Scammed (23 page)

Not wishing to see the Lynley house again, until he could set its prisoners free, Greg followed the riverbank back to his own property.

• • •

The rest of the day, the night and the first hours of the following morning passed at a pace that, on Greg's internal clock, felt like a slow year. But at last, showered and dressed, and as physically calm as possible for a man half mad with suppressed anxiety, he was in the car, heading into Duncan. Beside him was a gym bag, old but solid, big enough for the job at hand.

He parked in the bank lot at five minutes before noon and headed inside. Apparently, he was expected, for after introducing himself, he was ushered immediately into Herb Wilshire's office. It was empty, but he was told that the manager would be joining him momentarily.

Greg seated himself, trying to stop his feet from tapping with impatience, eyes turning inevitably to his father's painting.
Wow, Dad
, he mused.
If only you could see this. Seven hundred grand of your hardearned
cash in exchange for Lucy Lynley. What would you think of that
?

His thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of Herb Wilshire. The manager was followed by another bankerly looking man in a sober suit, presumably some kind of security person who, once Greg had his money, would be charged with seeing him safely off the premises.

“Good afternoon, Greg,” Herb Wilshire said, his smile and handshake even more determined than usual. “Right on time, I see.”

“Of course,” Greg said. And then, too excited to indulge further in formalities. “Do you have the money?”

“Yes, yes. It's all ready for you to check and sign for. But—er—before you do that . . .”

He turned to other man, who had been standing quietly in the background. With surprise, Greg realized that the manager's face had gone bright red.

“Greg,” Herb Wilshire said, “this is Sergeant Doakes of the RCMP. It seems that he'll need a few minutes of your time.”

“I
'm sorry to cause you any embarrassment,” Herb Wilshire said. “It's so long since I've disbursed such a large cash sum, you see. Until you'd left yesterday, I didn't realize how much the rules have changed.”

“What rules?” Greg said numbly. “I don't understand. This is my family's money. I have a perfect right to . . .”

The man who'd been introduced as Sergeant Doakes cleared his throat. “Your rights are not an issue, Mr. Lothian. We know the money's yours. I'm only here to save you the trouble of coming to the station. And to ask a couple of questions.”

“Really? And what would they be?” Greg said woodenly, though he knew where this was going.

“I should leave you two alone,” the manager said.

“No, stay, sir,” the sergeant said. “You need to hear this too.” He turned back to Greg. “What Mr. Wilshire said about rules amounts to this: particularly since 9/11, when terrorism became such a factor in our lives, but also because of the war on drugs—not to mention money laundering and income tax evasion—we need to keep track of large sums of money. To know not only where they came from but also—as in your case—where they are going. Do you understand me, sir?”

Greg just stared.

“Of course, there's nothing, legally, to prevent a citizen possessing as much cash as he or she desires,” Doakes continued. “But in the world today, where there's increasingly little need for banknotes at all, the main users of cash are, unfortunately, the criminal or radical elements. Knowing your family, Mr. Lothian, Mr. Wilshire was certain your own reasons for wanting so much paper money must be legitimate. But he also realized it was his duty to contact us—so that
everyone
could rest easy. Am I making sense here?”

Greg managed a nod. The movement was miniscule, because his whole body seemed frozen, but the policeman's sharp eye apparently caught it.

“Mr. Lothian,” he concluded quietly, “to clear this matter up, so you can carry on with your business and we can all be on our way—why exactly do you need such a large sum in banknotes?”

There was a long silence. Sergeant Doakes and Herb Wilshire watched him, waiting. Greg, who had known in his heart the minute the policeman had been introduced that it was over, now grew strangely calm. “I need it,” he said quietly, “for a most important reason.”

“And what is that?”

“To save the lives of my friends.”

• • •

By 1:00
PM
, with the conference—minus Herb Wilshire—moved to Sergeant Doakes' office at the Duncan detachment of the RCMP, Greg was still talking. At 1:30
PM
, looking grim under his red brush cut, Sergeant Tremblay of the Victoria police arrived.

Greg had no idea how much the Duncan RCMP knew about the operation their colleagues had been conducting with the cops in Victoria. He didn't offer any more information than necessary about his previous dealings with Tremblay, and from what he could understand of the police exchanges, some of which were conducted out of his hearing, Tremblay didn't go too deeply into that either. All that was settled was that he, Greg, was an innocent citizen who'd got caught up in a police sting operation, unwittingly putting himself—and, by catastrophic mischance, his neighbours—in jeopardy.

Without giving details as to how Jay had become involved with Greg, Tremblay made no bones about the danger posed by the extortionist, painting a grim picture of a criminal perfectly capable of carrying out his threats against the Lynleys. His sidekick, Trev, was known to the local police: a troublemaker so violent that, after half killing the son of the local band chief, he'd been thrown off the reserve.

When this was established, Greg, who'd been growing desperate as time passed, could hold back no longer. “So you see,” he interrupted finally, “there's only one solution!”

All eyes turned to him. “And what is that?” Sergeant Doakes asked.

“What I was about to do—take him the money.”

All heads, save that of Sergeant Tremblay, began to shake, so Greg continued quickly. “Listen—those women are hostages, right? You people must know about that kind of situation. And you've heard what Jay's like. The only way Lucy and her mother will be safe is if he gets the money. And the only one who can take it to him is me. He hates cops. He said that if he even smells one, he'll kill someone. And I've seen what he's capable of. Right now, he thinks he's scared me badly enough not to tell anyone. And he was right; I wasn't going to. But now you know. So it's vital that you keep out of sight, at least till he's got what he wants and leaves. That's it. The only way. Oh—and he expected me back hours ago, so please, I
must
get going.”

They didn't like the idea that he, a civilian, should be allowed to go in alone. But it was his money, his life to risk and his responsibility. In the end, no one could argue with that. Tremblay had made no mention of Greg's history of taking the law into his own hands, but Greg knew, which was more than enough. If for no other reason, he had to try to make things right.

• • •

At 3:00
PM
, two hours after he should have been back, the plan was finalized. Alone, Greg would return to the Lynley house, bearing the seven hundred thousand dollars. By then, well concealed, the police would have sealed off the area, ready to grab Jay and Trev the moment they abandoned their captives and attempted to depart.

Assuming abandonment was all that Jay had in mind.

As Greg was about to leave, Sergeant Tremblay drew him aside. “You're some piece of work, fella,” he said with a quiet smile.

“I think we already had that conversation.”

“Yeah, well, just so's you know—I reckon you're pretty brave, too.”

“Pretty stupid, more likely.”

Tremblay grinned. “Maybe. Anyway, in case of emergency, don't forget you can call me.”

Greg was surprised. “You're sticking around?”

“You kidding? Wouldn't miss it. This isn't my patch, but the horsemen let me tag along. Professional courtesy and all that.”

“What about that thing in Victoria?”

Tremblay looked surprised. “Oh, that! Haven't had a chance to tell you. It went down last night. We picked up the lot of them. If this hadn't happened, we'd have come for your guy tomorrow anyway. Good luck, Mr. Lothian.”

H
e began his drive back to the house almost immediately. Not far behind, a whole contingent of hastily assembled police followed, ready to surround the two properties as soon as he went in. More officers would be approaching from the other direction, where the west end of Riverbottom joined the Old Lake Cowichan Road, effectively sealing off the whole area. When Jay got his money and tried to make his departure, he would walk into a trap.

No one knew when that departure would be. Most likely, cash in hand, he'd want to get out right away. But that couldn't be counted on. Smart and tricky, he might prefer to wait until dark. Either way, his welcoming committee would be waiting.

Greg's most important job was not just to deliver the cash, but to make sure that Jay remained calm and, above all, unsuspicious. On the floor beside him was the gym bag containing seven thousand hundred-dollar bills. It was surprising how little space that much money took up, the equivalent of a load of paperback novels, heavy but quite manageable. Despite his tension earlier, the sight of so much cash—a rarity in this electronic age—had made Greg strangely exhilarated. He hoped that the same thing would happen to Jay, so he'd just want to grab it and run. Greg thought about that wonderful moment all the way home.

Reaching his gate, he drove in and closed it behind him, maintaining a careful façade of normalcy. He was sure he must be anxiously awaited. And though he saw no one, it was unlikely that his return would not be observed. Anticipating this, the police had arranged to keep well back out of sight.

The driveway, winding through the trees to the house, was peaceful in the warm afternoon light. He passed the tree where, an age ago, he'd set the tripwire that had signalled the approach of Molinara. If he'd had one ounce of foresight as to how the world would unravel after that, he'd surely have run screaming into the night. But he hadn't, so here he was, doing his best to put an end to the game he'd so rashly begun. “Oh, man,” he muttered, as he left the car, carrying his bag of riches. “For once, just let me get it right.”

There was no time to waste. He'd hurry to the Lynleys and deliver the money right away. He headed around the house in the direction of the well-trodden path to the next property. Coming in sight of the studio, he stopped dead and nearly dropped his precious bag. In the breezeway, standing like a statue and staring directly at him, was Trev.

He approached the huge native, raising the gym bag nervously. “Got it,” he said, trying hard not to sound completely unhinged. “Sorry it took so long.”

Trev didn't say a word. With a brief head gesture, somehow conveying
Shut up, follow me
and
You're lucky I don't break your neck
, he began walking. Greg hurried after him, like a kid following the school bully. Already it was clear how important it had been to keep the police presence hidden. By the way Trev had materialized, he'd probably been watching for quite some time.

So far, so good. But as they travelled the path to the Lynley house, he began to get increasingly nervous. What if Jay sensed that something was wrong, that another double-cross, as he called it, was in the works? To calm himself, he decided to chat with his escort. Catching up with Trev, he tapped the money bag, sharply enough that the native looked around.

“So what's your cut of all this going to be, Trev?” Greg asked. Predictably, Trev didn't answer, so Greg continued, “Because, whatever it is, I promise to double it later, if you do just one thing for me now.”

Still, Trev said nothing. But after a few more paces his head turned, and his expression had just the smallest hint of questioning.

“All I want,” Greg said, “is for you to make sure that Jay doesn't hurt the women.”

Nothing. Trev just lumbered on. Was he interested? Was he considering it? Who could tell? And soon it was too late for speculation. They'd come to the end of the path and were in the open, heading for the house.

The only difference in the scene was that the van had reappeared. That was a good sign, indicating that the criminals were seriously ready to leave. Then, as the front porch came into view, one more change was revealed. Beside the door, a chair had been placed. On it sat Jay. As they got closer, it could be seen that in his hand, instead of the knife, was a gun. This one did not look like a toy.

When they reached the bottom of the steps, Jay stood up. Without warning, he raised the gun, pointing it directly at Greg's chest. He gasped, instinctively lifting the bag in a futile gesture of protection. Jay gave a low laugh, shifting his aim to between Greg's eyes. Looking directly down the dark void of the barrel, Greg thought,
This is it. He's
got what he wanted and I'm dead.

Then Jay made a sound like an explosion, and blew invisible smoke from the gun barrel before putting it in his pocket. “What the fuck kept you, buddy?” he asked.

Greg's horror turned to anger, then to relief. At least this bit of sick comedy had provided cover for the first anxious moments. Appearing flustered now was only natural. “The Brinks delivery was late,” he said, quoting a preplanned script. “The money wasn't ready. Sorry—but I came as quick as I could.”

Jay gave his characteristic shrug, then extended his hand. Greg mounted the steps and handed over the bag. The other man took it without a word, turned on his heel and walked into the house.

That was it. No fuss, no ceremony—certainly no thanks. But who cared? He was still alive. As soon as Jay went inside, Greg followed. When he arrived in the hall, Jay had already vanished, presumably to check out his loot. Well, it was all there. That wouldn't take long to establish. Now Greg's only concern was the women.