An Unfolding Trap

by Jo A. Hiestand

  “I assume it’s here. Grandfather doesn’t go out much, does he?”

  “You’re thinking whoever this is will try something in the village?”

  “In all likelihood, it’ll be here at the house. I doubt if these people know Grandfather well enough to know his schedule.” McLaren hesitated, picturing the scene. “Does he have a schedule?”

  “Like, Tuesdays at the vicar’s for a game of bridge, Fridays meander along Loch Voil? No. I and the house staff, such as there is, do the errands and the shopping. He goes outdoors for a stroll around the village or to putter in his garden. Occasionally he’ll go into Callander or Edinburgh, but that’s about once or twice a year. There are no set dates for those excursions. So, no, I can’t see that anyone would be able to pinpoint him to an agenda. Even the gardening and strolling have no set day or time.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe this, Michael. It’s too difficult to do. What is it, by the way? An abduction? Hold him for ransom?”

  McLaren looked around the room. Most of the good pieces had been in the family for generations. Oil paintings, silver, tapestries. They would fetch something from a collector, probably, but some of it was a bit worn to command top price. “I believe so. Something about me as a lure…” He picked up his teacup but simply stared at the amber colored liquid. “It sounds daft when I tell it, but it scared me to death when I found out about it.”

  “You’re certain it’s about Neill? It can’t be…someone else?”

  “The only other person would be me. But my safety doesn’t concern me as much as grandfather’s.”

  Brandon poked the fire with the tongs, then settled back in his chair. “I’m not saying you’re wrong, Michael, but it doesn’t add up. Neill likes to play at being lord of the manor, but he has no ready cash. Oh, he’s got things,” he said, gesturing around the room, “but it’d take awhile to convert any of it into money. There are more richer men, much more accessible men to hold for ransom than Neill McLaren. You’ve got to be mistaken.”

  McLaren leaned forward again, his forearms on his thighs. “I agree I might be wrong, but are you willing to take that chance? The men whom I think are behind this are my enemies. They’ve been trying to get me for a while and something’s always gone wrong.”

  “That sounds so much like a script for a film. How’d you get enemies? People don’t usually acquire enemies, and certainly not on a level such as you’re suggesting. It smacks of”—He pulled in his bottom lip, his brows lowering in his concern—“of drug deals and robberies gone wrong. You’re…not involved in anything like that, are you?”

  “No, Uncle. It’s a hold-over from my police job. Sometimes there are a few criminals who can’t let go of hatred.”

  “I’m sorry. I had no idea those things really happened. You’re not in any imminent danger, though, I hope.”

  “As I said, I believe if my suspicion is correct the people are concentrating on grandfather. I’m in Scotland, a perfect place to carry out his plan because I’m away from my friends and ready help, and the man masterminding this has plotted this for months. He’s got long arms and local ruffians to do his dirty work. He hates me and wants me dead. If he can get to me by using Neill, either as a lure or as ransom, this man will do it. What I learned a few hours ago suggest very strongly that Neill will be used in this scheme. I don’t know how and I don’t know if it’s immediate physical danger. But I needed to let him, or you, know what may be coming quite soon. You can keep alert for strangers in the village or ringing your doorbell. You know of the danger, so you can act as a buffer between that and grandfather.”

  Brandon drew in a deep breath. “I think we’re safe enough, Michael. I know you’ve come here in good faith, and I’m touched that you think enough of your grandfather to warn him, despite what he’s done to you. Which I am in disagreement with, let me say. Dad has no great wealth that a kidnapper would want, nor is dad important in any political or religious way. He’s not prime minister or an ambassador, nor does he keep a high office. Therefore, I can’t see why he should attract the attention of which you’re speaking.”

  “He’s the lure, the bait to snag me. I thought I made it plain that I have men who are after me.”

  “You did. But even if that’s true, I don’t know why they would know where Dad lives. You didn’t tell them, did you?”

  McLaren frowned, his disgust nearly needling him into leaving. “Of course not. Who would I tell? And it’s not the sort of thing you blab in a pub. I don’t know how these men found out. Maybe they’re tailing me.”

  “You said you were a police officer, didn’t you?”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Wouldn’t you be aware of someone following you? Especially here.”

  “You live in the village. You’d know if the same vehicle shows up, if strangers have been here since Monday.”

  Brandon nodded, his lips turning up at the corners of his mouth. “I see your point. Well, I haven’t seen anyone I don’t know. But I suppose if someone’s really keen on staying hidden, he can do it. More so if he’s a professional criminal.”

  They sat for a moment, McLaren imagining different scenarios and thinking of vehicles or people who might conceivably stick with them a little too long. A log in the fireplace snapped and settled lower in the grate. He glanced at the shift of light and shadow on the western window. More shadow than light lay on the glass surface. Perhaps storm clouds were rolling up the glen.

  “Do you think I should tell Grandfather about this?” McLaren turned back to Brandon. “You obviously know him better than I do. Would he listen to me?”

  “To be truthful, I don’t think he’d even want to see you. If you recall this past Monday…” He grimaced, possibly embarrassed by his father’s actions. “I’ll tell him, of course, but I doubt if he’ll speak to you. If he finds you’ve been here, well, that’ll be bad enough. He won’t talk to you. I know that.”

  “I thought he wouldn’t, but I had to ask.”

  “You’re not worried for your own safety, Michael?”

  “I’m apprehensive, of course. I’d be a fool not to be. But I’m not going to deliberately get myself into a bad situation. My concern is for Grandfather. He could so easily be duped by some bloke’s story.”

  “Yes. Forewarned, as you say.”

  “I can’t stress strongly enough to be cautious. At least until Monday. I should be home by then and the danger to grandfather will be over.”

  “If there is any.” Brandon gave a half smile.

  “Assuming that I’m correct about using him to lure or trap me,” McLaren went on, annoyed by his uncle’s flippant attitude, “I won’t be near enough for that scheme to work. If it’s going to be effective, we have to be in the same vicinity.”

  “I’ll keep an eye on him. I always do. There’s not much we do together, really, but if I’m not here, one of the staff will be.”

  “You’ll tell them about letting anyone into the house, then?”

  “Certainly. Now, tell me about yourself. You asked about me when you first came in and I didn’t learn much about you. How are the farm and your job?”

  McLaren looked blank, reluctant to abandon the topic.

  “The house is basically as my parents left it, though I’ve been tempted to update a few things. My job…” He didn’t know how to respond. That it was basically a physical outlet for his anger and frustration, that he took pride in a well-coursed wall, that some days he was so tired and sore he could hardly get out of bed? He decided to side step the question. “I’ve more work than I can do.”

  “That’s never bad, is it?”

  “I suppose not, though I wish I could clone myself. All that money would be nice.”

  “Speaking of which.” Brandon leaned forward, looking secretive. “I’d like to give you half my inheritance when dad passes.”

  McLaren blinked, clearly astonished. “You…don’t have to do that, Uncle Brandon. It’s a generous gesture, of course, but I’ve done
nothing to warrant such a gift. You’ve worked for Grandfather. You’ve learned the brewery business and done all the running around that’s been needed. The money’s yours and I’d feel I was stealing if you gave me anything.”

  “I appreciate your feelings, Michael, but I wouldn’t have suggested this if I didn’t feel strongly about it. Colin, your dad, was the elder son. He would’ve received this inheritance if he’d stayed in Scotland and worked in the family business.”

  “But that’s just it. Dad moved to Derbyshire. He wasn’t connected to the brewery. He didn’t even visit you to keep the link alive. You did all the work and took over when he left. The money wasn’t dad’s and it’s not mine.”

  “I’ve given this a lot of thought, Michael, and this is what I want to do.”

  The wind whistled down the chimney, spreading the stench of ashes, as McLaren thought over the gift. He didn’t want to hurt his uncle’s feelings but he was embarrassed by the gesture. Nothing compelled the man to give the money away, of course. Well, nothing that McLaren knew. But would his uncle have offered if McLaren hadn’t shown up? Had his appearance spurred his uncle into a guilty offer?

  Brandon cleared his throat, bringing McLaren’s focus back to the man. “I want you to know that I’m not doing this out of any pressure or sense of obligation. I am doing it because, well, Dad is incredibly bloody-minded with certain subjects.”

  “My dad being one of them.”

  “Unfortunately. My dad—your grandfather, that is—wasn’t physically hurt when your dad left, but he carries that emotional wound still. Something died within him. Like a light went out of his life. I don’t just mean the dream of passing the brewery on to your dad, though that was extremely hard for him to take. I think it was more that his authority as head of the family was cast aside. There’d been no discussion about you and your parents leaving. Your dad just announced it over tea one day. The shock nearly killed your grandfather.” He leaned back, looking very tired and years older. “Oh, he survived. It wasn’t like he had a heart attack. But he was emotionally hurt to think Colin would leave the ancestral home and business and Scotland. It was as if all those generations of ancestors didn’t mean a thing to your dad.”

  McLaren nodded, his gaze on his uncle’s hands as he grasped the arms of the chair. “I was too young to understand the ramifications, but I see now what my dad’s decision did. I wish I could make it up to Granddad, but I can’t come into the family business. That’s just not for me.” He slanted his head slightly, peering at his uncle in the growing gloom. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes. It wasn’t my intention to shame you into coming back, Michael. I just thought the way your grandfather treated you was abominable, and I want to make amends. It’s the only way I know how.”

  “Sure. I understand. May I think about it? I don’t mean to refuse your gift, but please understand I feel uncomfortable with this, too. If I could think it over and let you know, not meaning to throw your gift back in your face…”

  “Certainly. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. Take your time.” Brandon reached for the teapot. “Ready for more tea?”

  McLaren glanced at his cup, drained the last of the lukewarm beverage, and shook his head. He stood up, pulling his car key from his jeans pocket. “I’ve something else to do before I end for the day. You’ll be sure to tell Grandfather about the danger to him, Uncle Brandon…”

  “Of course. I don’t want anything happening to him. You’re leaving already?” He looked astonished at the shortness of the visit.

  “Yes, sorry.”

  “You just got here.” He got up and walked to the door with McLaren. “Can’t you stay for a bit? We’ve a lot of years to catch up on, what you’ve been doing. I know so little about you, Michael. I’d like to get to know you…for your own sake as well as for your father’s.”

  “I’d like to stay and talk, but I can’t today, thanks all the same. Maybe I can stop in on my way back to Edinburgh. We could meet somewhere…” He glanced at the stairway as they came into the hall. What if the older man heard their voices and was coming downstairs? Would he let loose the dogs, as he had threatened Monday? Had he mellowed since then, regretted his hastiness, and wanted to welcome McLaren back to the family? McLaren hesitated in the middle of the entryway, his gaze shifting from the stairs to the main room. He listened for his grandfather’s footstep, wanting yet dreading to hear it.

  “Yes. That’ll be good.” Brandon opened the door and stood to one side. A breath of wind brought the coldness into the house. “Well, I’ll wait to hear from you then, shall I?”

  “I’ll ring in a few days and we’ll get together.” He stopped in the open doorway, unsure of what to do. He wanted to find his grandfather, tell him about the danger, make him listen, but his grandfather’s previous behavior practically guaranteed McLaren’s action would be foolish. “Well, I’ll see you in a bit,” he repeated, uneasy with the situation.

  “Sure. It’ll be like trying to hold back the tide, but I’ll wait to hear from you. Just don’t make it too long, Michael. I don’t want to lose you again.” He took a half step forward, then stopped, confusion on his face.

  McLaren stared at his uncle’s hand, then grasped his uncle in a hug. He held it for several seconds before murmuring his thanks, then walked to his car. When he turned to wave, he saw that the front door had already closed.

  ****

  It was getting on to half past one, and he hadn’t eaten since his early breakfast. McLaren backtracked his route, drove the nine miles south to Lade Inn. He stared at the mountain as he ate, imagined the area as it might have been centuries earlier, then finished his meal with a pint of Rannoch. Now that he’d been inside the family house and met his uncle, the tie to the beer meant more, gave the beverage more importance. After finishing his drink, he doubled back, driving to Balquhidder.

  He turned off the A84 again and minutes later passed Auchtubh. He didn’t slow down; he’d said all he could say to his uncle. Loch Voil lay ahead, and his car tires skimmed over the Balvaig bridge in his haste to see his ancestral village. The majority of the houses straddling both sides of the road disappeared behind him, leaving him in less populated country. Scrub and tufted grass claimed the land as though forcing out the few houses that remained rooted to the soil. He could see ahead to the loch, shining before him like a donkey’s carrot, and the rooftops of several houses along the loch’s northern edge. Fewer dotted the land on the south side of the water, letting the land reclaim its wild history. He was in the Braes of Balquhidder, the land embraced by the hills sitting north and west of Loch Voil and Loch Doine. A beautiful, rugged land that held a wild, rugged past.

  The village emerged from the glare of sunlight dancing on the loch water. He shielded his eyes, annoyed and immensely happy with the scene. Something tugged at his soul and he felt strangely alive. He passed a nineteenth century church, then stopped at one of the several bed-and-breakfast establishments crowding the road. After getting a room and unpacking, McLaren strolled around the village. No car’d followed him into the area, and he found himself whistling.

  Balquhidder sat at the eastern end of Loch Voil, a skinny finger of a lake that separated the wild Braes of Balquhidder on the north from the lower lying marshy area of Invernenty. No commercial shops dotted the main road, only the handful of guesthouses and self-catering cottages. Beyond them, on the gentle rise of the hill, the old church stood. Keeping it company were the ruins of an ancient seventeenth century worship place and the gravestones of the old clans that had inhabited the area.

  Above the glen floor, nearly fifty yards west of the church, a hill poked out from the twilight. Creag an Tuirc, McLaren thought, remembering the Gaelic name. The Boar’s Rock. The MacLaren clan’s ancient rallying point.

  He wandered down to the near end of the loch. The terrain here resembled a tufted carpet, with clumps of calf-high brown grass blanketing the flat land. On either side of the water the thick stand of evergreens rose,
dark against the dull green of the hills and the lighter gray of the mountaintops. Trailings of snow marbled the depressions in the hills, hugged the banks of the loch and river where the sun couldn’t reach them. He walked back to his room, whistling and feeling more optimistic than he had in days.

  His buoyancy crumbled the moment he spotted the torn Edinburgh Old Town pamphlet on the doormat, a stone positioned in the paper’s center to keep the wind from carrying if off.

  He pulled the pamphlet from its imprisonment and held it in the sunlight, as thought he needed every speck of light to see it. Why was it on his doorstep? Had someone left it there as a clue to Liza’s whereabouts? If so, why not just leave a note telling him where she was?

  He slipped it into his jacket, placing it flat against his chest, and sought out the bed-and-breakfast manager. He was in the dining room.

  McLaren coughed quietly and the man looked up from the place he was setting. “Yes, sir? Do you need something?” He looked surprised and helpful at the same time, a trait, McLaren thought, that had to be practiced.

  “Sorry to bother you. I wonder if anyone was here recently, asking for me.” He tried to keep the urgency from his voice, tried to imply he was passing the time of day or inquiring after a friend who might or might not stop by.

  The manager straightened and looked thoughtful. “No, sir. Nor did anyone query prior to your arrival or phone to see if you were coming or had arrived.” He paused, his eyebrows raised. “Is that of any help?”

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  “Are you expecting someone to arrive or phone you? I could take a message.” He looked hopeful and clasped his hands across his stomach.

  “No, I’m not.” He was about to go back to his room when he asked, “Have any of your guests come in or left the guesthouse?”

  “I don’t know what you mean. I have one other person besides you staying at the moment. He’s away in Inverness for the moment. He left yesterday and will return tomorrow. Is that what you want to know?”

  McLaren nodded, thanked the man, and wandered into his room. He slammed the door behind him and sank onto the chair. It made no sense.