The Treasure of Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  “I tell you, Channing,” Logan said hotly, “if my wife has been harmed in any way!”

  “You will see for yourself in a few moments.” He waved a tired hand toward the chairs. “Make yourselves comfortable in the meantime.”

  Joanna took a seat on the couch. Logan remained standing, too tense to relax. Channing sat in a chair opposite Joanna, his eyes leaving her only when the knock came to the double doors.

  “Enter!” he called out, turning his head from her with effort.

  Allison stepped in first, her arm in the firm grasp of the Austrian viscount, von Burchardt. He held a .38 revolver in his other hand.

  Channing grinned lecherously. “Welcome to my house, Allison Macintyre.” Then he looked sharply at Emil. “Well, von Burchardt, I see you managed this job without bungling it!”

  He scrutinized him for a long moment, taking in the viscount’s eyes, pencil-thin moustache, and expensive, fashionable white linen suit. “You’ve lost weight,” he mumbled off-handedly.

  Emil snapped his heels together smartly and bowed in that grandiose fashion for which he was known. “My labors for you, Mein Herr,” he said in his oily German accent, “take precedence over all else—even eating!”

  Channing grunted, unimpressed.

  “Where is Jo?” he asked.

  “There was an important matter in the city she had to attend to. She does not anticipate being detained long.”

  “There is nothing more important than this!” fumed Channing. “She should be here!”

  “She sends her regrets, and will be here shortly.”

  “Well, I won’t wait!” Channing bellowed. He turned his attention to his guests.

  “So, here you all are—all of you . . . together!” He flashed a lopsided grin. “Touching, is it not, Emil? And kind of me to arrange this little family reunion.”

  “Allison, have they harmed you?” asked Logan, hurrying toward her.

  “Not so fast, Macintyre!” said Emil, pointing the gun toward Logan.

  “I am fine. We can be thankful at least for that. And you, Mother?” she asked.

  The older woman nodded but said nothing.

  “I should have hired a photographer!” gloated Channing, filled with the moment he had so long desired. “Ah yes, a photograph would be perfect—to capture this momentous occasion for our progeny to remember—especially since my daughter could not be here!”

  “Your daughter!” exclaimed Allison.

  “Oh yes! You did not know? Ha, ha! Had my original plan succeeded, it would have been the tour de force of my life. My own daughter installed as heiress of Stonewycke, while all the time you were taking her to your hearts as if she was one of your own! The poetic beauty of it!”

  “Jo is . . . your daughter?” said Allison in disbelief, glancing toward Logan. He merely nodded sadly.

  “Oh, no doubt she would have told you eventually—perhaps when you were on your deathbeds, helpless to do anything about it. Ha, ha! But I begin to think it better that she failed. Had our design worked, only she would have been able to exult in our triumph. This way, I too am able to see your faces in defeat! Ha, ha, ha! I must admit, it makes every one of the past sixty years almost worth it to see your despair on this glorious day!”

  “And what now, Channing?” said Logan.

  “What now, you ask! What do you think? You will give me Stonewycke, and in my compassion I will allow you to live. If you refuse me, I will have you all killed, here and now, while Jo flies back to Stonewycke to claim the inheritance as your daughter!”

  A soft voice came from the couch, speaking to him for the first time. “Jason,” it said quietly.

  Channing stopped and turned his head. His gaze was arrested by a penetrating stare from the eyes he had dreamed of so long. Deeply they probed his mind, unflinching, commanding his own eyes to remain and not look away. Gradually an involuntary twitch of mental distress began to flit about the edges of his mouth.

  “Jason,” the voice beckoned again. “It is I you want. Is that not true?” Still her eyes held his.

  “You are all I have ever wanted,” he replied, the tenacity of his will losing its grip.

  “Now you have me, Jason. I am here . . .” As she spoke he was helpless to resist the magnetism of her eyes. “Let my family go, Jason.”

  “I—I cannot . . . he will—”

  “No harm will come to you, Jason, I assure you. None of us would hurt you. We care about you, Jason.”

  “Care about me? Why, that’s—but . . . but of course you do! You must! I am the new master of Stonewycke!” His voice contained none of its former power. His eyes fought to look away, but could not. She had gained mastery over him, and now held him fast.

  “We do care about you, Jason,” she said, her voice still hushed, “in a way you perhaps cannot grasp. All of us in this room—”

  But at last he succeeded in looking away, and the spell was broken.

  “And care you shall! For I will soon be in Stonewycke . . . I am preparing for our journey even now! Come, Joanna,” he said, rising and grabbing his cane, “we are going by ship, just as we did last year from New York . . . only this time without that busybody, Mrs. Cupples!”

  He made for the door. “Come, Joanna . . . come! The steamer is sailing this afternoon . . . We must gather our things!”

  “You will take the treasure with you?”

  “What’s that, my sweet?”

  “The treasure, Jason . . . the treasure of Stonewycke.”

  “Yes, yes . . . of course. I shan’t forget that! It must go back with us! I’ll go retrieve it now. Come! You must help me . . . it is heavy!”

  She rose. He half grabbed her arm and led her with what force he could manage out the door. Once they were outside, the others rose also, exited the room, and followed slowly down the corridor. Emil trailed behind, still carrying the gun.

  70

  The Truth

  Channing led the way through several corridors, toward the back of the elongated L-shaped house, through servants’ quarters, past the kitchen, and finally out into the hot, humid air. The small entourage crossed an open dirt quadrangle, and arrived at length at a run-down adobe structure that looked like little more than an unused shed.

  Still Channing hobbled gamely along, though once inside, in the darkness, he found the footing more treacherous. Immediately after closing the huge oak door behind them, he turned sharply to the right, traversed a narrow corridor, then arrived at another heavy, iron-studded door that faced left.

  Channing stopped, pulled out a large ring of keys from his pocket, selected an old-fashioned one, well rusted, inserted it into the door, and shoved it open. With his free hand he pulled the chain on a dim lightbulb that hung from the ceiling, illuminating a narrow stone stairway which descended under the earth. Led by Channing’s faltering step, which every moment appeared ready to collapse beneath the weight of his body, they made their way down in single file.

  At the bottom, a maze of underground passages spread out before them. Though they passed several locked doors, and others with bars across them that appeared to be cells of some ancient dungeon, it was obvious the more recent use of the place had been as a wine cellar. On either side of the corridor, which gradually opened wider and wider, revealing long narrow, low-ceilinged rooms, sat rows upon rows of barrels and casks and crates of bottles filled with wine.

  “It won’t be long now,” said Channing. “There is one special room here . . . of my very own. No one else has a key. And no one knows what a special wine I keep in storage,” he added with a gleam in his eye. “Come, Joanna . . . we will be there shortly!”

  The echo of his voice seemed to disturb him. He looked about and, though he had been aware of their presence as they descended the steps into the cellar, he seemed now all at once to see the others for the first time.

  “What? But, Joanna, I thought we were alone . . . we have to—”

  He paused, focusing on Logan. Gradually the dawn of rec
ognition spread over his face, and with it came back to his eyes the demon of hatred.

  “Macintyre, what are you doing here!” he demanded. “This is private business between Miss Matheson and myself!”

  “I keep no secrets from my family, Jason.”

  “But, Joanna, who . . . who are these? I don’t understand.” His eyes narrowed and he squinted at her, then glanced at Logan, then back at her.

  “—I see it now!” he shouted. “It’s a trick! You were only trying to trick me into showing you the treasure! Well, I’ve spoiled your little game! What do you pack of fools take me for?”

  “We take you for nothing more than what you are,” said Logan, who had had his fill of the trick they were perpetrating. “That is a man in need of healing, in need of what can give life. Believe me, Channing, we want nothing but life for you. This life of yours, this enmity and hatred, is no life. It is a living death.”

  “How dare you preach to me, you pathetic fool! Let me out of here! You will never see your blessed treasure! I will take it with me to my grave!”

  “The treasure is meaningless, Channing, alongside your life.”

  “Good . . . good! Meaningless it might as well be, for you’ll never lay eyes on it!”

  “You may scorn my words, Channing. Though you hate me, I cannot bear to see this cancerous bitterness destroy you.” Logan took a deep, sorrowful breath. “Yet there must be hope for you. Will nothing make you listen?”

  “Hope! Ha! You are a fool!” he cackled vilely. “Well, I have had enough of you—all of you!” He tried to push Logan out of the way with his cane, then, failing that, went around him and began hobbling off in the direction from which they had come. “Von Burchardt,” he cried, “shoot them! Each one of them, right here—now! I’m finished with them!”

  He took two more paces, stopped, turned back, and saw the viscount standing, making no move to carry out his order.

  “Shoot them, I tell you!” he shrieked. “Or I will shoot you!”

  “I’m afraid I cannot do that, Mr. Channing,” the man replied.

  “Cannot . . . what? How dare you disobey me!”

  “I must disobey you.” He let out a prolonged sigh, glanced toward Logan, then lowered his gun and let go of Allison. With the hand that was now free, he reached up to finger his moustache. Then to Channing’s horror, he peeled it off.

  “What! . . . von Burchardt, what are you . . . oh, God . . . no!” cried Channing as the truth broke in upon his benumbed consciousness.

  “May I present my friend, Ashley Jameson,” said Logan calmly. “I’m afraid he was the one who helped me apprehend your friend the viscount in the attempted kidnapping of my wife. The real von Burchardt, as well as your daughter, are at this moment in the custody of the police in Aberdeen.”

  “What have you done? It is an evil trick . . . Joanna!”

  “And this—”

  Logan held out his hand to the older woman, who now had a handkerchief in her hand and was proceeding to wipe away the cosmetic wrinkles on her face. “—this is my daughter, Joanna Hilary Macintyre—my real daughter, as even you can see by her resemblance to my mother-in-law, who has indeed gone to be with her Lord.”

  “No . . . it cannot be true!” Channing stammered as he staggered back against the dirty stone wall.

  “It is true,” said Logan with feeling in his voice. “It is over, Channing.”

  Channing looked away, walked a few steps, then turned back to face the two men and two women. His skin was ashen. His eyes stared in disbelief. For several moments all was silent. Slowly he slumped to the floor.

  “It cannot be true,” he repeated. “The victory must be mine! I cannot let you defeat me again!” But even as he spoke, the vitality of life slowly drained from him.

  Logan sighed, then approached him. When he spoke again, his voice was full of compassion for the broken man who would have killed him.

  “We do not defeat you, Channing,” said Logan. “It is the devil of hatred, the demon of bitterness who would defeat you. They are the enemy, not us.”

  “But who set them on me?” he whimpered. “It was her! She forced them on me!”

  “We bring them upon ourselves. Hatred comes from within, Channing. No one can force it upon another.”

  “Well, she did her best of it!”

  “I’m sure she did do her best. She tried to turn you to the truth.”

  “What! By turning the whole town against me? By making me look the fool?” he cried, struggling to his feet. Then grabbing his cane, he began to pace around.

  “By keeping you from cheating the townspeople, which was the best thing she could have done for your soul, if only you had allowed it to start you down the road of truth.”

  “My soul! It’s precious little she ever cared for my soul! Tormenting me day and night for sixty years.”

  “I happen to know that she prayed for your soul, Channing, during all of those same sixty years.”

  “Prayed for me! What rubbish! That’s just the sort of thing she would do! Prayed that I’d repent, no doubt. It’s rubbish, I tell you!”

  “It’s truth. Repentance is the door into life.”

  “Telling God you’re sorry, I suppose,” Channing spat.

  “And that you want Him to remake you in the image of His Son.”

  “Well, I’m not sorry! I’ve lived my life and I had my way with it. And it’s low I’d sink before I’d ever ask to be made like that fool they call His Son! Going around preaching that nonsense they call the gospel, and then letting them kill Him without trying to get away. If God had a Son He would have more power than that! Nonsense, I tell you.”

  “It’s truth.”

  “It’s humbug!”

  “His Son’s power was of another kind than can be seen by the eyes of this world. You’ve probably heard the story of how He conquered death, and walked away from the grave?”

  “A fairy tale!”

  “A historical fact,” asserted Logan.

  “I suppose you believe it?” asked Channing.

  “Not only do I believe it, I base my entire life upon the fact of Jesus’ resurrection. By His victory over death are we given power to live.”

  “I’ve lived, I tell you—and no doubt much better than if I had spent my years trying to be religious and worrying about my conscience pricking me every time I turned around!”

  “Have you lived, Channing? Really lived?”

  “I have, more than you, Macintyre! I’m a rich man!”

  “And powerful too, from what I hear.”

  “Yes, powerful! A formidable opponent they find Jason Channing when anyone tries to cross me!

  “Rich and powerful,” mused Logan. “And happy?”

  “As happy as any man can be! We’ve all got to go sooner or later. In the meantime we might as well get what we can!”

  “Which is what you did?”

  “Certainly!”

  “And now?”

  “What do you mean now?”

  “What will you do with all that you have? Your greed has gained you wealth and might. Can you take it with you?”

  “Of course not! I’m no fool! Neither can you take your precious Stonewycke with you! I’m not a religious man, mind you, but I know my Scriptures. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. I know we go the way we came!”

  “Ah, but there is something we can take with us into the next life, Channing.”

  “Poppycock! Where’d you get an idiotic notion like that?”

  “From the Scriptures.”

  “And just what can we take with us?”

  “Our soul.”

  “Oh, well . . . if you believe in that moonshine!”

  “Whether you believe in it or not, Channing, your soul does live on. And it takes with it the character it has become during life on this earth.”

  “The soul has a personality? That’s absurd!”

  Logan’s heart leaped within him at the mere suggestion that, even in his anger and pain, Channin
g had dared to ask a question about the eternal being of man.

  “What is the soul, Channing, but the essential you—that innermost part of your personhood which is left when everything to do with this world suddenly vanishes. You have been fashioning the essential personality of your soul all your life long, by every word you have spoken, by every choice you have made, by every action you have taken toward another fellow human being.”

  “And now my soul is damned to hell, I suppose!”

  “God only knows, Channing. All I know is that it is never too late to begin making marks of selflessness and goodness upon your soul. You cannot make yourself pleasing to God only by doing good. But every kind deed, every gracious word, every repentant attitude—they all reflect the state of your soul—whether or not you are genuinely seeking to discover and live by the truth God has revealed.”

  “Even if I believed what you say—which I don’t for a moment!—there’s no time. It’s too late for me!”

  “It’s never too late. As long as there is one gasp left in a dying man’s heart, it is not too late for him to begin.”

  Channing stifled a cry of mingled anger and despair. “I am a dying man, Macintyre. I can feel death stalking me. God help me, I hate it!” he cried. “And I hate Him for bringing me to this. I’m not ready to die!”

  “You may hate Him, but He loves you. He’s the only one who can help you face what is ahead. It’s true, Channing; it’s never too late to begin.”

  “A poor beginning that would be—ten thousand black marks on the soul, and one deathbed mark on the other side. Foxhole religion, Macintyre—what good is it?”

  “When you face Him, God will not tally up a scoresheet. He will only want to know in which direction you were trying to move. It is never too late to change directions. That’s what repentance is, turning around and going the other way.”

  Channing was silent a moment and seemed to be thinking. Again he slumped to the ground and sat, breathing heavily. His face was pale, his skin cold. In his eyes could be seen the exhaustion from the inner struggle.

  “You think I’ll see Him then . . . face-to-face?”

  “We all will.”

  “And He’ll condemn me to hell, no doubt! I thought He was supposed to be forgiving. Sins white as snow and all that claptrap.”