Scammed (12 page)

Pulling himself together, keeping a steady eye on the kitchen—from which the man still might emerge any minute—he backed off down the hall. It seemed to take ages to reach the door of the master bedroom, but he was there at last, and no gun-wielding villain had appeared. He felt behind and found the door handle. There was the smallest squeak as it turned, then the door was swinging back. He pushed with his rump, easing into the gap. When he was inside, he quietly closed the door.

He stood in the dark, listening. No sounds came from the other side. He was safe. Against all odds—and despite his alarming stupidity—he was back on track.

But there was no time to waste. It was at last possible to turn on his flashlight, and he did so. The brightness of the beam was dazzling, but his eyes adjusted. There was the big bed and beyond, on a small table on his mother's side—hallelujah—the telephone.

Hurriedly, Greg made his way toward his prize. The phone was a large, bone-coloured dinosaur with an ancient rotary dial. Picking it up bodily—it weighed a ton—Greg was once again struck by just how out of touch with the modern world his parents had been. No wonder they'd been such easy meat for the con man. He placed the phone on the floor on the far side the bed, where the sound of dialing would not be overheard, and shone his flashlight on the venerable instrument. 911: even with a rotary, that wouldn't take long to dial. He peered closer and had just put his finger in the 9 hole when the bedroom light came on.

“Who the hell are you?”

Greg dropped the phone and staggered upright. Standing in the doorway, gun drawn, was the man from the kitchen. He was looking furiously indignant, as if it were Greg who was the interloper.

“I said, who are you?” the man repeated, moving rapidly into the room. “And what are you doin' in my house?”

G
reg gaped at the newcomer, unable to utter a word.
His
house? Was the clown kidding? It certainly didn't sound like it. The man's outrage seemed so real that it was hard to believe it was a bluff. Rather than arguing, Greg stood up slowly. The gun didn't seem so frightening up close; it looked almost like a toy, but it could no doubt do plenty of damage. “Hey, listen,” he gasped. “Don't point that thing at me. It could go off.”

“Yeah, that's right, asshole. It could shoot your tiny balls off. Tryin' to rob me, eh?”

There he was again, acting like he owned the place. Then Greg had an inspiration: maybe, finding someone creeping about in a house he'd been assured was unoccupied, the fellow thought he'd surprised
another
thief, a rival with whom he wasn't about to share. His instinctive, con man response was to pretend to be the owner. “I didn't know you were here,” Greg muttered, warily. “Er—sorry!”

“I bet you are,” the man snapped. He stepped forward and, looking Greg straight in the eyes, delivered a sharp blow to the centre of his stomach.

Greg's eyes bulged and his frame buckled. After the first explosion of pain, he was convinced that he'd been shot. He staggered back, toppling onto the bed, the wind knocked out of him. Lungs convulsing, he sucked against a wall that seemed to be blocking his throat. He gasped, growing dizzy, and then the dam broke. The sensation of air rushing back was both relief and distress. He coughed violently, dragged in more air, dry-retched, inhaled and coughed a lot more, starting to breathe more regularly as the pain ebbed, and it occurred to him that he'd not been shot after all.

The fellow who'd so cruelly administered this punishment was standing over him. “Lot sorrier now, eh?” he said.

Greg cringed, expecting another attack. Even in his injured state, one thing wasn't hard to grasp: if this villain would attack what he thought was another thief, God knows what he'd do if he found out Greg was the owner—who'd tricked him here to be caught. Stupidly, he'd got himself into a terrible situation. If he wanted to get out of it in one piece, he'd better think fast. “I
am
sorry,” he gasped, “for getting in your way, I mean. But you don't own this house. The owners are dead. I know 'cause I live near here. I've been waiting for ages to turn this place over.” He sat up and rubbed his stomach. “Just my luck you got here first.”

The man gave a short laugh. “Yeah, just your luck. So—if you're a thief too—how'd you get in?”

“I was all set to break in, but then I found the door unlocked. I guess you must have done that. Look, man, I don't do this kinda stuff much, and you look like you're a pro. You've proved you can beat the crap out of me, so I won't get in your way.” Greg scrambled to his feet. He wasn't an actor and had no idea how real any of this stuff sounded, but it was the best he could do. “This is your patch, okay? Just let me get out of here and I'll forget I ever saw you.”

The man lifted his gun. “You'll forget everything you ever knew if I pop you, creep.”

“But why? Look, I didn't mean to move in on your action. And I won't make trouble. I don't even know you, so how could I? Just let me go, then you can look for the money in peace.”

Damn! A moronic mistake. As soon as it slipped out, Greg knew it. The man's eyes narrowed. “You know about that?”

“Er . . . what?”

“The money! You said look for the
money
!”

“Well—you know—the guy who lived here was some kind of famous artist. There's always been a rumour that he had a whole lot of money stashed. I guess you heard that too, eh? So I'll let you get on with it. Good luck, man.”

He started to edge toward the door. Before he took two steps, the man grabbed his arm. The grip was viciously strong. Greg winced, expecting another blow. He was dragged bodily over to the big standing lamp that was the room's main illumination. The man thrust the gun in his pocket—a good sign?—but then used his freed hand to take hold of Greg's other arm, shoving him roughly into a nearby chair. He peered down into Greg's face for a long time. “Well, fuck me!” he breathed at last.

“What?” Greg said, struggling to rise. “What's the matter?”

“Shut up.” The man snapped. “One more word and I really will shoot your ass.”

He stepped back and, never taking his eyes off Greg, removed something from his pocket. With one hand, he caught Greg's chin, forcing his face into the lamplight; with the other, he examined the thing from his pocket. Screwing his eyes sideways, Greg could just glimpse what it was: his own driver's licence.

“Well, fuck me,” the man repeated. “I thought you looked familiar.”

Greg's stomach, barely recovered from the blow, grew sick and hollow. He struggled for something to say, knowing his expression must be saying it all. It had never occurred to him that, having stolen his ID, the man might recognize him. Now the truth was out. How could this have happened? All he'd wanted was a little payback for the wrongs done to his family and himself; all he'd needed was for someone to be accountable. Instead, he'd made a complete mess of the whole thing. Rather than justice, he was looking at the likelihood of his own death.

“You're
Lothian
.” The man's voice cut through Greg's morbid thoughts. “The loser whose ID I snagged. What'n hell were you doin' sneakin' round your own house?”

Frenzied words began tumbling from Greg's mouth. “I wasn't sneaking around.” He indicated the French doors. “I'd only just got home—late from a party—came in the back way—I was looking around for the light and you burst in. When I saw the gun and then you said this was
your
house, I—well, I thought you must be crazy.”

“No kidding.” The man's expression said exactly who he thought was crazy. “So you thought you'd just go ahead and pretend to be a burglar?”

“I thought if you thought I was—you know—someone like
you
, maybe you wouldn't hurt me.”

“Yeah?” The man grinned nastily. “Or maybe you thought you'd distract me long enough to call the freakin' cops, eh?”

“No,” Greg said. But he realized that at least the man didn't know he'd been lured here for exactly that purpose. If that much could be kept hidden, perhaps all was not lost. So he grinned sheepishly. “Well, maybe. But you can't blame me for that. Too late now, anyway.”

“You got that right!”

“So there's nothing to stop you getting on with it. You don't need to—
use
that gun. You could just tie me up or something, take what you want and get out.”

The man sneered. “Quite the reasonable little guy, aren't we?”

“What do you expect,” Greg bleated. “You just attacked me.”

“Yeah, yeah!” the man said. “Don't shit yourself. Before I do anything, I reckon you better do something for me.”

“What?”

“Show me where the safe is.”

Greg's heart plummeted. “Safe?”

“Yeah, the damn safe. And don't try to tell me there isn't one.”

“Why—why would you think there is?”

The man laughed. “Oh, yeah. You probably don't know about the letter.”

“Letter?” Greg whispered.

“Jesus, you
are
a lousy loser. Haven't you wondered what's happened to your stupid mail lately? I been nickin' it. Your fool sister wrote you this letter, eh? Layin' out the whole situation here. Talked about a safe and a whole pile of cash—don't tell me you don't know about that—in some place called a
studio
. I don't know where that is, so now you can show me.” He stuffed Greg's driver's licence away and took out his gun. “Let's go!”

Reluctantly, Greg arose. His ruse had worked all too well. What to do now? Admitting there was no safe and no money would be to reveal his trick, as good as saying “shoot me.” Since he couldn't take his captor to a treasure that didn't exist, all he could think of—pathetically—was to play for time.

“I'm not surprised you couldn't find the studio,” Greg muttered. “It's not in here.”

“So where the hell is it?”

“I guess I better show you.”

The man passed his gun from hand to hand. “Yeah, you better.”

They left the bedroom, Greg leading the way. At his captor's insistence, he put on lights as they moved along. Evidently, Greg was to be given no chance to use the dark to play any tricks. They reached the back door, but when he went to open it, the man laid a rough hand on his arm. “Where do you think you're goin'?”

Greg's only idea so far had been that once outside, he'd try to make a break for it into the night. “My father's studio. It's out back. A separate building.”

“Yeah? Okay—get movin'.”

They went out. But either the man was a mind reader or his vocation made him naturally suspicious, because once they were in the open, his grip on Greg's arm never relaxed. They moved along the back of the house, approaching the breezeway that connected to the studio, hardly more than twenty paces. Greg found himself counting, while a dreadful voice inside him whispered that these steps were likely to be his last. The night was so still that out of the dark—into which he'd hoped to flee—came the soft gurgle of the river. If only he could be there right now, he thought, floating to safety. If only he could be anywhere but here. If only he hadn't turned out to be the very thing that this bastard had called him—a loser . . .

They reached the studio. It was locked, but in this case the key was nearby. Hopelessly, his body feeling as if it was already half dead, Greg opened the door and flicked on the lights. The forest of paintings leaped into existence, mocking the dark moment with their beauty.

“What's all this crap?” the man said.

“My father's paintings—this is the studio.”

“So where's the safe?”

“Er—actually, I don't know.”

“You shittin' me?”

“No! Dad and I never got along. He never told me where—”

“Can it! I don't believe you.”

This was it. The end of the line. In the heat of emotion, the man's grip had loosened. With nothing else to do, Greg said, “Oh, hold on, I just remembered,” and pointed dramatically to one side. As his captor turned to look, he twisted around and broke free.

He almost made it. He was just going through the door when a savage kick caught him behind the knees and he went sprawling. Immediately, before he could start to rise, another kick caught him in the rib cage. Next came a veritable explosion on the side of his head. Through a cascade of light and stars, he heard himself shriek, then he was grabbed and hauled to his feet. After that, things got even worse. The man, face twisted with fury, held him with one hand while delivering bone-jarring slaps with the other. “Asshole!” he yelled. “Lying cunt! I've killed better guys for less than this. Now it's gonna be you.”

But he didn't do it. Not yet. Instead, after a final excruciating slap, Greg was flung into the middle of the studio, knocking down an easel so that he and the painting it had held ended in a tangle on the floor.

Greg lay immobile, conscious of nothing but his pain. Then the hazy outline of boots moved into his vision, and he had enough sense left to try to squirm away. But this time he was not kicked. “Get up!” the man snarled. “Get up, motherfucker, or I'll waste you right now.”

Most of what was left of Greg's mind wished that the monster would get on with it: oblivion would be a welcome release. But the last figment of pride and self-respect, faint but undeniable, wouldn't let him give up. Its prompting was insistent, and he somehow found the energy to stagger to his feet.

He stood, swaying, staring through a bloody haze at the nemesis he'd fatally lured into his life. “Right,” the apparition gritted, levelling his weapon. “One last chance, loser. Where's the safe!”

Greg continued to gaze at the menacing figure, noting well the naked ferocity that had been unleashed, and his mind did an amazing somersault. The minority voice that had prompted him to his feet now took full control. It was not reasonable, this voice, but implacable—suicidal—and he didn't care. It was the spokesman for all the bitterness and guilt that had consumed him, since the death of his parents and perhaps a long time before. It was the voice of reaction, but also of a sort of triumph. And when it caused actual words to spill from his mouth, these sounded—at least to Greg—like a chant of victory.