Scammed

by Ron Chudley

  FOURTEEN

  By Sunday, the rest of the preparations were complete. Having built the alarm, Greg prepared the garden shed for what was likely to be a long period of surveillance. This hiding place could be regarded essentially as a blind, the wildlife to be spied upon being human, subspecies criminal, and it needed careful preparation. To that end, he stocked it with food, drink, a comfortable chair, reading and writing material and his iPod.

  He paid particular attention to his cellphone: this, after all, was the single most important element in his plan, vital for contacting the authorities once the intruder was spotted, so he made sure to test it. From the shed, he phoned several numbers in Duncan and was promptly connected, so that would be no problem. His cell battery was good for days at a charge, but to make doubly sure, he ran an extension cord from the house for his cell charger and the iPod, plus any other power needs that might arise. He also took another trip into town, purchasing a couple of good flashlights, a small plug-in night-light, a big Thermos bottle, food and coffee—everything necessary for a long siege. He was in business.

  But he still hadn’t warned off Lucy. On Sunday afternoon, when he caught sight of her heading in the direction of the studio, he knew he could delay no longer. He followed her inside, where she was setting up for work. He had decided upon a story and started in right away.

  “Hey, Lucy,” he said cheerfully, “good to see you again. And thanks for the other night.”

  Lucy smiled over her easel. “You’re welcome. I hope talking about your parents didn’t upset you too much.”

  “No. I was a bit tired, is all. Look, speaking of them—well, of my dad—I was just on the phone to his gallery in Vancouver. They want to arrange a big exhibition and sale. Now that he’s, you know, passed on, the interest in his work, not to mention the value, has shot up.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “But here’s the thing: they were very worried about all this priceless work sitting here unguarded. They insisted I lock the place up tight and keep it that way. I’ve found I have to go back to work sooner than I thought, so I’m going to be leaving tomorrow and I won’t be back till I can arrange to have Dad’s paintings crated. So I was wondering if you’d mind working at home, just temporarily? I could help you move your stuff, and you could take anything you need. Then, in a couple of weeks, when this has been taken care of, you could come back for as long as you like—or anyway, until the house is sold. What do you say?”

  Apparently he was getting good at this trickery thing. The story sounded so plausible that Lucy didn’t turn a hair, even offering to stop what she was doing right away. So sweet and reasonable was she that, had the subterfuge not been vital, he would have felt guilty. As it was, he insisted that she stay as long as she liked today, and that he’d help her move, when she was ready.

  That evening, after his usual scratched-together supper, sitting alone with a Glenfiddich, the lights bright and CBC playing a concert on the radio, Greg was thinking that on this, the last night of ease before he would go into hiding with his trap loaded and set, he was feeling something which, in other times, might have passed for happy.

  FIFTEEN

  On Monday morning, Greg shut his parents’ old minivan away in the garage, but realized he hadn’t decided where to hide the Prius. He settled for parking it out of sight behind the studio, covered by a tarp; should anyone come upon it there, it would merely seem to be in storage. Having closed and locked the house, he retreated to a distance to judge the effect. Yes, the property looked convincingly deserted. Farther up the drive, he reset the switch for his warning buzzer, installing a new thread.

  Satisfied, he went back to the garden shed and spent the rest of the day there. Unlikely as it was that anyone would show up so soon, it was safer to be careful. In fact, not even a rabbit stirred during the long hours Greg watched and waited, but that was okay; he figured it was valuable practice.

  In the early evening, when it seemed a visitor was least likely to arrive—they’d either come in full light when they could see properly, or in pitch dark to be hidden—Greg retreated to the house. Without putting on any lights, he made supper, used the bathroom, and finished all the preparations for his first night. Then, locking the house again but avoiding the courtyard light, which had come on at dusk, he made a roundabout passage to the shed and settled down.

  Just after 1:00 AM, with the buzzer stubbornly silent, his neck stiff and his mind numbed with boredom, he was shocked into alertness—but not by any intruder. His head had fallen forward and cracked painfully against the windowsill. Without warning, he’d fallen dead asleep. He rose to his feet, heart pounding, and, in the glow of a flashlight, poured coffee from his Thermos. Sucking some down cleared his head, but with that came the realization of what he should have known from the start: how could a single person, on permanent vigil, survive without sleep?

  Obviously, it was impossible. With no one to spell him, a watcher would sooner or later have to surrender to biology. Greg had no idea when his visitor would arrive, but it might not be for days. If his oh-so-clever plan was to have any chance of success, he’d have to take account of that.

  The problem was enough to keep him edgily awake for the rest of the night. But by the time dawn was paling the sky in the direction of Duncan, eclipsing the glow of the courtyard light, which had shone all night on emptiness, he thought he had come up with a solution.

  • • •

  At 5:30 AM he concluded that no one was coming, at that time anyway, so he went into the house. Considering the distance from Victoria, it seemed unlikely that any daytime prowler would arrive until later in the morning. He searched around until he found an old-fashioned alarm clock. When wound and shaken, it began ticking sturdily, and a test of the alarm confirmed that was working too. He had a quick breakfast, then fell into bed.

  The alarm clawed him awake at 10:00 AM. Not exactly chipper, but rested, he carefully checked outside to make sure no one had come. Finding everything still and silent, he slipped back to his hiding place to wait out the day.

  The mindset that made Greg a good accountant also allowed him to be comfortable with such things as mathematical probability, the law of averages and the random nature of chance. Had he been thinking clearly, rather than involved with the emotion of catching his “account inspector,” he would have considered the inevitable need for sleep. Brought to his senses, he now used that logical mind to adjust his plan of action. He had to stop trying to be alert every minute. He must spell himself, aiming to keep guard at the most likely times, doing the best job possible.

  That settled, his second day in the shed, Tuesday, passed a lot more pleasantly. Having checked the thread on his warning buzzer, he decided to put his full trust in this first line of defense. Thus he could stop staring numbingly out the window every second of the daylight hours, and take regular naps at night. As long as he didn’t become too exhausted, the warning buzzer would wake him if someone approached. Regular sleep periods in the shed could be regulated by the alarm clock, suitably muffled against being heard from outside.

  The weather, which had been clear, turned cloudy in the afternoon, with the threat of rain. None arrived, however. At 6:00 PM, Greg went inside for his evening routine. He ate quickly and changed his clothes, keeping a careful eye on the driveway. Stifling the urge for a shot of Glenfiddich, he made a fresh Thermos of coffee. Carrying this and an extra-large mug, he dutifully returned to the shed.

  For the next few hours, happy in the knowledge that he could rest when he needed to, he maintained his watch. The image of the big old house, a still photo of ghostly planes and shadows revealed by the courtyard light and later, as the sky cleared, the pale glow of the moon, became etched upon his retina. But still there was no movement. And still there was no sound of the buzzer.

  Around midnight, beginning to feel sleepy, Greg set his alarm to go off at 1:00 AM. This was it, the first test. For the next hour, until the alarm wakened him, he was trusting
himself to the buzzer. He put out the nightlight and settled back in his chair . . .

  And was almost instantly dreaming. From his window, he seemed to see not one but hundreds of intruders, creeping in a dark line toward the house. Horrified, he tried to shout—and started awake, to find that exactly ten minutes had passed.

  Grimly, he checked the outside, but of course no one was there. He sat back, relaxing again with surprising ease. The next thing he knew, the alarm was going off. Momentarily mistaking it for the warning buzzer, he felt his heart racing, but that soon passed. He put on the light and poured coffee into the big new mug. His system was working: it was going to be all right.

  For the rest of the night, the next day, and the night after that, he continued the same routine. The indignation and rage—not to mention the personal guilt—that had sparked this enterprise did not abate during the long period of waiting. Rather, these emotions were transmuted into a constant background hum of sour resolve, providing nourishment for the near-mystic faith that sooner or later his plan would bear fruit, that the quarry so long awaited would walk at last into the trap.

  In fact, it was 2:00 AM on Thursday morning, minutes after he’d woken from his first nap and was pouring coffee, that the silence was finally shattered by the sound of the buzzer.

  SIXTEEN

  Brrrrrr. . . !!!! Like the whine of a small, vicious insect, the sound split the quiet of the night. Greg was momentarily frozen in shock, then he was clawing at the battery. He found the terminal and wrenched the wire free. Blessed silence, save for the painful echoes in his head.

  Fearfully, he hurried to the window. But he knew that the buzzer could not have been heard from outside. Considering the short time it had sounded, confined to the shed and at this distance from the tripwire, logic told him that it was impossible. What he wasn’t prepared for was his own reaction. Abruptly, he’d been transported from the land of fantasy, or at best theory, into a dimension of dreadful reality. He could almost feel the physical presence of the newcomer: a live villain, ruthless and surely dangerous, who’d been lured here by him.

  Face hot, mouth dry, Greg peered out into the night. The lighted area around the house was as empty as ever. He scanned the courtyard closely from end to end: not a flicker of movement, not the smallest thing out of place.

  Nobody.

  But then, anyone approaching down the drive, edging along slowly, as an intruder surely must, wouldn’t yet have come into sight. They would creep and stop and watch and move on. A careful operator would take a long time, might even . . .

  He was there!

  At one moment, as Greg’s glance slid across the dimly lit courtyard, the area near the front door was unoccupied. Then, as his scan reached the end of its sweep and swung back—it wasn’t. As if transported by magic, a lone figure stood statue-still, illuminated by the yard light and the lesser glow of the moon.

  Greg drew in a sharp breath, then involuntarily covered his mouth, as if the sound might have been heard. Impossible, of course. The figure remained motionless, its back steadfastly turned, attention entirely on the house.

  Nothing happened for more than a minute. Then the figure began to move. Silently, it drifted toward the building. Mesmerized, Greg watched it gain the porch and reach the front door. A flashlight came on, a pinpoint that struck the door handle, then moved to the lock. Greg thought he heard a distant rattle as the handle was tried. Then the light swung around and hovered on a nearby window. Was this where the entry would occur? Would it happen right now? Or was it just a preliminary check, the start of a careful inspection? Obviously the break-in would happen sooner or later, but Greg had to know exactly when it did. He needed the thief to be inside, absorbed in his search, before calling in the law. His intention was to intercept the squad car as it arrived, warning the cops, so they could go in quietly and catch the thief red handed. That was what he’d been waiting for all this time, and he saw that the plan could work. But—once the call was made, the die was cast. If the police came too late, or alerted the suspect, he would escape. No second chances. Everything had to be timed just right.

  The light swung away from the window. Staying low, it swept along one side of the house, then the other. The intruder then moved along the porch. Greg’s heart sank. According to his bait letter, the safe containing the money was in the studio. But if the thief discovered that first, he would need much less time to understand there was no safe to find.

  Greg was just cursing himself for being so specific when the movement on the verandah ceased. The figure stood still, as if in thought, then returned to the front door. There came the tinkle of breaking glass. It was the window that had been examined before, which led into the front hall. The intruder was motionless again, as if listening. Then, with a swift, lithe movement, he disappeared over the sill into the dark.

  This was it: the moment Greg had awaited. Presumably, the intruder would now start his search. Since he couldn’t know that the studio wasn’t part of the main building, it would take him a while to find it. Only then would the hunt begin in earnest for the non-existent safe. Now was the time for that phone call.

  Greg pulled out his cell and switched it on. When he saw the lit screen waving around, he realized how much his hand was shaking. The excitement of the hunt was upon him, anticipation buzzing through his body with delicious intensity. With a grunt of concentration, he brought up his hand to punch in the magical numbers: 9–1–1 . . .

  But instead of hitting the number pad, he fumbled. His hand jostled the phone, knocking it flying. The instrument did a flip and started to fall. Greg grabbed for it but missed. His eyes followed the lighted screen as it plunged like an Olympic diver, down, down—straight into his coffee mug.

  For a second, there was a dull glow from the bottom of the liquid. Then that went out.

  Greg gasped in despair. He plunged his hand into the mug, frantically fishing, yanking out the cell. Its heaviness told him, even if the dead screen had not, just how fatal was the news: his lifeline was severed. After all the meticulous preparations, a freak accident had negated his entire plan.

  Greg staggered to the shed door and wrenched it open, panting. Sick with shock and frustration, he started at the dark house. Inside, the thief was already moving about, his vile presence violating the place with what now would be impunity.

  “Goddamn it!”

  The expletive spurted forth like a pistol shot. Greg had no idea if the sound could be heard and didn’t care. He wanted to scream his anger at the heavens. The only thing that stopped him was a sick lassitude, which began in his gut and spread through his entire frame. He swayed and almost fell, clutching the door frame. Nearly fainting, he hung there, his breathing low and shallow, until his strength slowly returned.

  Bringing with it a desperate idea.

  In the house, there was a landline phone. If he could creep in and call the police, without disturbing the intruder, his precious plan might yet be salvaged. It was a wild notion: ridiculous, impossible—terrifying.

  And he had to try it.

  SEVENTEEN

  The house where Greg had grown up, every part of which was safe and utterly familiar, had become an alien entity. Crouched in the gloom, barely revealed by the yard light, it seemed to vibrate with menace.

  To approach it directly across the exposed courtyard was out of the question. Carrying his flashlight but using it as little as possible, Greg crept through the woods, heading for the wing on the far left of the house. Here the trees almost touched the building, so there would be cover all the way. From that point, it was but a short distance around the end to the door into the master bedroom. In there was the telephone.

  Circling, he kept a nervous eye on the house. Since he was going in, he badly needed some indication of where the intruder was. No sensible burglar would put on lights, even if he thought the place was empty, so his position would likely only be shown by his flashlight. So far, Greg had seen no sign of it.

  Then another
factor belatedly occurred to him: what if the thief was not alone? What if a lookout was stationed nearby? If so, there was nothing to do but be extra careful, but the idea made him even more nervous and fearful.

  Though no less determined.

  Apart from tripping and painfully barking his shin at one point, he reached the house without incident. Then he was rewarded: from the window of his old room came a brief flash of light. After his first surprise, Greg paid closer attention. In the window, he made out a distinct glow, varying in intensity as the searcher moved about. Greg gulped in relief: for the moment, at least, he knew the whereabouts of his adversary.

  A path led around the end of the left wing. Beyond, the sward that separated the house from the river was dimly washed in moonlight. Turning the corner, he came upon the French doors to the master bedroom. Immediately inside, beside the bed, was the phone.

  Greg slipped over to the nearest door and peered in. Unrelieved dark. But there was no way to know if the intruder had checked the room already or hadn’t yet arrived.

  And time was passing. Once the police were alerted, there was no telling how long it would take them to respond. After he made the call, Greg would have to get out of the house again, and meet them at the road. So he’d better get going.

  He reached for the door handle and turned. Nothing happened. The door didn’t budge—and then Greg remembered why. “Jesus!” he muttered. “You idiot!” The door was locked. Days ago, in his bid to make the house seem convincingly deserted, he’d secured every entrance, and the only key he had was for the front door.

  His reaction was almost as disconcerting as the discovery itself. Tears came to his eyes, and he had the infantile urge to stamp his foot. A strangled bray of laughter erupted from his throat. He thrust his fist into his mouth, feeling an insane desire to smash the locked door. Then something quite different came snaking up from a place deeper than his rage. No! a cold voice commanded. You will not fall apart now. Pull yourself together. And, more from surprise than anything else, he did just that.