Scammed (25 page)

Then something red and black and unbearably starry white exploded in his head—and there was nothing.

I
'm dead
. That was his first conviction, after dream-like thought processes coalesced into consciousness; then pain crowded in, letting him know with sour certainty that he was not. The throbbing was centred in the back of his head, radiating forward to the blood-tinged blackness behind his closed eyelids. But it wasn't only there. As his awareness expanded, he realized that his whole body ached—neck, torso, arms and legs—as if he'd been thrown down and rolled over by a bulldozer.

Christ, I've been in a car accident
, he thought, and opened his eyes.

He was lying face down on a hardwood floor. That much he knew, because the shiny, grained surface was literally inches from his eyes. The fact was, he could only see with one of them, since the other was flattened against the floor, the most comfortless pillow he had ever known. Gingerly, he tried to relieve the pressure by moving his head, but found that he could not. Since he was on his stomach, he needed to roll. However, when he tried to move, he discovered that both sets of limbs were tied, arms securely behind his back, ankles to each other.

This information was followed by a sickening kaleidoscope of returning memory. His painful resting place was the Lynley living room, where he'd been—not shot, apparently—bludgeoned and hogtied.

Better than being dead.

Then Greg had another thought. It didn't decrease his discomfort, but made enduring it easier: if Jay had gone to the trouble of merely immobilizing him, rather than using his gun, he was unlikely to have done worse to the women.

That sent a surge of energy through Greg's tightly trussed frame. It gave him the strength to lift and twist his body enough to be able to roll onto his side, and he found himself gazing across the strange terrain of the floor. A foot in front of him, like a huge, squashed insect, was the ruin of what had been his cellphone. Beyond, at the limit of his vision, was the entrance to the hall. Somewhere beyond, please God in no worse straits than himself, were the women. If that were the case, Lucy would probably be all right. But what about her mother?

“Lucy!” The word croaked out, like the call of a half-strangled frog. Even should she be alert and listening, she was unlikely to hear. He tried again, with no better results, and decided that calling was futile. But lying passively and waiting for eventual release wasn't an option either.

Now that he was on his side, he discovered that, with great difficulty, he could roll right over onto his back. He drew up his knees and, though experiencing considerable pain from stiffened muscles, managed to sit up.

Only then could he see that his legs were bound not by rope but by a thick winding of silver duct tape. His arms, behind him, were presumably secured the same way. He tried to tug them apart, but stopped at once; it felt as if he were straining against bands of steel.
Damn you, Jay
, he thought bitterly, then, remembering the alternative, began concentrating on what he needed to do to get free.

The first thing he found was that by extending his legs, then executing a sort of wriggle-and-pull motion with his rear end, he could move across the floor. The process was clumsy and painfully slow, but he made it to the couch. What to do then? He leaned his shoulder against the couch, pulling his legs up and attempting to get his head and the top of his body onto the level surface so he could use it as support; then he would twist around, get his bound legs under him, and thus stand. The first time he tried, his shoulder slipped off the couch and he fell back down, hitting his head a stunning crack on the floor and ending in a position almost identical to when he'd first become conscious. This time he really did curse; it was either that or burst into tears. Using rage as a goad, he started over, first turning onto his back, then sitting up again. Once more he leaned over the couch—this time with shoulder properly planted—then humped and heaved more of his upper torso onto the soft surface. He got his legs underneath him and at last, with a mighty twist of shoulders and back, managed to throw himself into a standing crouch. Straightening his creaking knees brought him fully upright.

He stood panting, leaning against the arm of the couch, fighting not just gravity but a change in blood pressure that made his head swim. For a moment he feared he would faint and collapse again. He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, holding onto consciousness by sheer strength of will. Slowly, the dizziness receded and he opened his eyes again.

Now all he could think of was the women. “Lucy!” he called. “Lucy, can you hear me?” There was no reply. He had to get to her. But the only way he could move was by little jumps. The first leap gained mere inches and a stumble that almost sent him flying. But the next try was better, and soon he was making a slow but steady pace across the living room.

When he reached the hall, he changed his mind. Whatever condition Lucy and Shirl were in, he couldn't help them trussed up like a turkey. The first thing, obviously, was to get loose.

He turned back and examined the living room, spotting nothing he could use to free himself. The kitchen seemed a formidable detour, but it was a more likely place. He shuffle-hopped there in what felt like a minor eternity to begin his search. Of course, there were many implements, scissors, knives, et cetera, that were fine for cutting duct tape, if only there had been someone to help him.

What he needed, he realized, was something securely fixed, with protruding edges that could be used to lacerate the tape. The woodstove, standing in one corner, had some likely-looking sharp edges, but they all were too low, or on the wrong angle for his purpose. Then his eyes fixed on something close and simple. One end of the kitchen counter had a sharp corner, at what seemed just the right height. He hopped over to it and backed in. Yes, the position was perfect. He could rest his wrists against the counter and then, jigging up and down with his knees, rub the sharp corner against the imprisoning tape. He tried it—too strenuously the first time; the tape slipped off the corner and, in trying to keep his balance, he gouged the flesh of his wrist. The pain made him yell out, and he could feel wet warmth on his hands. But he recovered, repositioned his arms and started again.

At that moment, a long, low cry came from somewhere off in the house.

He stopped. Called out. Waited. The cry came again. But it was not a response. It was a signal of distress—and the only way he could help was by not letting it distract him from his task.

Ignoring all subsequent sounds, he set to work. With the taped area between his wrists held taut, he began to rub it against the sharp corner. Up, down, up, down. He had no idea of the effect, could neither see nor feel what was happening. All he could do was try to keep the point of resistance in place and continue rubbing. Soon his knees, which were doing most of the work, began to grow weary and then to ache like hell. The crack in his ass also tended to come in contact with the corner lower down, and the fabric of his pants grew hot with the friction. It seemed that before the tape wore through, he was going to wear a nasty groove in himself. But he kept going. He had to—
had to!

Then, as he was growing desperate, he felt movement. It was in his wrists: not much, but definitely something. And it gave his failing will a boost. Up and down he went, putting more pressure on his binding. At last, in the midst of a down-thrust, the corner caught, then burst right through the tape. He twisted and jerked, and there came a dull tearing sound. He leaned back, applying outward elbow leverage while he thrust his arms down. There was a final rip, he fell forward on his knees—and his wrists parted.

For a moment, as the strain on his back and shoulders was released and his arms whipped around to the front, the pain was so excruciating that he was sure something must be broken. Crouching on the floor, his unleashed limbs dangling like dead things, the left wrist dripping blood, he again felt on the verge of fainting. But the worst of the pain passed swiftly, making way for the exhilaration of freedom.

Well, near-freedom. He still had to deal with his taped ankles, but with two good, if battered, hands, this took no time at all. Without leaving his knees, he could reach the knife block on the counter. He plucked out a knife, fumbled, and had to duck as it sailed over his head. More cautiously he extracted another and sliced through his last restraint. Dropping the knife and letting his head fall onto his chest, he gave one long, heartfelt exhalation of breath. He'd done it.

At that moment there came another dreadful moan.

“Christ!” Greg cried, scrambling to his feet. “Coming—
I' m coming!
”

In a shambling trot, he crossed the kitchen and hurried down the hall, heading for the source of the sound, which he guessed to be Shirl Lynley's bedroom. On the threshold he stopped, leaning against the door frame as he gazed at the scene inside.

Light came from just one source, a bed lamp, which cast long shadows across the room. On the bed lay Shirl Lynley. Her eyes were open, but she made no movement to register his arrival.

Lucy was seated nearby. Though within arm's length of her mother, she could not reach her. Thick loops of tape fastened her body to the chair and her wrists to its arms. More loops secured her ankles. A thick piece of tape had been plastered across her lower face. Lucy's eyes were round and anguished, gazing across the unbridgeable gulf to her mother. From beneath the gag she again made the bonechilling moan.

“
Lucy!
” Greg cried, and only then did she see him. She began to make gurgling sounds, nodding desperately in the direction of her mother.

Greg wasn't sure what she meant, but he did know what he had to do. Fetching the knife from the kitchen, he cut her free, wrists, ankles and the cruelly tight binding about her upper arms and chest. Immediately, her hands went to her face, clawing at it, muttering, then giving a harsh cry as she ripped the tape away.

“Mum,” Lucy wailed. “Oh, Mum, Mum . . .”

Thrusting him aside, she came out of her chair, almost collapsing as her stiff limbs refused support, then staggering across the short distance to her mother.

“Mum,” she cried, falling onto her knees beside the bed so that the faces of the two were inches apart. “Mum, it's all right. I'm here. Mum—I'm so sorry—Mum—please . . .”

Her voice faded. Greg saw clearly the transformation filtering through her body, the slow shift in attitude, signalling that her world had changed forever. Finally she spoke, the words as cold and clear as ice.

“She's dead!”

Greg's insides were colder than her words. He moved to Lucy, placing his hands gently on her sagging shoulders. “I'm sorry,” he said softly. “I'm just so sorry.”

There was silence and stillness for a long moment. Then, shocking him with her suddenness, Lucy shrugged his hands away and scrambled up. Her entire body was aquiver, her face a terrifying mask, eyes blazing, skin dead white, mouth a twisted slash in the raw redness where the tape had been ripped away.

“Coward!” she hissed. “This is your fault! Get out!
I never want to
set eyes on you again.
”

G
reg stumbled out into the night in a daze of self-revulsion and despair. Fleeing the house, he plunged into the concealing dark, with no idea where he was going, blindly, hopelessly, wishing that instead of poor Shirl, it had been himself taking the final journey into death. But even that desire seemed selfish and sad: being killed by Jay wouldn't have saved the others; it would merely have let him avoid his distress at their fate. So, even now, his remorse was all about his own discomfort, rather than Lucy's. He was a thoroughgoing asshole, no doubt about that.

His desperate passage took him across the open area by the house and into the woods, unaware of the transition until he blundered into a tree trunk and fell flat. Half stunned, he lay on a bed of damp leaves, wishing he could just keep sinking and disappear. Then there came another unpleasant phenomenon; in his mind's eye arose the pale and cantankerous face of his dad.
Well, are you surprised at what happened
? the vision taunted.
You always were a pathetic loser.

Walter was as Greg had last seen him, glowering from the pillow in the hospital bed on that final night. The anger that had filled him then returned.
Don't call me a loser,
he retorted to the unwelcome shade.
If it
hadn't been for your foul temper, both you and Mum would still be alive.

And if you'd kept your eye on your wallet, none of this would have
happened.

Be that as it may, you as good as killed her.

Get real! She was dying anyway.

At least I tried to do something to make things right. Better than
throwing a stupid tantrum and breaking your hip.

And throwing away seven hundred thousand dollars of my bread
wasn't stupid?

“It was the only decent thing I did,” Greg replied, realizing that he was babbling out loud into the wet leaves. God, he
was
a loser, finding refuge in tit-for-tat blame fantasies starring his dead father, maudlin nonsense that would change nothing. There was only one clear course of action open to him now.

Sighing, he hauled himself to his feet. With little interest, he noticed a subtle change in the previously unbroken black. The tree he'd bumped into stood out as a lighter patch in the gloom. Dawn was approaching. Okay, that would make what he had to do all the easier.

Somewhere up ahead, through woods that were emerging from the receding night, was the Cowichan River. Part of his world since early childhood, the waterway had lately become a major player in the sad drama in which he was immersed. It had snatched his mother, provided a disposal chute for a villain and, during a wild storm, almost taken Greg himself to its soggy bosom. And now . . . ? Now it was time for it to do its last and best work.