The Girl with the Phony Name

by Charles Mathes

  “Where are we going?” said Lucy, desperately trying to keep her stomach out of her throat.

  “Ye’ll see. It’s a surprise.”

  She didn’t feel up to arguing.

  After a few miles, details of yesterday’s conference at the Fairy’s Egg drifted back into her consciousness. Lucy felt foolish and vaguely ashamed. Why had she drunk so much? It had been a terrible mistake to confide so much to these men. She didn’t really know anything about them. How could she have felt so close to them yesterday?

  Neither MacLean nor Wharrie spoke as they drove along, past Dumlagchtat and up the mountain, finally pulling into the long drive of the ruined Fingon Castle. Instead of going through the gate, however, Wharrie turned the car onto an access road that led down the slope. They drove in silence for a few minutes more, then stopped.

  Lucy was getting worried. She was miles away from any other living soul. Why should these men help her? What were they really after? Would her head feel like a kettle drum for the rest of her life?

  “What’s here?” Lucy asked, trying to sound unconcerned as they got out of the car.

  “You’ll see,” said Wharrie, opening the trunk and taking out an old, black shotgun and a large basket.

  “What’s that for?” Lucy gasped when she saw the gun.

  “Ye’ll find oot,” said Wharrie, a mirthless smile on his face.

  “It’s not far.” MacLean grunted, producing a short billy club from his pocket and testing it on his palm. “Chust walk down there.”

  Lucy walked nervously down the path MacLean had indicated, the two men directly behind her. A wave of fear swept through her. They were after the treasure, of course. Why had she told them she was a Fingon? How could she have been so naive? What were they going to do to her?

  The path led through a rocky formation ringed by a few stunted trees. Beneath the hill was a small stone cottage, practically a ruin. The thatched roof was incomplete, the windows were knocked out, and the yard was littered with rusted farm implements.

  Suddenly Lucy understood. This was it—the people of Lis’s just revenge against the last Fingon. They were going to rape and/or kill her in this remote place and no one would ever know. She turned to them, her eyes brimming with tears, but Wharrie just grinned callously.

  Her body would never be found, Lucy thought, desperately looking for some way to escape, finding none. Wing would probably think that she had run out on him and kept his two thousand pounds. The thought of hurting him after all he had done for her was unbearable. What did Wharrie have in that little basket? The stuff they used to dissolve bodies? Quicklime?

  MacLean opened the door of the cottage and nudged her into the darkness. Lucy tried to steady herself, to muster some dignity. If she had to die here in this godforsaken place, without a name, without a birthday, she would at least die bravely. She steeled herself for the blow.

  Nothing happened.

  After a moment Lucy’s eyes began to adjust to the gloom and she finally understood what she was seeing. There, next to the crumbling chimney, bound hand and foot to a chair, his mouth gagged with tape, was Michael Fraser.

  “Mmmrpphhshharggh!” said Fraser, wiggling his legs.

  “What’s he doing here?” asked Lucy, totally bewildered.

  “We’ve kidnapped him,” said MacLean, obviously delighted.

  “You’ve what?!”

  “Snatched him,” said Wharrie proudly.

  “Aye.” MacLean nodded. “Ranald’s cousin was supposed to pick Mr. Fraser oop at the airstrip last night, but we got him instead. Now ye can do with him as ye please.”

  Lucy didn’t know whether to be relieved or hysterical.

  “Mmmgshhhfhfhtwwww!” said Fraser. His legs were rubbing together furiously, like a cricket’s.

  “Shut oop, you,” said Wharrie, shaking his club.

  Fraser stopped making noise, his leg-wiggling giving way to occasional twitches. Lucy pulled both men to the door by their sleeves.

  “Are you people crazy? Why did you do this?” she demanded.

  MacLean looked hurt.

  “It seemed like a good idea last night.”

  “Aye,” said Wharrie. “We thought yiu’d be pleased.”

  “Pleased to be a kidnapper?” she hissed.

  “We found this in his pocket,” said MacLean, digging into his own pocket and producing a large, silver object, which he placed in her hand. It was her brooch.

  “What should we do with him, then?” asked Wharrie, fingering the trigger of the shotgun.

  “Why are you asking me?” said Lucy dumbly, clutching the brooch in her hand.

  “We did it for you, Lucy,” said MacLean quietly. “So you could have your brooch. So you could find your treasure.”

  “We chust wanted to help,” said Wharrie.

  Lucy snorted, paced a few steps, and finally sat down at an ancient stool by the dusty table. She felt ashamed of herself. How could she think these dear men would harm her, when they merely wanted to make her an accomplice to a kidnapping? As if she hadn’t broken enough laws already!

  “Aire ye angry, Lucy?” said Wharrie, confused.

  Lucy rolled her eyes, turned the brooch over in her fingers, and looked at the familiar inscriptions. At least it was a chance to get some answers. If she found a treasure, too, so be it.

  “What are you doing here with my brooch, Mr. Fraser?” she said evenly.

  “Mmmmghghththhhatt!” said Fraser. He was very angry and needed a shave. Lucy thought it made him look quite sexy, the son of a bitch.

  “Should I take the tape off?” asked MacLean.

  She nodded. MacLean ripped the tape from Fraser’s mouth. For a moment Lucy thought it might have taken the man’s lips off, the sound was so disgusting. It served him right.

  “Ouch, goddammit!” said Fraser.

  “Answer the lady’s question, mister,” said Wharrie, prodding Fraser’s ribs with the shotgun.

  “I’ve got to pee so bad I think I’m going to die!” said Fraser in a high voice.

  “Don’t try that funny business with oos, Jack,” said MacLean, shaking his club in the man’s face. Fraser leaned over to catch Lucy’s eye.

  “What kind of a person are you?” he said urgently. “I’ve been holding it all night long, for crisssakes!”

  Wharrie and MacLean both started to talk, but Lucy held up her hands and shouted them down.

  “All … All right! Let him pee.”

  “Why canna he go in his pants?” said Wharrie.

  “How would you like to go in your pants?” demanded Fraser.

  “Let him pee, for goodness’ sakes,” said Lucy.

  MacLean shrugged, took out a pocket knife, and cut the rope that was holding Fraser’s feet and arms to the chair. He stood shakily, his hands still tied behind his back with a separate rope.

  “Aren’t you going to untie my hands?” he said incredulously.

  “And have you pull something?” said Wharrie with contempt. “What kind of fools do you think we aire?”

  Fraser looked from one man to the other.

  “I have to pull something, know what I mean? Or does one of you want to pull it for me?”

  Suddenly the situation didn’t seem so menacing. Lucy put a hand over her mouth, trying not to laugh. MacLean shot her an angry look with his single eye.

  “All right,” he said. “Keep him covered, Ranald.”

  Wharrie raised the shotgun. MacLean cut the rope. Fraser rubbed his legs with his freed hands and trotted for the door.

  “Don’t go anywhere,” he said over his shoulder to Lucy as he left, Wharrie and MacLean at his heels. “I want to talk to you.”

  Lucy looked around the broken cottage, smiling at the picture of Michael Fraser trussed like a chicken, wondering how many years you got for kidnapping in Scotland and what the jails were like.

  After a few minutes the men returned. The furrows were gone from Fraser’s forehead and he had brushed the mop of red hair from his ey
es and put on his glasses. He never took his eyes off Lucy, even when MacLean pushed him back down into the chair he had been bound to.

  “Feel better, Mr. Fraser?” she asked self-consciously. What was he staring at?

  “Thank you, I feel relieved. Literally.”

  “Doon’t be smart, you,” said MacLean, making a bony fist. Wharrie raised his shotgun.

  “All right, Fraser,” Lucy said, trying to sound tough. “What are you doing here?”

  “It says Dumlagchtat on the back of your brooch.”

  “Why are you so interested in my brooch?”

  “I think it tells where a treasure is buried, actually.”

  “Dinna I say so!” exclaimed Wharrie.

  “And where might that be?” said Lucy slowly.

  “Why should I tell you?”

  “Because this lass is Barbara Fingon’s daughter,” said Wharrie, motioning with the shotgun. “She’s Lucy Fingon.”

  “Oh. So it’s Lucy Fingon, now, huh?” said Fraser, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “I guess that justifies everything.”

  “You’re in no position to be rude, Mr. Fraser,” said Lucy testily.

  “Well, I don’t like to be kidnapped, Miss … Fingon. And it’s Dr. Fraser, actually. Dr. Michael Fraser of the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art. But you can call me Mike.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Mike Fraser was famished. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast yesterday morning in Glasgow, figuring to have something once he got back to Lis.

  The two Scotsmen had picked him up at the airstrip, claiming that the fellow who had been driving him had a cold. Mike had thought nothing of it, just told them to take him to the best restaurant on the island. He had a lot to celebrate. Instead they had brought him to this leaky shack and left him tied to a chair all night.

  Mike took another huge bite of the cheese sandwich MacLean had produced from his picnic basket. There was also hot tea from a thermos, which the others were drinking from plastic cups.

  Mike was still pretty angry, but a part of him couldn’t help enjoying the excitement. Nothing like this ever happened at the museum. He hadn’t had such a ridiculous adventure since his frat brothers at Yale had dropped him off on a country road at 2:00 A.M.

  “You were talking about Robert MacAlpin,” said the girl.

  Mike grinned. She was a tough little number. He almost hadn’t recognized her at first; she looked all of twelve years old with her hair cut short like that. And her ear looked like a traffic light! What could have prompted her to do such a thing? Then he remembered she had also had him kidnapped. Obviously, sanity wasn’t one of her top priorities.

  “I swear I’d never met the man before that day, Lucy. We talked on the phone. He told me his name was Scott.”

  Even though they were all politely having lunch, Mike knew the situation was still precarious. The best policy was to stick as close to the truth as possible, without jeopardizing his or the museum’s interests. Except for the tremendously uncomfortable night he had just endured, no real harm had been done. Yet.

  “If you didn’t know MacAlpin, then what were you doing at Trump Tower?” she asked angrily.

  Mike looked up from his sandwich and studied the girl. The way she had been talking to him, one would think that he was the criminal, not her. How could she expect him to believe that she hadn’t known what her friends were up to? Still, she had him in a ridiculous position. He would have to play his cards very carefully indeed.

  “I don’t usually do appraisals, but the man was a real salesman,” Mike shrugged innocently. “He said he had an artifact that might lead to a whole trove of Celtic treasure. If I authenticated the piece, he said he would give the museum right of first refusal to whatever he ultimately found. It sounded a little crazy, but I figured there was nothing to lose. That’s all there was to it.”

  The girl looked skeptical. Mike took another bite of his sandwich, wondering if he should feel flattered. Apparently she couldn’t believe he had been so stupid. He had let himself be kidnapped by the Scottish Mutt and Jeff, hadn’t he?

  “Why did you chase me through the park?” she said.

  “I wanted to talk to you about the brooch,” he answered truthfully. “It belongs to you, doesn’t it? The museum can’t go around playing finders-keepers like we could in the old days, you know.”

  She looked quite pale, almost greenish in this light. Like she was ready to throw up or something. Could be guilt, Michael theorized, taking another sandwich from the basket and biting into it. He was beginning to feel sorry for her. Maybe she had a conscience after all.

  “You expect me to believe you were just there to appraise my brooch?” she said, hands on her hips, her enormous blue eyes flashing. “Then why did you keep it?”

  Michael waited to answer until he had swallowed the food in his mouth. This was no time to forget his manners.

  “I wanted to return it. Every time I tried to, you ran away. I didn’t know where to find you. I didn’t even know your real name.”

  She smiled wryly. “What did you tell the police?”

  “I didn’t think it would be prudent to involve the museum in Mr. MacAlpin’s unfortunate … accident,” Mike said carefully, “so I didn’t stick around.”

  “It was an accident,” she said quickly, as if she had read his mind.

  “I believe you,” he said, chewing. She didn’t really look like a killer. She looked kind of cute, in fact. Mike’s thoughts were interrupted by a twangy voice from the corner. It was the older man with the patch over his eye, the one Lucy had called MacLean.

  “Excuse me, Dr. Fraser,” he said, sipping his tea, “but why dinna we return to the subject of the treasure?”

  “Since MacAlpin was dead and I had the brooch—” Mike shrugged, “I thought I might try to find this treasure he spoke of. Dumlagchtat was the obvious place to start looking, since it’s written on the back of the artifact. Professor Lackey told me the legend of the Fingon treasure. I’m staying at his cottage. But while we’re on the subject, I might ask Lucy what brings her here?”

  The girl flushed. “I’m looking for my family,” she said quietly.

  “But there aren’t any Fingons left on Lis, are there?” asked Mike. She looked at her shoes. The other man, Wharrie, leaped in to change the subject.

  “Ye said the brooch told where the treasure is. So where is it?”

  Wharrie was the big, red-faced one. He had barely spoken at all since they arrived, but neither had he relaxed his grip on the shotgun.

  Mike couldn’t help but smile. He’d lived so long in the institutional world of government bureaucracy and museum committees that it was refreshing to find someone who still believed life was so simple.

  “You just want to go and dig it up, I suppose,” he said gently. “It’s not as easy as that, my friend.”

  “Why not?” said Lucy.

  Mike finished the second sandwich and rubbed his hands together to dispose of the crumbs.

  “First, there may not be a treasure at all,” he said, trying not to sound professorial, but counting the point off against his finger nevertheless. “Just because I think it might be here, doesn’t mean that I’m right.

  “Second,” he continued, counting another finger, “there’s the question of ownership. Let’s say there is a treasure and let’s say it is buried where I think it is. To whom does it belong?”

  “To whoever finds it,” said Wharrie.

  “Not under Scottish law,” said Mike. “In fact it belongs to the property owner, who in this case is one Julius Fingon of Nova Scotia, Canada.”

  “A Fingon?” blinked Lucy, looking genuinely surprised. “In Nova Scotia?”

  “Julius Fingon bought the castle after the death of his distant cousin, Lord Geoffrey.” Mike nodded. “That’s what I went to Glasgow to find out. I’ve written for Julius Fingon’s permission to excavate, but it could be months before the legalities are ironed out.

  “Of course,” said Mike, c
ounting a third finger, “since the treasure may be connected with Kenneth mac Alpin, the government may try to claim it under the Historical Artifacts Act.”

  “Not if we dig it oop first an’ doon’t mention the fact,” said Wharrie humorlessly.

  “Fourth,” said Mike, ignoring the interruption and happily finishing with his hand, “you can’t just go out with a spade and dig up something like this. Part of the treasure is its archaeological value. An excavation must be planned and carefully executed to properly document the site for historical purposes. That could take years.”

  “Not if we dig it oop first an’ doon’t mention the fact,” repeated Wharrie.

  Mike was getting a little annoyed. It was frustrating to deal with people who couldn’t understand reality, even when you took great pains to illuminate it.

  “I told you,” he said levelly. “You can’t …”

  “Yer the one who canna, Dr. Fraser,” said MacLean. “Ye canna come here and steal our treasure and turn it over to some foreigner in Canada, tha’s wha’ ye canna do.”

  “But, there’s the question of ownership …”

  “Ownership be damned, man,” growled MacLean. “What’s in this for you, then?”

  “Well,” said Mike reasonably, “the museum might possibly propose to buy what it could from the proper owner … .”

  “And so Lucy and the rest of us would be cut out entirely!”

  Mike bit his lip and looked at Lucy, who seemed lost in thought. She was smart enough to understand the subtleties of the situation. Surely she could explain the facts of life to these rustics.

  “There are legal remedies Miss … Fingon … could apply if she believed she had a claim,” Mike declared with annoyance when Lucy didn’t come to his rescue. “The case would proceed through the courts. It might take some time, of course, but there’s a right way to do this and there’s a …”

  “Do we have a shovel?” the girl said suddenly.

  Mike couldn’t believe it. How could she even consider such a step? He tried to rise to his feet, but MacLean pushed him back.