“Hello?”
“No, I really mean it,” Lucy said, her eyes welling with tears. “You've been so kind, everybody has been so nice I just don't know what to say. Thank you, Mr. Wing, thank you from the bottom of my heart. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“You okay, Rucy? You sound crazy.”
“I'm fine. I'm great.”
“You sure? You need anything, maybe?”
“No,” said Lucy musically. “I've hooked up with some new friends and they're helping me. They're great. Everybody's great. Except those MacDonald bastards. Why won't they talk to me, Mr. Wing? Why don't they like me?”
Why did her eyeballs feel like they'd been wallpapered?
“You tell me MacDonald don't know nothing.”
“They know plenty, only they're too important for the likes of us. You gotta have references from the hoi polloi or else the MacDonalds won't give you the time of day. You don't happen to know the Queen, do you?”
It was those damn contact lenses, Lucy decided. They were shrinking. Or were her eyeballs getting fatter? How did you lose weight in your eyeballs? Stop looking at food?
“You been drinking, Rucy?”
“Me? Ha! Yes.”
“You take two aspirin and go to sleep. What you drink?”
“Scotch whiskey.”
“Oy yoy yoy. You feel terrible in morning. I know. Hope you learn your lesson.”
“I'm fine. I feel great,” she protested, though the room was revolving at increased speed and the little holes in her ears
were beginning to itch. “Have the Queen give MacDonald a call, will you?”
“Okay. I tell her. You drink water. Go to sleep. Eat eggs for breakfast, vitamin B. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“I come back on Monday plane.”
“You find my birth certificate first. I gotta have a birthday. Everybody's gotta have a birthday. Can't have a birthday cake without a birthday.”
“I look Monday morning for birth certificate. Come back Monday afternoon, you hear?”
“Please find my birthday, Mr. Wing,” said Lucy. “I love you.” Then she hung up. Wing was the sweetest, kindest man in the entire whole wide world, she decided. Even sweeter than MacLean and Wharrie, though they were sweet too. Everybody was sweet. Except the MacDonalds. And Fraser.
Fraser!
He had stolen her brooch and chased her through the park and now he was here, trying to steal her treasure, the son of a bitch! Lucy didn't care if he was handsome and looked like a little boy with those big, brown glasses. He was nothing but a common criminal and just the thought of him made her want to throw up.
And she did.
W
harrie and MacLean were standing at the bottom of the hotel staircase, grinning from ear to ear.
A tidal wave of nausea swept through what was left of Lucy's gastrointestinal tract. She held on to the handrail and tried to maintain her dignity. And her balance. Somehow she reached ground level intact.
“What time is it?” she croaked. All they had said on the house telephone was “Come downstairs.”
“Nine o'clock,” said MacLean smugly.
“Evening or morning?”
“It's Sunday morning, lass. I told ye to go easy on the whiskey yesterday, dinna I?”
“Why, Lucy,” said Wharrie, his mouth dropping open. “Yiu've droonk so much, yer eyeballs has turned blue!”
Startled, Lucy raised a hand to her face, then remembered. She had somehow managed to remove the contact lenses last night before passing out. She hadn't given them a thought this morning, not that it would have been possible to get them back in, anyway.
“I think I'm supposed to eat an egg,” she mumbled and made for the dining room. The two men looked at one another, then followed.
“Maybe ye should try some oatmeal,” said Wharrie gently, sitting down at her left, across from MacLean.
“You don't have to yell,” said Lucy.
“A kipper would be better,” said MacLean. Lucy didn't even have the strength to shoot him a dirty look. They sat in silence, occasionally sipping strong, black coffee. Finally Lucy's breakfast arrived.
She stared at the two yellow orbs looking up at her from the plate and would have thrown up if there had been anything left in her stomach. The nausea passed after a few minutes, and she managed to choke down a slice of dry toast, washed down with two glasses of water.
“Better?” said MacLean, finally.
Lucy nodded.
“How dâye diu tha' with yer eyeballs?” asked Wharrie, unable to take his eyes off hers.
“All Americans ha' red, white, and blue eyeballs,” said MacLean, winkin' at Lucy. “Dinna ye ken anything?”
“Oh,” said Wharrie, but still looked confused.
“Come on, Lucy,” said MacLean, standing. “We ha' somethin' to show ye.”
“Can't it wait a few weeks?” said Lucy nibbling the other slice of toast.
“Ye'll be pleased,” said Wharrie.
“He's right,” nodded MacLean.
Lucy shrugged, signed the bill, stood carefully. The floor seemed fastened on a bit more securely now. She followed the two men out to Wharrie's car. They were on one of the island's bumpy roads before Lucy had time to consider how wise a journey in her present condition would be.
“Where are we going?” said Lucy, desperately trying to keep her stomach out of her throat.
“Ye'll see. It's a surprise.”
She didn't feel up to arguing.
After a few miles, details of yesterday's conference at the Fairy's Egg drifted back into her consciousness. Lucy felt foolish and vaguely ashamed. Why had she drunk so much? It had been a terrible mistake to confide so much to these men. She didn't really know anything about them. How could she have felt so close to them yesterday?
Neither MacLean nor Wharrie spoke as they drove along, past Dumlagchtat and up the mountain, finally pulling into the long drive of the ruined Fingon Castle. Instead of going through the gate, however, Wharrie turned the car onto an access road that led down the slope. They drove in silence for a few minutes more, then stopped.
Lucy was getting worried. She was miles away from any other living soul. Why should these men help her? What were they really after? Would her head feel like a kettle drum for the rest of her life?
“What's here?” Lucy asked, trying to sound unconcerned as they got out of the car.
“You'll see,” said Wharrie, opening the trunk and taking out an old, black shotgun and a large basket.
“What's that for?” Lucy gasped when she saw the gun.
“Ye'll find oot,” said Wharrie, a mirthless smile on his face.
“It's not far.” MacLean grunted, producing a short billy club from his pocket and testing it on his palm. “Chust walk down there.”
Lucy walked nervously down the path MacLean had indicated, the two men directly behind her. A wave of fear swept through her. They were after the treasure, of course. Why had she told them she was a Fingon? How could she have been so naive? What were they going to do to her?
The path led through a rocky formation ringed by a few stunted trees. Beneath the hill was a small stone cottage, practically a ruin. The thatched roof was incomplete, the windows were knocked out, and the yard was littered with rusted farm implements.
Suddenly Lucy understood. This was itâthe people of Lis's just revenge against the last Fingon. They were going to rape and/or kill her in this remote place and no one would ever know. She turned to them, her eyes brimming with tears, but Wharrie just grinned callously.
Her body would never be found, Lucy thought, desperately looking for some way to escape, finding none. Wing would probably think that she had run out on him and kept his two thousand pounds. The thought of hurting him after all he had done for her was unbearable. What did Wharrie have in that little basket? The stuff they used to dissolve bodies? Quicklime?
MacLean opened the door of the cottage and nudged her into the darkness. Lucy tried to steady herself, to muster some dignity. If she had to die here in this godforsaken place, without a name, without a birthday, she would at least die bravely. She steeled herself for the blow.
Nothing happened.
After a moment Lucy's eyes began to adjust to the gloom and she finally understood what she was seeing. There, next to the crumbling chimney, bound hand and foot to a chair, his mouth gagged with tape, was Michael Fraser.
“Mmmrpphhshharggh!” said Fraser, wiggling his legs.
“What's he doing here?” asked Lucy, totally bewildered.
“We've kidnapped him,” said MacLean, obviously delighted.
“You've what?!”
“Snatched him,” said Wharrie proudly.
“Aye.” MacLean nodded. “Ranald's cousin was supposed to pick Mr. Fraser oop at the airstrip last night, but we got him instead. Now ye can do with him as ye please.”
Lucy didn't know whether to be relieved or hysterical.
“Mmmgshhhfhfhtwwww!” said Fraser. His legs were rubbing together furiously, like a cricket's.
“Shut oop, you,” said Wharrie, shaking his club.
Fraser stopped making noise, his leg-wiggling giving way to occasional twitches. Lucy pulled both men to the door by their sleeves.
“Are you people crazy? Why did you do this?” she demanded.
MacLean looked hurt.
“It seemed like a good idea last night.”
“Aye,” said Wharrie. “We thought yiu'd be pleased.”
“Pleased to be a kidnapper?” she hissed.
“We found this in his pocket,” said MacLean, digging into his own pocket and producing a large, silver object, which he placed in her hand. It was her brooch.
“What should we do with him, then?” asked Wharrie, fingering the trigger of the shotgun.
“Why are you asking me?” said Lucy dumbly, clutching the brooch in her hand.
“We did it for you, Lucy,” said MacLean quietly. “So you could have your brooch. So you could find your treasure.”
“We chust wanted to help,” said Wharrie.
Lucy snorted, paced a few steps, and finally sat down at an ancient stool by the dusty table. She felt ashamed of herself. How could she think these dear men would harm her, when
they merely wanted to make her an accomplice to a kidnapping? As if she hadn't broken enough laws already!
“Aire ye angry, Lucy?” said Wharrie, confused.
Lucy rolled her eyes, turned the brooch over in her fingers, and looked at the familiar inscriptions. At least it was a chance to get some answers. If she found a treasure, too, so be it.
“What are you doing here with my brooch, Mr. Fraser?” she said evenly.
“Mmmmghghththhhatt!” said Fraser. He was very angry and needed a shave. Lucy thought it made him look quite sexy, the son of a bitch.
“Should I take the tape off?” asked MacLean.
She nodded. MacLean ripped the tape from Fraser's mouth. For a moment Lucy thought it might have taken the man's lips off, the sound was so disgusting. It served him right.
“Ouch, goddammit!” said Fraser.
“Answer the lady's question, mister,” said Wharrie, prodding Fraser's ribs with the shotgun.
“I've got to pee so bad I think I'm going to die!” said Fraser in a high voice.
“Don't try that funny business with oos, Jack,” said MacLean, shaking his club in the man's face. Fraser leaned over to catch Lucy's eye.
“What kind of a person are you?” he said urgently. “I've been holding it all night long, for crisssakes!”
Wharrie and MacLean both started to talk, but Lucy held up her hands and shouted them down.
“All ⦠All right! Let him pee.”
“Why canna he go in his pants?” said Wharrie.
“How would you like to go in your pants?” demanded Fraser.
“Let him pee, for goodness' sakes,” said Lucy.
MacLean shrugged, took out a pocket knife, and cut the rope that was holding Fraser's feet and arms to the chair. He stood shakily, his hands still tied behind his back with a separate rope.
“Aren't you going to untie my hands?” he said incredulously.
“And have you pull something?” said Wharrie with contempt. “What kind of fools do you think we aire?”
Fraser looked from one man to the other.
“I have to pull something, know what I mean? Or does one of you want to pull it for me?”
Suddenly the situation didn't seem so menacing. Lucy put a hand over her mouth, trying not to laugh. MacLean shot her an angry look with his single eye.
“All right,” he said. “Keep him covered, Ranald.”
Wharrie raised the shotgun. MacLean cut the rope. Fraser rubbed his legs with his freed hands and trotted for the door.
“Don't go anywhere,” he said over his shoulder to Lucy as he left, Wharrie and MacLean at his heels. “I want to talk to you.”
Lucy looked around the broken cottage, smiling at the picture of Michael Fraser trussed like a chicken, wondering how many years you got for kidnapping in Scotland and what the jails were like.
After a few minutes the men returned. The furrows were gone from Fraser's forehead and he had brushed the mop of red hair from his eyes and put on his glasses. He never took his eyes off Lucy, even when MacLean pushed him back down into the chair he had been bound to.
“Feel better, Mr. Fraser?” she asked self-consciously. What was he staring at?
“Thank you, I feel relieved. Literally.”
“Doon't be smart, you,” said MacLean, making a bony fist. Wharrie raised his shotgun.
“All right, Fraser,” Lucy said, trying to sound tough. “What are you doing here?”
“It says Dumlagchtat on the back of your brooch.”
“Why are you so interested in my brooch?”
“I think it tells where a treasure is buried, actually.”
“Dinna I say so!” exclaimed Wharrie.
“And where might that be?” said Lucy slowly.
“Why should I tell you?”
“Because this lass is Barbara Fingon's daughter,” said Wharrie, motioning with the shotgun. “She's Lucy Fingon.”
“Oh. So it's Lucy Fingon, now, huh?” said Fraser, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “I guess that justifies everything.”
“You're in no position to be rude, Mr. Fraser,” said Lucy testily.
“Well, I don't like to be kidnapped, Miss ⦠Fingon. And it's
Dr
. Fraser, actually. Dr. Michael Fraser of the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art. But you can call me Mike.”