As he struck another match, he prayed that the flame would take hold, that the wood wasn’t too damp. The match shook in his hand and he placed his left hand over his right fist, steadying the flame. A gust of wind curled around his body and the flame went out in a puff of smoke and an aroma of sulfur.
He shifted around on his knees, presenting his back squarely to the door. Not that it did much good, for the cottage was roofless and lacked one entire wall. But he bent over the matchbook and lit another match, guarding it with his body as though he protected his newborn infant. The flame flared in the dark and caught the dried grass, then lapped greedily at the twigs.
The wood snapped and popped. McLaren added larger twigs and branches to the fire, forcing himself to go slowly. He wanted a bonfire but knew he must build up to it. If he went too fast, the flames would be smothered and he’d be plunged into the darkness and cold again.
He moved slowly, making certain the piece of wood burnt well before adding a larger piece. Minutes later he sat back and held out his hands to the heat and light. The fire burnt well and released the aromas of burning pine and dry grass into the air.
McLaren settled against the edge of the fireplace, getting as close as he could to the blaze. It was the first time he could see the remnants of his struggle. Mud, of course, caked his shoes, as it did the lower halves of his jeans. Mud also spattered other areas of his jeans and some of his jacket. A darker smear, probably blood from where he wiped off his hand, arched across the bottom of his jacket. He sagged against the lintel, the rounded rocks of the chimney’s edge pressing into his back. Donald MacLaren, his ancestor, seemed to take over the room.
The man had hidden in a bog, covered with turf, if one believed the tales. Donald had escaped and survived. But that had been in August, McLaren reminded himself. This was December. Much different. Still, the man had lived through his ordeal. McLaren was of the same stock; he’d live through his.
Perhaps he was in Donald MacLaren’s cottage.
McLaren went to the doorway and looked outside. The sleet had stopped, the thin line of rain clouds moved eastward. Now that the moon had escaped its cloudy imprisonment, the land lay exposed. The glen stretched in silvery patches of water where the moonlight hit them, the mountains supplying a somber, steep backdrop. Glints of water twisted through the brush and fed into a loch. He assumed it to be the River Lairg, as he’d previously suspected, but there were hundreds of rivers in Scotland. He could be just about anywhere.
He settled back by the fire. Daylight would be time to see where he was. Maybe he was near an inhabited farm.
He flipped open his mobile phone. Wherever he was, he was out of a cell tower’s range. Exasperated, he closed it and shoved it back into his jacket pocket.
Cold from the rock wall and the ground bore into McLaren’s body. He stacked some larger logs onto the fire, angled his back into the corner, and fell asleep. When he woke, daylight hugged the eastern horizon.
He got up, stretching from the cold and huddled position. The fire had dwindled to hardly more than embers but he added more twigs and fanned the coals into flame. As the blaze caught, he reached for another log.
A sliver of silver winked at him from the spot where the log had been. He moved aside a few logs so the firelight could illuminate the recess. Several silver coins lay on the floor, half covered by dust.
He picked up a coin and angled it toward the firelight. Silver and heavy, it measured perhaps an inch in diameter. A man’s profile claimed most of the observe side, with the words “President of the United States” arched around his head. The man wore spectacles, a tie, and a suit coat. The reserve side depicted a longhaired woman in a diaphanous dress. She held a hammer or mallet in her right hand. The head of the tool rested on an anvil. A triangular object that McLaren couldn’t make out stood behind her. The words “one peso” curved on either side of the woman’s head, and “Filipinas” arches under her feet along the coin’s lower edge.
The majority of the coins were this style, although an eagle and shield replaced the man on some of the silver pieces. “United States of America” and 1909 circled the coin’s face.
McLaren pulled out the logs, tossing them across the floor. A canvas bag, nearly rotted with age and exposure to the weather, lay half tucked behind a loose rock in the wall. He eased it out from the remaining sticks. A large hole along the bottom edge gaped open and another dozen coins spilled onto the ground. He felt the bag, making certain it was empty. His fingers traveled the length of a rigid object. He judged it approximately six inches in length and four inches wide. He loosened the cords around the neck of the bag, peered inside, and drew out a black leather notebook.
He blew off the dirt and grasped the book by its spine. Shaking it dislodged more dirt and bits of brittle paper. He laid the notebook on a flat stone by the fire and opened the cover. A label bearing the note Property of George Roper adhered to the inside. A small tear ran the length of the label and a corner was missing, but it suffered no other damage. He couldn’t say the same for the rest of the book, however. The first few pages had been torn out or discarded; pieces of paper still clung to the sewn gutter. He leafed through the book and scanned the first sentences on each page. It seemed to be George Roper’s diary. From World War Two.
Few pages still adhered to the sewn spine of the notebook. He counted them, turning them over and glancing at each sheet’s front and back. Five pages. Five pages in a notebook that probably originally held thirty or fifty. Most of the torn out sheets of paper were in the later section of the book, giving the cover a loose, floppy fit when it closed. The existing five pages taunted him. What had happened to the other pages, and who had ripped them out? Better yet, why had they been ripped out?
The light was not strong in the cottage, and the faded ink was hardly darker than the paper, but McLaren could read snatches of the entries. The words “Corregidor” and “The Rock” and “silver pesos” burned his imagination with the intensity of a fire. What happened seventy years ago?
He closed the book, stuffed it and the coins into his jacket pockets, and dumped snow onto the fire. It died in a series of hisses and wisps of smoke. He stirred the embers with a branch, making certain it was out, then left the cottage. There was enough daylight that he could see the terrain and hopefully make his way back to Balquhidder.
And to his room at the bed-and-breakfast. He needed to think, to piece together the strange events. If Harvester wanted McLaren permanently disposed of, why play around? If Harvester had failed to kill McLaren with the hit-and-run, if he or Lanny or someone else had knocked McLaren out and dumped him into the snow to die, why wouldn’t they have killed him now, here? There were no witnesses to worry about. And perhaps more puzzling, how could Lanny or Harvester follow him to Balquhidder? He’d told Uncle Brandon to be alert to unfamiliar cars and people. Had McLaren failed to take his own advice? Had Harvester followed him from Lade Inn yesterday afternoon, climbed up the hill at the Boar’s Rock, and struck him on the head? It seemed unlikely. Wouldn’t he have noticed a car following him all that distance, heard someone climbing the hill?
If Harvester had followed him, perhaps he hadn’t turned off at the village. Perhaps he used his mobile to phone Lanny and tell him where McLaren was headed. A different car and person could easily tail him when the first car gave up the chase.
The questions echoed in his mind, pounding more than his headache. Harvester certainly wanted McLaren dead, so why pussyfoot around? He could’ve shot or knifed McLaren at the Boar’s Rock. Why hadn’t he? Because he had some other use for McLaren? Because this was some sort of game or message?
He stopped several yards from the cottage and turned to look at it. In the morning light he could see it was most likely eighteenth century. The time period fit with it being Donald MacLaren’s. Or, if not his, from someone of the clan. And if he was correct about the cottage, he was probably in Invernenty, the stretch of land near Loch Doine. About six miles west of Balquhidd
er.
McLaren glanced at his watch. Eight o’clock. Late sunrise in winter. He wandered down to the loch and sighted along its shoreline. It ran roughly east to west, which fit the geography of Loch Doine. Satisfied, he trudged off to his right, into the sunlight, hoping his assumption was correct. If not, he could be walking away from houses where he could get help.
The sunlight strengthened as the hours passed. The walking was slow and tedious, his shoes weighed down by water and mud. He reached the eastern edge of the loch where it narrowed into a river. He followed that and came upon a larger loch. Loch Voil?
He stopped and looked around as he fought for breath. The flat land offered nothing to sit on as he rested. He doubled over, his hands on his knees. His chest rose and fell painfully as he gulped in the cold air.
Minutes later, he walked on. The marshy soil gave way to the firm footing of packed earth and his eye fixed on a low-pitched roof that emerged slowly from the ground. Somewhat later, stone walls supported the roof and gave it height. A wire fence and wooden posts grew around a section of land adjacent to the barn, for that’s what McLaren assumed it to be. A second structure, made of the same gray stone, looked to be a house. A stony courtyard stretched from the house and encompassed the land around the barn. As he got nearer he could make out bright yellow curtains in the window and a late model pickup truck beside the house. The lowing of cattle and a snatch of music, mingled with the aromas of coffee and steamy manure, floated out from the open barn doors. He ran his fingers over the bales of hay stacked against the structure’s wall and stopped in the open doorway. The barn held the warmth of penned animals.
“Hello?” His voice sounded strange to him. Hollow and exhausted. The tone of a stranger.
The music stopped and a voice announced “Good morning. This is BBC Radio Scotland. Weather today for Edinburgh and the central region…” The listener turned off the radio. Metal cans clinked, rubber boots squeaked on stone, and a whistled tune broke the silence.
McLaren called again.
“Aye?” The voice, low and male, sounded rough from smoking or working over peat fires.
“Sorry to disturb you.” McLaren clenched and unclenched his fingers to keep the blood flowing. “I’ve lost my way.”
A figure emerged from the gloom at the back of the barn. There was a movement as he set down two large milk cans, then walked forward warily. He stopped just short of the shaft of sunlight slanting through an upper window. “Who are ye, then?” The fingers of his right hand curled around the handle of a pitchfork leaning against the wooden stall.
“My name’s McLaren. Michael McLaren.” He paused, hoping the surname would mean something to the man, would create a link of trust.
“Oh, aye?” The response neither welcomed nor banished McLaren. It merely acknowledged his presence.
McLaren debated briefly if he should mention his uncle or grandfather, wondered if their names would work any magic. Perhaps only if he was on ancestral MacLaren land. If he were in another glen where the MacLarens weren’t very welcome…
The man responded before McLaren could decide. “Are ye up from the big house, then?”
“No. Though I’m kin to Neill McLaren.”
“Aye, so?”
“He’s my grandfather. Brandon’s my uncle.” He threw in the name as extra confirmation of his relationship.
The man stared at McLaren, perhaps considering the kinship or if there was a physical likeness in McLaren’s face. A cow bawled, the noise breaking against the stone walls, and the man nodded and moved forward. “Are ye wantin’ somethin’ here?”
“I’m afraid I’m lost. I was wandering about the village last night…Balquhidder,” he added, in case he was somewhere else. “Night fell rather quickly and I got disoriented. It caught me on the moor. I-I’m not sure where I am.” He hoped he didn’t sound foolish, show himself a berk if the village was close enough to hit with a thrown rock, as the saying went.
“Ye spent the night on the moor, did ye?” The man frowned, eyeing McLaren as if to ascertain the truth. His unspoken question resonated loudly in McLaren’s mind: how could McLaren have survived the night in the sleet and wind?
McLaren answered the man’s tactic question. “I was lucky enough to find an old cottage. A ruin near a loch. I built a fire on the hearth and stayed warm that way.” He blew on his fingers; he could still feel the cold.
“Passed the night no better than one of your ancestors, huddled over the fire.” The man smiled slightly, exposing a mouth of crooked or missing teeth. He ran his gnarled right hand through his hair, as though trying to smooth it down. The white wisps stirred in the wind racing through the open door. He pulled the edges of his grimy jacket together, hooking it closed by the button at his waist. Removing his gloves, he eyed McLaren’s wet and muddy clothing. They seemed to support his story. The man nodded toward the open door. “Ye’d best have a cup o’ somethin’ hot, then. Tea or coffee with a wee goldie to get your blood leapin’ again.”
“Thanks, but I’d rather just keep going. I’m afraid if I sit down I’ll never get up. Would you tell me where the village lies?”
“Balquhidder?”
“Yes. I’ve a room at one of the guesthouses. I’m anxious for a shower.” He glanced at his dirty jeans, as though to underscore his situation.
“Ye’re here. Well, near as. My farm lies on the south o’ the loch.”
“Loch Voil?”
“Aye. Ye’ve just a short tramp to go. Maybe a mile or so. I’ve never had cause to mark it off. But keep goin’ east, like ye were doin’. Ye’ll get to the village proper, right enough.”
McLaren thanked him and practically ran up the road.
Chapter Eleven
McLaren stood in the hot shower, letting the heat pound his body. His muscles relaxed, and he flexed his shoulders and fingers. The cold and stiffness that had consumed him for twelve hours evaporated, leaving him feeling as though he might live after all. The back of his head was still tender and throbbed. His fingers found a gash beside the swelling but the blood had dried and seemed to be forming a scab. He dabbed some aftershave on it, thinking it was more show than preventive, hoping the alcohol would kill any germs still around the angry cut. If the sleet, mud and smoke hadn’t infected it by now, he’d be lucky. He dried off and dressed. It was then that he realized he wasn’t wearing his leather bracelet.
It matched his necklace. Dena had given both to him. He never took them off.
He looked around his room, opening dresser drawers, peering under the bed and through the sheets, felt inside the compartments of his rucksack. The bracelet wasn’t there.
He sat on the edge of the bed. Of course he’d had it in Edinburgh. He remembered feeling it and seeing it after the adventure at the bus stop. And he had it when he left Jean MacNab’s guesthouse. So how and where did he lose it? The only other places he could have lost it were Lade Inn, the Boar’s Rock, Donald MacLaren’s cottage, and that marshy moor.
He groaned, leaning forward and rubbing his head. Had the bracelet come off when he searched around in the snow? He’d never find it, if it had.
The sunlight slid onto the foot of his bed, nudging him to get on with his day. He left his room and wandered into the guesthouse’s dining room. One table held a place setting, and he sat in the sun, sipping his coffee after he’d finished his meal. He wondered if he’d ever complain about summer temperatures again.
His mobile rang as he reached for a second slice of toast. He glanced at the Caller ID display and answered. “Jamie. You’re up early.”
“Not by choice. I have the information you wanted.”
McLaren rubbed his forehead. Had he asked Jamie to investigate something? Had the attack wiped out part of his memory? What else had he forgotten?
“Mike?” Jamie’s voice nudged him to reply.
“Yeah. This isn’t the best time for this.” He looked around the room. No one else was there. Was he overly cautious?
“You wi
th someone?”
“No, but the owner could come into the dining room at any minute.”
“You needn’t make any incriminating reply, for God’s sake. I was just going to tell you the connection between Lanny Clack and Jean MacNab.”
McLaren nodded, recalling the photo in the Edinburgh guesthouse that showed the smiling faces of Lanny, Jean and Harvester. “All right. If I don’t have to take copious notes, what did you find out?”
“Lanny, Jean and your ole mate Harvester are as thick as thieves, which is more than a phrase.”
“You’re joking.”
“Wish I were. Lanny has been convicted of theft, robbery, assault, and domestic violence, as I told you previously. He started out as a small time thug in his early teenaged years, as a lot of criminals do. But he’s honed those skills to where he’s now a member of a gang.”
“The one that has that delightful skull graphic?”
“Right. The head of it—the gang, not the graphic—is a bloke you may remember from your time in the job. King Roper.”
“Yeah. I recall the name. I never had any contact with him. I guess he never strayed as far south as Staffordshire.”
“Consider yourself lucky. King Roper is one experience you don’t want.”
“I’d heard he was a nasty piece of work.”
“You do have a delightful turn of a phrase, Mike. Murder, extortion, assault, smuggling, to name a few of his interests. He’d had a series of nasty run-ins with cops in CID here in Derbyshire. That went on for a few months, sent several officers to hospital.”
“Are they all right?”
“Now they are, but it was touch and go for one chief inspector. Quite serious. No one knew if he’d live. He’s made a full recovery, though, which got up Roper’s nose.”
“Glad to hear it—about the chief inspector and Roper’s irritation. That piece of trash sounds like someone needs to step on him.”
An Unfolding Trap Page 14
