An Unfolding Trap

by Jo A. Hiestand

  Harvester moved and raised his head. His eyes, usually filled with disdain or loathing, had softened. Tears crowded in the corners, ready to spill down his cheeks. He leaned forward, as though about to get onto his knees. “McLaren?” The word came out in a blend of pain and plea, the yearning of his gaze underscoring his anguish.

  McLaren stared at the man at his feet. What was he supposed to feel? How should he respond? A different man groveled before him. He remained still, trying to understand his emotions and Harvester’s words.

  “McLaren. Please. Let me go. As one cop to another, for the brotherhood we shared. Help me. If you do, I-I’ll give you half the money. Half! Three quarters! Th-that’s a hell of a lot of brass. You can do a lot with that. Y-you’ll never have to work again. You’ll be set for life.” He took a breath and ran his tongue over his lips. They were wet from the sleet and rain. He tried to rise to his knees but buckled under the pain. “Listen.” He raised his arm, as though to grab McLaren’s hand. The effort was too much and he winced. He glanced at the drama still unfolding at the waterside, then turned back to McLaren. “Look. They’ll never know if you let me go. They’re busy at the loch. You…can get the sacks in the car, empty out part of the coins and gold bars. Stuff your pockets, hide it till they’ve gone. They’ll never know. I-I’ll never tell.” He gritted his teeth and took a deep breath. “Look,” he said when his words had no effect, “I’ve got a plan. I-it can’t miss.” He tried to scoot closer to McLaren, but the pain stopped him. “You see, I’m best mates with Monty.” He looked at McLaren, perhaps waiting for him to be impressed. “You can’t not know who he is! Montgomery. Field Marshal Bernard Montgomery. The hero of El Alamein and North Africa. Responsible for plans to invade Normandy on D-Day.” He waited for his words to sink in. “We-we’re like brothers, McLaren. He’ll do anything for me.”

  McLaren started to turn away.

  “Didn’t you hear me? Don’t you understand? Monty’s recovered the rest of the treasure. Th-there’s a film about it. Watch it, if you don’t believe me. It’ll prove I’m telling the truth. Casablanca. Yes, that’s it. You’ll see all about the money. He’ll divide it with us. He will!” He broke off, the sounds of the returning car soaring into his speech. He hurried on. “If you just tell them you were mistaken about everything, that this is…really my money, that you were helping me get it back, I’ll never trouble you again. You can take my gun. It’s worth a lot of quid—” He broke off as a wave of pain consumed him.

  The pistol lay on top of the rucksack beside McLaren. All he had to do was grab the weapon and shoot Harvester. An accurately placed bullet or two, a made-up story, and he’d forever be rid of the thorn in his side. He bent and picked up the Sig Sauer. It was a well-made weapon, just about top of the line. Expensive and deadly. He hefted it in his hand, remembering the rock Fowler had weighed in the same manner and thrown. Was it true, an eye for an eye? Was death by a gun the same as death by a rock? Did it make any difference to the victim or to the killer?

  McLaren glanced back at Harvester as a whimper of pain escaped the man’s lips. Why did he hesitate? Hadn’t he always dreamt of this moment, of this revenge?

  He took a step toward Harvester. He was so near that he could hear Harvester’s labored breathing, see the dark smear of dirt against the darker, wet clothing. McLaren raised the gun, sighted along the barrel and focused on Harvester’s head. His finger wrapped around the trigger.

  Harvester raised his head and in that instant must’ve realized he was a breath away from dying. He curled into the fetal position, his hands still grasping his wounded thigh, and tried to hide his head, to sink out of sight. The wet earth didn’t receive him. He curled tighter and sobbed.

  McLaren stared at Harvester. He saw both sides, now—the policeman and the criminal. Whether lunatic or genius, fear overwhelmed Harvester and he whimpered again for McLaren’s help. McLaren felt the cold of the metal trigger beneath his finger, then he walked slowly back to his room, repulsed with the scene.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The sleet and rain changed to snow in the early evening hours, dusting the ground and rooftops. A cold wind curled through the glen and eastward to Auchtubh and south to Callander, frosting everything it touched with white. Snow drifted over the rural roads and swirled in wraith-like wisps over the A84, but the major storm didn’t break for another twenty-four hours.

  Inside his house, Neill McLaren sat before his fire, the yellow light throwing black shadows across the floor and into the dark corners. The shadows merged with the darkness, as though implying that darkness comprised most of Neill’s entire world. He sank back into his chair, his arms resting heavily on the chair arms. It hadn’t always been so. Sparks of light and laughter illuminated parts of his life. If he closed his eyes, he could remember them, hear the laughter.

  His grandson’s birth had been a spark of light. A gleam of hope for the future of the family business. That future hadn’t evolved as everyone had assumed, leaving Neill angry and, if he admitted it, frightened. Three hundred years of labor and sacrifice to end like this, their name and work eventually passing to the hands of a stranger?

  Neill’s gaze dropped to the black and white tiles of the floor. A giant chessboard, he thought. Like his life, played out in a series of maneuvers to marry whom he wanted, hire whom he wanted, make business deals, create a demand for the product. His entire existence focused on one point. When had he ever done anything for anyone, paid attention to anything other than the brewery? How many music concerts, art exhibits, walks through moors and forests, fishing trips with Brandon had he missed? How many chances to become close to his family, to really know them, had slipped away?

  His fingers drummed on the chair’s armrest. He expected everyone to have the same passions and dreams consuming them. Was he lucky Brandon mirrored the passions and dreams, or had those expectations pushed Brandon into a business for which he didn’t care? Had he ruined his son’s life?

  Neill got up and set another log on the fire. The disturbance sent a flurry of sparks up the chimney. Sparks of light, glowing with hope.

  He shuffled to the window, suddenly feeling tired. The snowfall had nearly stopped, a few flakes drifting to earth but adding no depth to the whiteness blanketing the ground. The village lay silent under the clouds but for the yap of a fox. He’d left his tracks in the snow outside the house. Perhaps his grandson Michael was like that: making his own tracks regardless of the family company. Why wasn’t his path as important as Neill’s?

  The fire snapped and Neill turned, leaning against the wall. Perhaps his grandson showed as much determination to be a cop as Neill had in continuing the brewery. Perhaps Michael showed more resolve. He’d chosen a difficult and dangerous career. He should be lauded for it, not shunned.

  Neill smiled, Michael’s voice and face coming back to him. He would phone him, invite him back for Hogmanay. They’d ring out the old year and begin the new one together.

  ****

  McLaren and Ross lingered over dinner in the local restaurant. Harvester had been taken to a hospital for mental evaluation, and the money was in police custody. “Stolen goods awaiting return to the lawful owner,” as Ross had termed it.

  “When you said you wanted help”—Ross picked up his coffee cup and wrapped his hands around the warm china—“I had no idea what was coming.”

  “Neither did I,” McLaren said. “I don’t see how anyone could’ve known.”

  “Well, it’s a story to tell the grandkids. Buried treasure, a deserted cottage, clues in a map…I doubt if I’d have found any of it, Michael. I’m thankful the task fell to you.”

  “You not keen on deciphering puzzles?”

  “Not that. If I’d been handed this case at the start, and heard research was part of it…what?” He frowned, looking at McLaren. “What’s wrong?”

  “The last thing you said.”

  “About what?”

  “Something about if you’d had the case.”


  “Oh. I don’t know. Just that if I’d heard research was so important to the case—”

  “Damn! What a bloody, egotistical berk I’ve been!” McLaren slapped his palm against his forehead.

  “What’s the problem, lad?”

  “You said if you heard research was part of it. Heard. Spelled as the man’s name. Hurd. And research.”

  Ross blinked, clearly confused.

  “Hurd Dowell. At the beginning, when this started with the hit-and-run in Edinburgh, I of course thought it was about me.”

  “Because you suspected you’d been lured up here to meet your grandfather?”

  “Right. So I let that trick color my thinking for everything else. I assumed I’d been the intended victim, not Hurd. But I forgot he’d been a research librarian.”

  Ross shook his head. “Sorry. I don’t understand the significance.”

  “Liza Skene told me Hurd had been working on a project during his free time. What if that project came from Charlie Harvester? Look.” McLaren took out his notebook and pen, and drawing a mind map of the scheme as he explained it. “There was the original group of men from the war: George Roper, Frank Papadakis, and Tam Innes. They were all involved with the money and diary.”

  “Dating back to Corregidor. Right.”

  “The big stumbling block in my thinking was how to get the diary into Harvester’s hands. Lanny Clack accomplished that. He was the link. He was in King Roper’s gang and he was working with Harvester. I believe Lanny got the diary from King Roper and loaned it to Harvester.

  “That would’ve been the end of the story, but King Roper, being the career criminal and murderer that he is, doesn’t quite trust Lanny or Harvester. Especially because Harvester’s a cop, no matter what he tells Lanny about wanting to kill me.”

  “So, Lanny employs Hurd to research the Corregidor money for King Roper because Hurd is a research librarian.” Ross nodded, evidently satisfied with the scenario. “King figured Hurd would locate the whereabouts of the stolen money and King could get it before Harvester did.”

  “That’s how I figure it. But then the old fly in the ointment appears. Lanny doesn’t particularly like King. That’s not surprising for any of us to hear because most of King’s gang members don’t like him, but they stay with him because he pays well. Lanny, being a loyal friend, though perhaps none too bright in the intelligence department, tells his best friend Harvester what King’s up to.”

  “That there’s a potential double cross with the Corregidor money information, that King’s trying to locate the loot before Harvester does in spite of Harvester having the diary.”

  McLaren nodded and took a drink of beer. They and an older couple were the only diners left in the room. It had just gone ten o’clock and snow fell lazily, blazingly white from the exterior lamplight. McLaren wondered if either of the diners had served in World War Two, if they’d heard of or been involved with the Corregidor episode. They looked to be the correct age. Ross’ voice pulled him back from his thoughts.

  “So, Harvester has Lanny kill Hurd with the car, making it look like a hit-and-run accident. This pushes King Roper out of the treasure hunt game. His prime researcher has just been eliminated and Harvester seems to hold the trump card.”

  “If you ever get any sense from Harvester, he can confirm it, I suppose.” McLaren exhaled loudly. That day could be a long time coming. Harvester had been babbling about returning to Corregidor under authority of bona vacantia, or vacant goods, and demanding to search the Bay for other jettisoned coins. Never mind that reality told a different scenario to Harvester’s fantasy. McLaren shook his head. Poor old Harvester. He’d have an uphill battle convincing the U.S. government they didn’t own the money.

  He shoved aside his mental image of Harvester and made another notation in the mind map drawing. “Anyway, the car accident was intended to stop Hurd from researching the Corregidor money and stop him from telling King what he knew. Liza Skene and me coming up to him and talking to him had nothing to do with me as the victim. I just happened to talk to them.”

  “Then, Hurd was already in Lanny’s target sight when you came by.”

  “I think so. Of course, you can check phone records, but I believe Harvester phoned Lanny on his mobile to tell him where Hurd was. Harvester had to silence Hurd once the research finished, so Harvester would keep tabs on him. Maybe Harvester was across the street in a shop so he could see Hurd. But I think that’s how Lanny knew where Hurd was so he could run him down.”

  Ross waited until the waiter had refilled his coffee cup and left before replying. “No wonder you got the wrong impression. With the scheme involving your grandfather and the nicely laid out diary and map, then the attempt on your life at the Boar’s Rock, well, anyone would think the car accident was part of it.”

  “And Lanny, under Harvester’s orders and probably with Fowler’s help, did transport me to Invernenty Glen and left me to find Donald MacLaren’s cottage so I could stumble upon the diary and get on with the chase.”

  Ross took a long drink of coffee, as though needing the caffeine to anchor him to reality. “All this…Hurd’s murder, Fowler’s drowning, Lanny’s murder, your knife wound, Harvester’s hospital admittance. All this because one man during World War Two got greedy, and got two of his mates involved in the web.” Ross took out his wallet and reached for the bill. “Too many people in the way. As you were eventually.”

  “Just in the way,” McLaren said, his voice low. “But not for long. Harvester caught up with me here.”

  Ross stretched, his fatigue evident in his voice. “I’m just thankful the good guy won.”

  ****

  McLaren left Balquhidder early the following morning. The snow had tapered off around midnight, leaving a thin crust of white on the ground. Blue sky stretched over the glen; there was no hint of wind.

  He brushed the snow from his car’s windscreens, threw his overnight bag into the back, and walked up to the Boar’s Rock. The view was magnificent: a long stretch of Loch Voil cradled by the steep hills, the stands of forest dark against patches of new snow, the streaks of high, white clouds. He looked at the rock mound commemorating the clan’s ancient rallying point, rubbed his bare hand over its surface. Centuries of fighting, hardship, and heartache were symbolized in the monument. But love and happiness also were encased. Perhaps families had stayed together and found contentment where they could.

  McLaren picked up a small stone from the ground. He ran his fingers over its smooth surface. The perfect souvenir. An ideal reminder of all the rocks he’d encountered. He leaned against the monument, gazing at the loch, mentally writing his list: the Corregidor Rock, the Boar’s Rock, Donald MacLaren’s rock cottage where he found the diary and map, the rock shieling where Liza had been kept prisoner and Lanny Clack lost his life…

  He placed the rock into the back pocket of his jeans, slowly, carefully, as though it might break. He patted it to assure himself it was there, then walked down the hill and to his car. He settled into the driver’s seat, aware of the rock pressing into his lower back, yet needing to feel the connection to his family and his past.

  As he turned onto the A84, heading for Edinburgh, the village slipped behind him. He started to sing “Lenachan’s Farewell”. But a different lyric formed in his mind. The tires hummed on the tarmac as new words and a new title suggested themselves. “McLaren’s Farewell”, he thought.

  Fare thee weel, my native land,

  Heather moors and alder tree!

  Sweet the sight but hard the fate

  0’ the lad who parts wi’ thee.

  Tho’ my grandsire’s heart is stone,

  And disclaimed me as his own

  Still, I’m free the hills to roam,

  Mair content I canna be.

  ~*~

  Rock for shieling, rock for homes,

  Rock-named fortress in the sea,

  Rock for Clan and gath’ring cry,

  Keeping life and spirit free;
/>   Misty glens urge me to stray

  I slow my step, I turn away;

  Here nae langer I maun stay

  Mair content I’ll never be.

  He smiled. It was fitting. He would be back to celebrate New Year with his grandfather. He was content.

  A word about the author…

  Books, Girl Scouts, and music filled Jo A. Hiestand’s childhood. She discovered the magic of words and the worlds they create: mysteries, English medieval history, the natural world. She explored the joys of the outdoors through Girl Scout camping trips and summers as a canoeing instructor and camp counselor. Brought up on classical, big band, and baroque music, she was groomed as a concert pianist until forsaking the piano for the harpsichord. She also plays a Martin guitar and has sung in a semi-professional folkgroup in the US and as a soloist in England.

  This mixture formed the foundation for her writing. A true Anglophile, Jo wanted to create a mystery series that featured a British police detective who left the Force over an injustice and now investigates cold cases on his own. The result is the McLaren Mysteries.

  Jo’s insistence on accuracy—from police methods and location layout to the general “feel” of the area—has driven her innumerable times to Derbyshire. These explorations and conferences with police friends provide the detail filling the books.

  In 1999 Jo returned to Webster University to major in English. She graduated in 2001 with a BA degree and departmental honors.

  She has employed her love of writing, board games, and music in other ways by co-inventing a mystery-solving game, P.I.R.A.T.E.S., which uses maps, graphics, song lyrics, and other clues to lead the players to the lost treasure.

  Jo founded the Greater St. Louis Chapter of Sisters in Crime, serving as its first president. She is also a member of Mystery Writers of America. She also enjoys photography, reading, change ringing, and her backyard wildlife.

  http://www.johiestand.com

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