by Ron Chudley
But he didn’t do it. Not yet. Instead, after a final excruciating slap, Greg was flung into the middle of the studio, knocking down an easel so that he and the painting it had held ended in a tangle on the floor.
Greg lay immobile, conscious of nothing but his pain. Then the hazy outline of boots moved into his vision, and he had enough sense left to try to squirm away. But this time he was not kicked. “Get up!” the man snarled. “Get up, motherfucker, or I’ll waste you right now.”
Most of what was left of Greg’s mind wished that the monster would get on with it: oblivion would be a welcome release. But the last figment of pride and self-respect, faint but undeniable, wouldn’t let him give up. Its prompting was insistent, and he somehow found the energy to stagger to his feet.
He stood, swaying, staring through a bloody haze at the nemesis he’d fatally lured into his life. “Right,” the apparition gritted, levelling his weapon. “One last chance, loser. Where’s the safe!”
Greg continued to gaze at the menacing figure, noting well the naked ferocity that had been unleashed, and his mind did an amazing somersault. The minority voice that had prompted him to his feet now took full control. It was not reasonable, this voice, but implacable—suicidal—and he didn’t care. It was the spokesman for all the bitterness and guilt that had consumed him, since the death of his parents and perhaps a long time before. It was the voice of reaction, but also of a sort of triumph. And when it caused actual words to spill from his mouth, these sounded—at least to Greg—like a chant of victory.
“You’re the stupid loser!”
The apparition stared. “What?”
“There’s no safe, you idiot. No money. As soon as I found my mail was being stolen, I knew who must have conned my parents. So I sent that letter to myself. It was a trick, to lure you here to be caught by the cops. The scammer was caught by a scam. What do you think of that, you loser?”
The man’s expression was Greg’s full reward. Knowing what was surely coming, he began to laugh anyway. And as his adversary’s demeanour shifted from astonishment back to fury, and the gun hand began to lift, Greg gave a howl and ran straight at it. This took the other by surprise, and he didn’t fire immediately. As the two bodies collided, the gun hit Greg’s chest, buckling upward and to the side. A moment later, there was a sound like a small firecracker.
That was all.
This time, however, Greg knew that he had been shot. He’d felt nothing, but he had no doubt that his last moments had come. He collapsed backward, impelled by a sensation of great weight. He hit the floor, and the weight, which he understood must be encroaching death, bore him down into what he was sure must soon be the end . . .
He lay a long time, feeling numb, then compressed—eventually just uncomfortable. He opened his eyes to find that the weight pinning him was a human being. The torso was right on top of him, the head resting on his own.
Horror generated the strength for Greg to heave himself out from under. The intruder rolled onto his back, the little gun still firmly clutched, directly under his chin, where it had been knocked before it fired. There was a small hole under the shelf of his jaw and a larger one in the crown of his head. His eyes, apparently fixed on one of Walter Lothian’s more spectacular works, registered almost comical surprise.
NINETEEN
Greg had no memory of leaving the studio, but he found himself in the kitchen, gazing at the bottle of Glenfiddich that the intruder had left on the table. The mug that the man had used was still beside it. Numbly, he swept the tainted vessel aside, hardly aware of it shattering as he reached for the bottle. The liquor hit his throat like a small explosion and he gasped, coughed and almost choked before managing to swallow. As the internal fire ignited, he took a few more gulps to get it going. He slapped the bottle down and stood panting, head hanging, leaning on the table, letting his body decide whether it would use the liquor to counteract the shock or just pass out.
After a while, almost to his disappointment, his head started to clear. The heaviness in his chest—the feeling that the corpse of his late tormentor was still weighing him down—retreated, taking with it the sense of unreality he’d been immersed in. He became aware that the space around him was very bright and very still, and that he was alive. The full realization of the odds against that fact very nearly did make him pass out.
Some time later, he made his way to the telephone. After a final swig, he abandoned the bottle and, with a sigh, picked up the receiver. 911: he was finally getting to make that call. He had dialed the first two digits when a bolt of panic hit him. “No!” he croaked, and it was as though an unseen force took hold of his hand, slamming the phone down into its ancient cradle.
“Christ!”
Breathing hard, Greg shook his head at the treacherous telephone. He’d thought that righteous anger was sufficient qualification to set this ridiculous trap. Now that it had so horribly misfired, did he really believe the cops would pat him on the back and say, “Good job?” God, he wasn’t that naive. The conning and subsequent death of his parents would be seen as a huge motive for revenge. And with nothing but a few bruises to back up his claim of self-defense, he’d undoubtedly be charged with murder; luring the guy to the house was certainly premeditated. Despite the shocks he’d had, he was sure he was thinking clearly. Greg grabbed the bottle again, then deliberately set it down and put on a pot of coffee. Now he was aware of pain in every part of his body.
The bathroom mirror revealed a face like a freshly mugged vagrant. Resisting the urge to rip off his clothes and get into the shower, he settled for washing his hands and splashing his face with cold water. Then, after downing some Aspirin and two full cups of coffee, he forced himself to return to the studio.
The thief lay where he’d fallen, eyes staring, gun clutched firmly, decorating the studio floor like some bizarre installation piece amidst Walter Lothian’s fine art. Unlike the painter, who in death had seemed uncharacteristically serene, this corpse retained a solid echo of its brutality. Contemplating what the fellow had put him through, aware that the body on the floor might easily have been his own, Greg knew he should feel some satisfaction. Yet, even knowing that if the roles had been reversed, the guy wouldn’t have wasted a thought on him, all he felt was a sort of dull pity.
Just who was this man, anyway? Greg had become so used to thinking of him as a faceless villain that his having an identity was disturbing. He would have been happier not to know it, for the body to remain anonymous, but his instinct for self-preservation told him that this was no time to be queasy. He no longer feared this person, and the anger that had consumed him for so long was gone, but before he could decide what he was going to do, he’d better find out who he was dealing with.
Greg’s attention focused immediately on the gun. Clutched in the dead hand, it looked ridiculously small, almost like a toy, as Greg had thought earlier. It had sounded like no more than a firecracker, yet had been enough to snatch a man out of the world with neat finality. Fascinated, Greg found himself reaching for the insignificant-looking thing. Inches from the burnished steel, his fingers froze.
“My God—what are you doing?”
Horrified, he jerked his hand away. How many times in movies had one seen that tired old cliché: innocent party comes upon a body and, without thinking, picks up the murder weapon? Yet he’d been about to do that very thing. Unbelievable! Greg knew enough of the world to understand that forensic evidence was everywhere, so the first priority was to avoid leaving any trace of himself on the gun.
But he still needed information. And he had a disturbing recollection: somewhere on the body was his own driver’s licence, part of the identity theft that had started this whole nasty business. Obviously it would have to be retrieved. That understanding brought an unpleasant fact that had been begging for attention: if he wasn’t going to the police, he would somehow have to get rid of the body himself.
Greg went back to the kitchen and poured more coffee. Only then did he t
hink to look at the time, receiving a shock: though it seemed like half an age since the buzzer had warned of the intruder’s arrival, it was now only 4:30 AM. But that was okay. It meant there was still plenty of darkness in which to . . . what? As yet, he had no idea.
Under the kitchen sink he found an old pair of rubber gloves. Donning these, he returned to the studio. His first task was to secure the gun. Greg was surprised at how tenaciously the weapon was clutched in the stiffening fingers. Was this the start of what was called rigor mortis? Surely not enough time had passed for that? Having freed the weapon, he placed it gingerly aside, only then examining the corpse itself.
The fatal head wound had done remarkably little external damage: there was just a small amount of blood at both entrance and exit wounds, meaning, Greg supposed, that the bullet must have caused instant death. The frozen leer, centred on the dully staring eyes, was disconcerting, but Greg realized he must be getting used to it, for after a while it didn’t bother him too much. He wouldn’t have minded closing those eyes, but even with the gloves on, he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
The body was very heavy. Because it was lying partly on its side, the only way Greg could get at all the pockets was to roll it onto its back. As it settled in the new position, there was a sudden, loud expellation of gas. Greg gagged and turned his head away, but there was no repetition. He knelt and began to go through the dead man’s clothes.
The stolen driver’s licence he found almost at once. Seeing his own face emerge from the alien person was creepy, almost like experiencing a physical violation. As he imagined this character swanning about the world pretending to be him, he felt the old anger returning. He resumed searching, but save for a bunch of keys, he found nothing else. Certainly no more ID—meaning that if this clown had ever been caught, he would have been thought to be Greg Lothian. Charming! But he couldn’t waste any more time in anger. He had to form a plan for what he was going to do with the body.
Bury it? He dismissed that idea as soon as it arose. Aside from the worry of future discovery, the notion of having this unwelcome guest as a permanent resident—even several feet under—was unthinkable. The only alternative was to cart it away, to be disposed of elsewhere. His car was unsuitable for that task, but there was his parents’ minivan. Yes, that would have to do.
This decision led to the next requirement: to get the body wrapped and secured for transport. What he needed was a tarp, and he remembered the one covering the Prius. He had it off in minutes, but hurrying back through the dark, he trod on one of the trailing ropes and almost fell on his face. Pausing to recover, he bundled the tarp more securely, then took some deep breaths to calm himself. The night was very still, the sky pierced by a distant carpet of stars. A breath of breeze came from the woods, loamy and sweet; the only sound was the barely perceptible murmur of the river.
Standing quietly, his arms full of crumpled vinyl, Greg turned his head in the direction of the water. Unbidden came an image of his mother, floating to her lonely end, the act that had set off so much more desperation. The result was now lying dead in the very place where Greg and his mother had had their final chat. Thinking of that, Greg made the final—and once it had occurred, obvious—mental leap: the river, which had been the cause of so much pain, could now perform a service.
He laid out the tarp on the floor and rolled the body onto it. Fortunately, this caused no further gaseous emanations. Once it was positioned, he folded the tarp up from the bottom and in from the sides, gathering the residue at the head. This he tied together with rope, making a secure bundle. Thus confined, the corpse could be dragged with reasonable ease, at least across the smooth studio floor. Outside, the going was tougher, but after he navigated the deck and the path, the grassy slope leading to the water was easier again. He slogged along, the trussed burden bumping behind like an enormous Santa Claus sack. The journey was relatively swift, but, though a faint dawn glow was now showing in the east, it was still too dark to see the actual riverbank. Fearing he might plunge over the edge, and realizing he’d need light to get the body unwrapped for its final journey, he went quickly back for a flashlight. Returning, he discovered that the body was not alone.
A dark shape was crouched nearby. When the light swept across it, there was the reflection of two pale green eyes. Greg yelped as the shape bounded toward him and proceeded to leap and lick. “Hatch! What are you doing out?”
Relief was instantly followed by worry. The presence of Hatch might mean that Lucy Lynley was near, though why she’d be walking her dog at this hour he couldn’t imagine. He grabbed the dog’s collar, extinguished the light and, trying to stroke the wriggling canine into stillness, listened anxiously. Hearing nothing, he came to the conclusion that the dog was probably alone, having an early morning ramble. “Good dog,” Greg croaked, with as much command as he could summon in a whisper. “Go home now, boy. Go home.”
But Hatch didn’t go. When released, he trotted back to the body, sniffed around it, then returned to Greg, tail wagging, as if to say, “Good job.” After that he calmly sat and started to scratch himself. Exasperated, Greg realized that he could now see the dog without benefit of the flashlight. Dawn was brightening.
There was nothing for it but to carry on. Now that greetings were over with, the dog seemed content, and he wasn’t equipped to tell tales. The growing light revealed that Greg had been lucky to stop when he did. The bundled corpse was resting less than a yard from the riverbank, which dropped steeply to the stones below. From there, the shore sloped away, meeting the fast-flowing river in a few feet. Once the body was deposited on that narrow strand, there would barely be room to unwrap it.
Giving Hatch the apparently unnecessary command to “stay,” he rolled the body sideways and, with a heave, over the edge, scrambling to slow its plunging descent. It landed heavily and went on rolling. Stumbling in pursuit, Greg was barely able to stop at the water’s edge.
But he did—just. On his knees on the painful stones, grabbing what seemed like an ankle beneath the vinyl winding sheet, he could feel the corpse pulling away as the current tugged at it. He seriously considered letting go, allowing the river to consume his offering unwrapped. But a big, bright blue bundle would attract attention and probably be noticed far too soon. So, once he had a decent grip, he steadied it and walked into the water up to his knees to roll it back up onto the shingle.
Then came the finale. Reversing the wrapping process, he undid the rope that bound the top, folding back the flaps and exposing the body to the expanding glow of daybreak. Lying on his back, staring at the heavens, the villain at last looked passably serene—or perhaps that was just a trick of the light. One side of the tarp was already in the water, so he just had to slide the corpse sideways, to launch it into the current. How far would it be carried? His mother’s body had been caught on a snag several miles down on the Cowichan Band’s reserve. Given luck, this one would go much farther, perhaps even out to sea. With that hope in mind, Greg stepped back into the water and began to tug the body out into the current.
Then something startling happened: a black shape came tearing down the bank from above. It was the dog, who until now had been watching the proceedings. As the corpse started to slide away, Hatch raced down and grabbed it with his teeth. Aghast at the apparent attack, Greg realized his error right away: Hatch was merely following his retriever’s instinct.
“No, Hatch! No!” Greg splashed around to the dog, grabbing for his collar. “Leave it, boy! Leave it now!”
Surprisingly, the dog did. Lucy had claimed he was well trained, and it was true. Mouth open, tail stiff, Hatch backed off, looking at the man expectantly. Greg held out his palm sternly. “Stay,” he commanded, and when it seemed that the animal would obey, he once again bent down to the body. As he adjusted his grip, he saw that Hatch’s efforts had made a tear in the pants, ripping a back pocket. Sticking out was something square and white.
Greg reached down and retrieved a damp wad of paper. Holding
it closer, he discovered that it was an envelope. Even in the pale light, its familiarity struck him like a blow between the eyes.
It was his own letter, the bait that had drawn the rat to the trap.
Had it been found on the dead man, everyone would know exactly where he had come from. And had it not been for the timely action of Hatch, it would already be on its way down the Cowichan River.
Quivering, Greg pocketed the missive, which had almost given the thug the last laugh. “Thanks, Hatch,” he whispered. “Oh, man—I owe you big time.”
Hatch wagged his tail.
Before anything else could happen, Greg shoved the body out into the river.
TWENTY
The next hour was a blur of activity, of which Greg later had little memory. Although relief was mixed with exhaustion, he knew he couldn’t relax until all traces of the intruder’s visit—and his own preparations for it—had been eliminated.
Having managed to get rid of the dog, he stored the tarp that had transported the body in the garage. Next he took the telltale letter, so miraculously recovered, tore it up and flushed the pieces down the toilet. Then he went around the house, checking for anything that the dead man might have left behind. He found a small backpack lying in a corner of the kitchen. It contained a flashlight, a couple of chocolate bars and some tools, but nothing to identify the owner. Nevertheless, he buried it in the woods. Lastly, he dismantled his watching post, and removed any evidence of the early-warning device. He wanted to get rid of all physical reminders of the dreadful night. The mental ones were another matter.
