Scammed (11 page)

Fearfully, he hurried to the window. But he knew that the buzzer could not have been heard from outside. Considering the short time it had sounded, confined to the shed and at this distance from the tripwire, logic told him that it was impossible. What he wasn't prepared for was his own reaction. Abruptly, he'd been transported from the land of fantasy, or at best theory, into a dimension of dreadful reality. He could almost feel the physical presence of the newcomer: a live villain, ruthless and surely dangerous, who'd been lured here by
him.

Face hot, mouth dry, Greg peered out into the night. The lighted area around the house was as empty as ever. He scanned the courtyard closely from end to end: not a flicker of movement, not the smallest thing out of place.

Nobody.

But then, anyone approaching down the drive, edging along slowly, as an intruder surely must, wouldn't yet have come into sight. They would creep and stop and watch and move on. A careful operator would take a long time, might even . . .

He was there!

At one moment, as Greg's glance slid across the dimly lit courtyard, the area near the front door was unoccupied. Then, as his scan reached the end of its sweep and swung back—it wasn't. As if transported by magic, a lone figure stood statue-still, illuminated by the yard light and the lesser glow of the moon.

Greg drew in a sharp breath, then involuntarily covered his mouth, as if the sound might have been heard. Impossible, of course. The figure remained motionless, its back steadfastly turned, attention entirely on the house.

Nothing happened for more than a minute. Then the figure began to move. Silently, it drifted toward the building. Mesmerized, Greg watched it gain the porch and reach the front door. A flashlight came on, a pinpoint that struck the door handle, then moved to the lock. Greg thought he heard a distant rattle as the handle was tried. Then the light swung around and hovered on a nearby window. Was this where the entry would occur? Would it happen right now? Or was it just a preliminary check, the start of a careful inspection? Obviously the break-in would happen sooner or later, but Greg had to know exactly when it did. He needed the thief to be inside, absorbed in his search, before calling in the law. His intention was to intercept the squad car as it arrived, warning the cops, so they could go in quietly and catch the thief red handed. That was what he'd been waiting for all this time, and he saw that the plan could work. But—once the call was made, the die was cast. If the police came too late, or alerted the suspect, he would escape. No second chances. Everything had to be timed just right.

The light swung away from the window. Staying low, it swept along one side of the house, then the other. The intruder then moved along the porch. Greg's heart sank. According to his bait letter, the safe containing the money was in the studio. But if the thief discovered that first, he would need much less time to understand there was no safe to find.

Greg was just cursing himself for being so specific when the movement on the verandah ceased. The figure stood still, as if in thought, then returned to the front door. There came the tinkle of breaking glass. It was the window that had been examined before, which led into the front hall. The intruder was motionless again, as if listening. Then, with a swift, lithe movement, he disappeared over the sill into the dark.

This was it: the moment Greg had awaited. Presumably, the intruder would now start his search. Since he couldn't know that the studio wasn't part of the main building, it would take him a while to find it. Only then would the hunt begin in earnest for the non-existent safe. Now was the time for that phone call.

Greg pulled out his cell and switched it on. When he saw the lit screen waving around, he realized how much his hand was shaking. The excitement of the hunt was upon him, anticipation buzzing through his body with delicious intensity. With a grunt of concentration, he brought up his hand to punch in the magical numbers: 9–1–1 . . .

But instead of hitting the number pad, he fumbled. His hand jostled the phone, knocking it flying. The instrument did a flip and started to fall. Greg grabbed for it but missed. His eyes followed the lighted screen as it plunged like an Olympic diver, down, down—straight into his coffee mug.

For a second, there was a dull glow from the bottom of the liquid. Then that went out.

Greg gasped in despair. He plunged his hand into the mug, frantically fishing, yanking out the cell. Its heaviness told him, even if the dead screen had not, just how fatal was the news: his lifeline was severed. After all the meticulous preparations, a freak accident had negated his entire plan.

Greg staggered to the shed door and wrenched it open, panting. Sick with shock and frustration, he started at the dark house. Inside, the thief was already moving about, his vile presence violating the place with what now would be impunity.

“Goddamn it!”

The expletive spurted forth like a pistol shot. Greg had no idea if the sound could be heard and didn't care. He wanted to scream his anger at the heavens. The only thing that stopped him was a sick lassitude, which began in his gut and spread through his entire frame. He swayed and almost fell, clutching the door frame. Nearly fainting, he hung there, his breathing low and shallow, until his strength slowly returned.

Bringing with it a desperate idea.

In the house, there was a landline phone. If he could creep in and call the police, without disturbing the intruder, his precious plan might yet be salvaged. It was a wild notion: ridiculous, impossible—terrifying.

And he had to try it.

T
he house where Greg had grown up, every part of which was safe and utterly familiar, had become an alien entity. Crouched in the gloom, barely revealed by the yard light, it seemed to vibrate with menace.

To approach it directly across the exposed courtyard was out of the question. Carrying his flashlight but using it as little as possible, Greg crept through the woods, heading for the wing on the far left of the house. Here the trees almost touched the building, so there would be cover all the way. From that point, it was but a short distance around the end to the door into the master bedroom. In there was the telephone.

Circling, he kept a nervous eye on the house. Since he was going in, he badly needed some indication of where the intruder was. No sensible burglar would put on lights, even if he thought the place was empty, so his position would likely only be shown by his flashlight. So far, Greg had seen no sign of it.

Then another factor belatedly occurred to him: what if the thief was not alone? What if a lookout was stationed nearby? If so, there was nothing to do but be extra careful, but the idea made him even more nervous and fearful.

Though no less determined.

Apart from tripping and painfully barking his shin at one point, he reached the house without incident. Then he was rewarded: from the window of his old room came a brief flash of light. After his first surprise, Greg paid closer attention. In the window, he made out a distinct glow, varying in intensity as the searcher moved about. Greg gulped in relief: for the moment, at least, he knew the whereabouts of his adversary.

A path led around the end of the left wing. Beyond, the sward that separated the house from the river was dimly washed in moonlight. Turning the corner, he came upon the French doors to the master bedroom. Immediately inside, beside the bed, was the phone.

Greg slipped over to the nearest door and peered in. Unrelieved dark. But there was no way to know if the intruder had checked the room already or hadn't yet arrived.

And time was passing. Once the police were alerted, there was no telling how long it would take them to respond. After he made the call, Greg would have to get out of the house again, and meet them at the road. So he'd better get going.

He reached for the door handle and turned. Nothing happened. The door didn't budge—and then Greg remembered why. “Jesus!” he muttered. “You idiot!” The door was locked. Days ago, in his bid to make the house seem convincingly deserted, he'd secured every entrance, and the only key he had was for the front door.

His reaction was almost as disconcerting as the discovery itself. Tears came to his eyes, and he had the infantile urge to stamp his foot. A strangled bray of laughter erupted from his throat. He thrust his fist into his mouth, feeling an insane desire to smash the locked door. Then something quite different came snaking up from a place deeper than his rage.
No!
a cold voice commanded.
You will not fall apart now. Pull yourself together.
And, more from surprise than anything else, he did just that.

All right! He had two choices: give up and abandon the place to the bastard he'd so longed to catch, or carry on regardless. There was really only one answer: after all he'd been through, he was damned if he was going to chicken out now.

He circled the house without incident. Ducking as he passed each window, so his silhouette would not be seen against the yard light, he at last reached the front. There was no further sign of the intruder, but he was worried about the crunch of glass if he stepped through the broken window. Then he had an idea: he'd heard somewhere that burglars, after breaking in, often unlocked doors, in case they needed a quick getaway. So, though his key was ready, he first tried the front-door handle. It opened so easily he almost fell in.

Greg recovered and entered, closing the door behind him. The click as the tongue slipped past the striker plate sounded like a hammer in the silence. He froze, quivering, waiting. No movement or sound from any direction.

He enjoyed one small advantage: he knew every inch of the premises. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, enough of the outside light filtered in to make cautious movement feasible. The bedrooms were down a short hallway to the left, straight ahead was the kitchen, to the right were the dining room and vast living room with its faux nativelodge structure. Greg had caught just one indication of the prowler, minutes ago, in the office. By now he could be anywhere.

The main phone, of which the master bedroom line was an extension, was in the kitchen. It was nearer to his present position but also more exposed. Greg was just weighing his options when his mind was made up for him. Approaching from the living area came footsteps, and a rapidly intensifying halo of light flooded the kitchen.

Adrenalin surged into Greg's gut, setting his heart hammering. Unprepared for the strength of the reaction, he almost tripped as he retreated toward the bedroom. His unconscious grip on the flashlight tightened and turned the switch, producing a brilliant beam of light. Frantically, he fumbled, trying to shield it while switching it off. Mercifully, the light went out, but the after-image on his retina was so strong that he was blinded. He ducked down, trying to avoid the attack that would surely follow.

Nothing. Clearing vision enabled Greg to see that the light in the kitchen was unchanged. And the sounds of searching coming from that direction were also reassuring: somehow, his blunder hadn't been noticed.

The door to the master bedroom was quite close. The intruder's location having been established, Greg's plan of action was clear: go into the bedroom, make his call, then get out immediately through the French doors. But he didn't do that. Reprieve from disaster had made him unexpectedly bold. He decided he wanted to get a glimpse of this soulless bastard who, not satisfied with conning his parents—and being the indirect cause of their deaths—was now trying to rob them again. A quick look, he rationalized, was even necessary, since he would have to be able to identify the person later.

Shifting the flashlight from hand to hand, holding it like a club but now extra-wary of the switch, Greg crept toward the kitchen. He could hear the search there still going on. The guy was thorough, give him that, and seemed to be on the far side of the room. Outside the doorway, Greg dropped to his haunches. Bracing himself against the wall, he peered cautiously around the corner.

The intruder was a dozen feet away, back half turned, fiddling with something on the table. A large flashlight was propped nearby, illuminating the kitchen in stark relief. Greg's first surprise was that the scene looked so mundane. He didn't know what he'd expected—some kind of monster?—but what confronted him was a perfectly ordinary man, about his own size though thicker set, dressed in dark, nondescript clothes, with his hair in a ponytail.

The fellow turned slightly and his activity was revealed: one hand held a mug and the other a bottle. He was pouring Glenfiddich into the mug and raising it to his lips. That was all there was to it: believing himself alone, with all the time in the world to do his business, the guy was taking some R & R with his victim's liquor. That alone would have been annoying, but the fact that what was being casually chugged was his father's Scotch—the one thing that had given Greg himself a little peace—was so infuriating that his present position seemed ridiculous. What was he doing, for God's sake, creeping around his own house like a sissy, when all he had to do was take this guy himself. He'd jump out and, before the bastard knew what was happening, knock him cold, and that would be that.

Greg was so agitated that he couldn't stay crouched down any longer. Stiffly, he stood. Eyes fixed on his opponent, rage becoming resolve, he gritted his jaw and prepared to spring, drawing back the flashlight to strike.

All of this happened in seconds and—as luck would have it—in silence. For just as Greg was poised to leap, the other man finished his drink and from the table casually picked up a gun.

As if struck by some paralyzing ray, Greg froze. The gun glinted in the torchlight, its shape unmistakable, the familiarity with which it was being handled chillingly obvious. It was all Greg could do not to cry out as he backed into the shadows. Safely out of sight, he almost collapsed, fear replacing his former bravado with humiliating swiftness.

But this also brought him to his senses. Even if the man hadn't been armed, had he honestly believed that a surprise attack with a flashlight would subdue him, a character who'd probably been street fighting all his life? By Greg, whose one incident involving fisticuffs had been a failed encounter with a high school bully? What on Earth had he been thinking? He'd come within a hair of a terrible mistake. Miraculously reprieved, he realized he'd better show his appreciation by getting on with what he had to do.