headed back toward Balquhidder. He stopped the car in a squeal of brakes and tires skidding on rock at the western end of Loch Voil.

  He leaped from the car and ran up to the shore and scanned the area. No watercraft was moored any closer than several hundred yards away. He glanced behind him. The constables were coming up rapidly. Fowler waded into the water and started swimming diagonally to the far side. The constables yelled for him to stop, but Fowler kept swimming.

  Down at the loch, Ross was busy with the boat and the constables, and McLaren considered leaving Harvester to run down to the shore. But he remained there; Harvester might escape if left alone.

  Fowler had advanced into the deeper part of the loch when he began treading water. He sank slightly, then resurfaced, spitting out water and gasping for air. The rucksack, waterlogged and its contents causing the sack to shift, had grown heavier than he could manage. He tried to unfasten the clasp across his chest, to rid himself of the dangerous weight, but his fingers were clumsy in the frigid water. His legs felt immovable, made of iron and burdened by his heavy jeans. He went down again and took longer to break the surface of the water. Gasping for air, he yelled, his voice carrying across the loch and up the hills.

  The constables reached the loch and shed their caps, jackets, shoes and gloves. One man waded in where Fowler had entered and the other man ran down the shore to a tied-up rowboat. He climbed in, jammed t
he oars into the oarlocks, and rowed toward Fowler.

  The weather worsened in those few minutes, the sky blackening and the sleet pelting the water. Fowler’s head was barely visible, a dark blob bobbing between the rising waves. At times his head was screened by waves; other times the head disappeared below the surface. The water swelled and ebbed, the waves rising and falling as the clouds broke overhead and the mixture of sleet and rain pounded everything.

  Fowler fought with the clasp but by now his fingers wouldn’t move. He twisted his upper torso, trying to slip his arms from the shoulder straps. They wouldn’t budge; he’d fastened the clasp too tightly.

  A cramp seized his calf muscle and he screamed. He bent down, his head submerged as he kneaded his leg. His head broke the surface as he gasped for air and shrieked in his pain.

  Dipping and nodding, the rowboat rode the choppy swells as though it were a leaf floating on the surface. The boat was too light to make much headway in the wind. The man’s weight pushed the stern down, and the waves and wind angled the bow upward at a dangerous pitch. He kept his oars in the water, trying to anchor his position as the other constable swam up and grabbed onto the gunwale at the bow. With the boat more level, the constable resumed rowing.

  It did no good. Fowler had disappeared beneath the waves.

  The constable rowed around the area in a tight circle, calling Fowler’s name. He wiped the sleet and water from his eyes, trying to see, trying to get a location fix from the shore. The waves pushed him eastward, back to the land.

  He gave in minutes later and guided the craft back to the shore. Ross ran over and helped the constable out of the water, then tugged on the bow to beach the boat.

  McLaren exhaled, his muscles taut from watching the chase, then his gaze returned to Harvester. They would never know if McLaren murdered Harvester, set it up to look like Harvester tried to get away and died in a recapture attempt gone wrong. Harvester cringed from his wound. Could he be mentally disturbed? Was he obsessed with constantly trying to best himself, to get the limelight, to solve the tough cases? Was it more than the man’s mean, even evil, nature? Was Harvester losing his mind?