Stranger at Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  Meanwhile, Logan sat with his own thoughts. He knew Lombardo was not far wrong. He could never pull this trigger. Here he was again trying to be something he was not. He had always hated guns and had never used one in his life. But something else was also operating within Logan at that moment, which Lombardo could not possibly realize—a stubborn determination not to let Allison or her family down again. He didn’t know if he could take another man’s life. But he did know that he had to keep Lombardo here long enough to give Allison enough time for a clean escape. The thought of this hulk getting away too soon and catching her was enough to make Logan think that he just might be able to kill. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

  Perspiration dripped into his eyes and he dashed it away with his free hand, a hand as cold and clammy as death itself. His eyes began to droop and he forced them open. He had to hang on!

  As the minutes ticked away, Logan had to work harder and harder to keep his brain from freezing in a jumble of fog. His head already felt too light, as if it were three or four feet above his shoulders. Every once in a while Lombardo would appear distorted and distant, like the view through the wrong end of a telescope.

  How long had it been, he wondered? Where would Allison be? But all perception of time was gone. It felt like hours, but it might have been only minutes. His wounded body screamed out for release, but he steeled himself against surrender. He could not lie down and go to sleep, though every fiber of his being cried out for rest.

  Oh, God, help me!

  Suddenly his head jerked up. His brain had begun to swirl about as consciousness started to leave him. Seeing his advantage, Lombardo inched forward. Logan thrust out the pistol.

  “I’m warning you, Lombardo. I will use this.” But Logan’s voice sounded hollow and far away. He wasn’t even certain his finger any longer was touching the trigger.

  “You’re a goner, Macintyre.”

  No! Logan tried to shout. But it was a wicked dream. He heard no sound come out of his mouth. His tongue and lips were so dry they felt glued shut, and the room spun sickeningly around him.

  How long . . . how long had it been . . . ?

  Allison, I’m sorry . . . I tried . . . I love you . . . but I can’t . . .

  ———

  When Logan was next aware of anything, he was sprawled out on the hard, earthen floor of the deserted cottage. He lifted his head long enough to see that Lombardo was gone; then he let it fall in despair. The fire had burned low. He had no sense of time. He did not even bother to wonder why the hoodlum had left him alive. Could it be that even a criminal like him had no stomach for cold-blooded murder? His friends would hardly be so kind.

  He was alive. But barely. He knew it would not be long now.

  Logan had not often thought about death. He was young and it had always seemed so distant. He had always scorned deathbed confessions. He thought of his last conversation with Skittles. His dying friend had said, “You’re a bright boy, and you can make somethin’ better of yourself.”

  Well, Skits, he thought feebly, guess I let you down again.

  They had never talked about religion. And now Logan regretted that, for it seemed a shame that it should have been missing from their close relationship. But of course, he had not been interested in God, not seen so many things clearly back then.

  Deathbed confessions . . . Now Logan understood what they were all about. They had to be real because a man could not be insincere when he was dying—it was no time for lies or games or false promises. Skittles had tried so urgently to get him to listen, but he had brushed it off.

  Now it was his turn, and there was no one for him to talk to. Was his life passing before his eyes? Was this what it was like? He knew what he wanted now, and only wished he had time to prove he was worthy of the same faith as Digory’s and Lady Margaret’s and all the rest of them. He only wished he had time to make amends to all those he had hurt, to those he had swindled, to Buckie and Jimmy and how many others. If it took a lifetime, he wanted to undo the results of his former lifestyle. But now it was too late . . . there was no time left . . .

  Logan drew a ragged breath.

  “God, forgive me for what I have been, for what I have done,” he prayed in a hoarse whisper. “Forgive me for ignoring you for so long. Let me die with the peace I know only you can give—”

  He stopped suddenly with a fit of coughing that sent renewed pain shooting through his body.

  Then he was silent. He could hardly think. But in those moments that he knew would be his last, he recalled Alec’s words: “One night I jist knew in my heart that He did love me an’ that He had forgiven me.” With the thought Logan felt the peace he had yearned for.

  Logan knew the same voice that had spoken to Alec. In some mysterious and miraculous and unfathomable way, God had accepted to His heart a liar, a thief, a swindler, a no-good, self-centered young man who had lived his entire life for no one but himself.

  It was all Logan needed to know.

  He closed his eyes. He had seen into God’s heart of love—and was ready to die.

  54

  The Stretching of Allison’s Faith

  Allison ran hard the entire three miles between the deserted Krueger place and Stonewycke’s gates.

  Had she taken the road, the way would have been easier, but longer, and she feared she might run into the other two men. She had therefore struck out over the moor and, despite the darkness of the night, had miraculously made it without breaking her leg in a peat bog. Even as the imposing walls of Stonewycke’s outer perimeter came into view, she was not sure she could make it. Her chest heaved frightfully and a painful stitch tore at her side. But the rain did not begin until she was in sight of the castle.

  The ever-present thought of Logan forced her to keep going. Please, God, she prayed over and over as she ran, please don’t let him be hurt seriously. Protect him, Lord . . . keep your hand upon him.

  She pushed open the ancient gate and paused a brief moment to catch at least one more breath with which to go on. Glancing up at the house, she found two or three lights still on. It must be nearly midnight.

  The kitchen door was still unlocked. She entered, frantically calling for her mother. Footsteps hurried along the corridor above, then down the stairs. More lights flashed on. As her mother reached her, Allison collapsed into her arms, crying and trembling. Alec was but two paces behind his wife, the anxiety of the night etched clearly on his face.

  “Lass,” he said, “oh, lass, what’s happened? I’ve been oot lookin’ fer ye this last hour.”

  “It’s awful, Daddy!” she cried, now finding his strong arms enfolding her as well. “It’s Logan—”

  “What’s he done?” exclaimed Alec, his proud Scottish blood on the rise.

  “He’s hurt, Daddy . . .” replied Allison. “There are some men, bad men. They kidnapped me. Then they brought Logan. We were both tied up. Logan got loose and overpowered the man so I could escape. But he was shot—he wouldn’t tell me how bad. Oh, I’m so scared!”

  “Shh,” soothed Alec, concerned by Allison’s disjointed explanation.

  “What men?” asked Joanna.

  “I don’t know, but they wanted Logan. They made him tell where the treasure is. Two of them left. I think they had orders to kill us once they found the treasure. If they get back before help comes, I’m afraid—” She burst into tears.

  “Where is he?” asked her father, his mind clearing.

  “At the old Krueger cottage.”

  “All right, we’ll go fer him,” said Alec, springing into action. “I’ll get the truck from Fergie an’ gather up a few men on the way. We’ll be there in no time.”

  He started down the hall, but Allison ran after him.

  “I’m going with you,” she stated.

  “Lass, there’s no tellin’ what we’ll find.”

  “I don’t care. I have to go. I can’t let him think I didn’t care enough to come back.”

  “Let her go, Alec,” Jo
anna said with an understanding smile. “This is something she has to do. The Lord will protect you both.”

  “Ye must do whate’er I tell ye.”

  “Of course I will,” replied Allison earnestly. “But let’s go!”

  Within twenty minutes, the truck was brought out and the farmhands who lived on the estate were awakened, and they set out for the deserted cottage. On the way Alec tried to get what additional information from Allison he could. He sent Fergie into town to gather assistance in order to apprehend the men who had gone to Ramsey Head, if they were still there.

  The truck bounced and clattered over the old, rutted dirt road they had to use for the final leg of the short journey. Allison sat on the edge of the front seat, clinging tensely to the dashboard, trying to peer through the rain.

  Suddenly she saw something, a dark and shadowy figure, moving toward them.

  “Look!” she exclaimed. “Daddy, stop . . . it’s Logan!”

  Alec ground the truck to a halt and jumped out, Allison at his side. They ran forward.

  But it was not Logan, only Frank Lombardo trudging heavily through the rain, soaked to the skin, utterly lost. In spite of the certain disaster awaiting him, he was actually relieved to see a sign of human life through the dismal night.

  “It’s him!” cried Allison. “That’s the man!”

  Alec needed no further explanation. He stepped forward, grabbed Lombardo’s arms, and pushed him against the truck. With two other burly crofters now backing Alec and ready at the first sign of a struggle, Lombardo surrendered without a fight.

  “Where is he?” screamed Allison. “What have you done to him?”

  “If you mean Macintyre,” replied the subdued Lombardo, “I didn’t do nothin’ to him. He just died, that’s all—at least he’s dead by now. You saw for yourself. He’s the one who attacked me, and the gun just went off.”

  “No! Daddy . . . no!”

  “Dinna ye give up hope yet, lassie,” said Alec. “Ye jist keep prayin’ hard.”

  But Lombardo scoffed at the words. “It’s too late fer prayin’. I tell you, he’s a goner. But it weren’t my fault.”

  Without further conversation, Alec took the prisoner toward the back of the truck and made him climb up. “Can you handle him?” he asked his men. One of them, sitting in the back with his hunting rifle on his lap, wielded it knowingly and nodded.

  As they approached the cottage, it looked more deserted than ever. Nonetheless, Allison was out of the truck even before it had come to a full stop and racing toward the door. Lord, she prayed, afraid for what she might find, help me to face this with strength.

  The fire had died to all but a few pitiful embers and it was almost dark inside. But the next moment Alec came up behind her holding a lantern. Allison saw Logan lying on the hard earth, deathly still, his skin ashen as if the fire of his life, too, had died. She rushed forward and fell to her knees beside him.

  “Logan!” she wept, gently lifting his head. “Oh, Logan . . . please don’t be dead.”

  For several agonizing moments there was no response. She grasped his hand. It was still warm with life. With tears of anguish and love in her eyes, she leaned down, kissed him, and laid her head on his chest. “Logan . . . Logan . . .” she said, softly this time. “Logan . . . I love you!”

  A flutter, though faint, stirred in his chest. She looked up at her father helplessly, then back to the prostrate form.

  Slowly Logan’s eyelids opened, but the merest crack. A pathetic, crooked smile bent his lips.

  “Ali . . .” he breathed. “Ali . . . is that you?”

  “Oh yes! Logan . . . yes, it’s me! Oh, thank you, Lord!”

  “ . . . told you I was a lucky fellow . . .”

  “Oh, Logan! . . . hush now . . . please . . .” rebuked Allison with joy in her voice.

  Alec knelt down and gently lifted Logan into his arms, and, with Allison beside him, murmuring words of love and encouragement into his ear, carried him to the truck.

  55

  The Fate of the Bonnie Flora MacD

  Frank Lombardo was securely in the custody of the local authorities. But the search party that climbed Ramsey Head found another kind of justice had been meted out to Willie Cabot. He was found lying next to a hastily dug hole with a bullet through his heart.

  Ross Sprague it seemed had escaped justice altogether. A search for Ross Sprague was mounted, but to no avail. No one had thought to look north toward the sea until it was too late—although the rising storm would have discouraged even the most tenacious pursuer.

  Sprague, meanwhile, had hired a thirty-foot fishing vessel, one sentimentally styled Bonnie Flora MacD after the prince’s daring lady, under the name Albert Smith. Even that did not arouse suspicions until a day or two after the escape. Port Strathy’s law-abiding community was simply not equipped to deal with crime at this level—a fact that worked to Sprague’s benefit.

  Sprague was no seaman, but he thought his cursory knowledge would suffice him for the short distance which would be required of him. When the rain began to fall and the wind rise, his confidence began to wane somewhat. But he knew he couldn’t turn back. The once sleepy little burg of Port Strathy was wise to him by now, no doubt. So he steered the crusty old boat due north against the gale, cursing the cagy yokel who had rented him the craft. The five-pound rental fee had been highway robbery, for the vessel was barely seaworthy. But the fellow owned several boats, and this one had been equipped with a radio—its chief selling feature, as far as Sprague was concerned. Anyway, Sprague could not complain too heartily about the fee since he had no intention of returning the crazy old tub.

  The minute Cabot had decided to tag along, Sprague knew there would be trouble. Not only was the Englishman surly and disagreeable, he was also greedy. The moment he had laid eyes on the cache of wealth buried underneath the rock on Ramsey Head, he had gone wild. No court would ever acquit Sprague on the grounds of self-defense, but he knew instinctively that had he not taken care of Cabot, he would never have made it to the mainland alive.

  But he had made it, and nothing would stop him now. His boss had better be there to meet him! He didn’t relish the idea of a submarine, but it was the safest means of undetected escape. His boss’s connections in Berlin had paid off; this was, after all, the surest getaway. They’d be looking for him all up and down the coast, probably watching all the roads, and he’d be safe and sound where none of those yokels would ever think to even consider—under the sea. He didn’t like Germans, and never had. But he could put up with them for a few days if that was the price for becoming a rich man.

  A fifteen-foot wave crashed against the side of the boat, sending a column of spray over the deck and lifting it dangerously starboard. Sprague grabbed the wheel and forced the vessel around a few degrees in order to break away from the rough water. The compass told him he was off course. It was almost midnight. He better get her going right if he planned to make his rendezvous.

  He would never have considered himself greedy, but then he had never had much to be greedy about. So why was he risking his neck on this stupid little boat in the middle of the night? Couldn’t he just as well have paid off some farmer for a wagon and a couple of horses and hightailed it away on some back road to Aberdeen or Inverness, and then by way of some freighter to a nice safe South American country where he could spend the rest of his days a wealthy man?

  Why, then, was he out in this storm?

  Sprague answered his own question, although this time it was not the safety of the sub which convinced him, but rather the memory of his boss’s face. He was not the kind of man who would let a man like Sprague get away with a double-cross. His boss had the kind of resources that could ferret out a traitor in the most remote lands. He was not the kind of man you betrayed, if you wanted to stay alive. It probably would have been next to impossible to fence the loot he had unearthed, anyway. He was being well paid for his services, and now he had also arranged some insurance for a bit of a
raise from his boss. So in the end he reached the same conclusion as before—he may not like it, but this was no doubt the best way.

  Sprague glanced at his watch. It was the time to make contact. He flipped the switch on the radio, turned the necessary dials, and began tapping out the appropriate Morse Code. After a few minutes he received a response, though faint. At least someone was out there. Sprague knew his boss wouldn’t back out if he smelled money. He tapped out another message: “difficult to read . . . repeat message.” If only he knew German, he thought, and could talk to them.

  A minute later came the reply, still choppy, but he got the vitals. The rendezvous sub was three miles offshore, north by northeast.

  Sprague looked again at the compass. He was still way off course. Cursing, he struck his fist angrily against the panel. Then he gaped with disbelief. The instrument needles were spinning wildly.

  It was broken!

  The no good piece of junk was broken! How long had he been steering blindly? Where was the sub?

  Perspiration beaded on Sprague’s forehead as the cold dread of panic seized him. His hands shook as he grabbed the wheel. But he had no idea where to steer. He didn’t even know in which direction the land lay! He could have been heading anywhere—

  Suddenly he heard a sickening crack.

  The craft lurched and shivered. Sprague was tossed off his feet, struck his head against the bulkhead, and knew no more. Perhaps he was better off that way, for the old fishing trawler was taking water fast.

  56

  The Guest of the Admiral Mannheim