Chapter 31 #2
Mickey slunk against the far wall to the grand opening of the massive fireplace and began pulling things out of the bag he’d brought in with him.
He paused and, orienting himself, looked up into the flue.
He stretched up slowly, then paused. He sank back down, put a finger to his lips, and pointed up into the chimney.
Rowan watched as the younger man connected his phone to what looked like a cigar box with stubby antennae on it before opening a small laptop and connecting them.
“Murdoch,” Rowan said, keeping the conversation going. “I’ll never forget this. Yer one man—I’ve a clan standing behind me. Where are the rest of the Murdochs?”
“I’m holding you accountable on their behalf.”
“You haven’t told them, have ye? Because they’d tell ye to stop, that what you’re doing isn’t what’s done anymore. Get yourself some psychiatric help, plant a nice veggie garden, take up birdwatching, anything to help calm your mind, man.”
The Murdoch took a long, deep inhale. He spoke his next words in a tone that sounded as if he were an overstretched balloon being sat on.
“I think I shall. I’ve grown rather fond of renovating these old homes.
They need so much tender care and oversight.
But you know what, I’ve been to Castle Laoch, and I think there’s nothing worth renovating there.
I’m thinking when I purchase it out of bankruptcy, I’ll…
tear it down and build atop the rubble.”
Rowan felt that verbal blow smack him in the chest. He was ready to rip apart the chimney to find the source.
He shouted, “Where are you at, Murdoch?”
Again the man’s laugh showered down into the room. Finally, Rowan spotted the black speakers set flush in the dark-painted ceiling between the painted wood beams. Mickey’s fingers flew over the keys. He made a rotating motion with his arm, which Rowan interpreted as Keep him talking.
“And how exactly do ye plan to take Castle Laoch when you’re no longer agent for Scottish Trust Bank?”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ve made enough off these old estates to have a tidy amount set aside to purchase Castle Laoch.
Maybe I won’t wait for bankruptcy to buy it.
” He giggled like a man who just watched his last marble roll out of his mind and down the hall.
“I’ll reveal something to you: I pushed forward the foreclosure status on your account.
The bank tried to take me off your loan, but this is destiny—it cannot be stopped.
MacLaoch estates, the castle and all its assets are forfeit.
Bank owned. It’s up for grabs. It’s mine now.
And I look forward to setting charges to its base… ”
Rowan felt as if he had been dunked underwater.
Had that been the real reason for the diversion?
Those halls were sacred. The feet that trod those hallways were of his kin, and the stones that made up its foundation were placed there by Glentree’s ancestors as a beacon for all those who called that spot of Skye home.
His fist opened and clenched in restrained anger.
“What ye’ve done is not legal, Murdoch. None of it is. And there are people who live in tha’ building. Are you so lost tha’ you’d add murder to your list of things tae do?”
“If they’re there, they’re trespassers and will be dealt with as such.”
Rowan needed an outlet. He grabbed the back edge of the metal-and-calf-hide couch and, with a grunt, lifted. With a roar, he threw it, and it crashed against a glass bookcase. Books, all with the same blank gray covers, and glass knickknacks went flying.
Mickey gave him a glance as the banker asked, “Did you think I was hidden behind the pillows?”
“I’ll destroy this place before ye get me in cuffs, Murdoch. And when they release me like they did my uncle twenty years ago, I’ll find ye and rip ye—”
Rowan flipped the matching chair, sending its cushions flying.
“—limb.” He tossed an onyx table and matching lamp with a crash. “From limb.”
The man tittered. “Ooh, my decorator will be so mad.”
In the fireplace, Mickey rotated his laptop to show Rowan his monitor.
It was an image of Rowan panting in the middle of the space.
The couch was upside down, and the cushions were tossed.
The camera was set into the mantel somehow.
The rough bark edge of the massive wood shelf hid the tiny lens.
Rowan was impressed with how Mickey had hacked into the camera’s signal.
With a keystroke from Mickey, he was impressed again.
The screen shifted and showed the heavy-faced banker leaning forward on his desk, not knowing the camera on the top of his own monitor had gone active, and Rowan was now seeing him in a small office piled with papers, artifacts, and empty soda cans.
Rowan felt his lip lift. “Maybe I’ll get to punch yer lights out after all.” He walked toward the mantel and looked along it, his fingertips following, doing their own search. And then: There it was. A pinhole lens. It was disguised as a shadow.
“Got ye.”
Rowan could see the man’s hand tap keys on his keyboard in Mickey’s monitor below him.
“Sure, MacLaoch, you found the camera, but you don’t have me; I have you.”
Rowan turned and grabbed the first thing he saw, a solid glass orb that had so far survived. He picked it up and pivoted. The orb flew across the room and struck the mantel with a crack. Bark and glass shattered.
Mickey cursed, throwing up an arm to block his face as pieces rained down. Outside, two police vehicles skidded into the gravel drive, one on each side of the old Mercedes, sirens screaming.
Rowan began picking at the broken mantel. Mickey was snapping his equipment closed and stuffing it into his bag. He stood in a crouch, looking out at the gravel drive, then to Rowan. “How well can you pretend you’re a pretentious asshole?”
Rowan, holding the excavated tiny camera in his hand, watched as the officers rushed to the front door. “How pretentious?”
“Like you own all the land from here to Inverness. Including this house, if you catch what I mean.”
“OK,” Rowan said, feeling the rage still in his veins, giving him the arrogance to have a chance to get out of the trap Murdoch had set. “But what about the video?”
Mickey grinned. “His laptop is actively rebooting. When it does, everything will be written over with FurryFan pics.”
Rowan snorted. “How well can ye pretend tae be an IT sod?”
Mickey’s grin brightened, and his accent moved from lilting Irish to Southern California. “Why else would you call me, dude?”
Rowan watched Mickey’s body language morph too: His shoulders slouched, and his gaze turned bored.
“Yer frightening.”
The officers rushed in. “Hands!”
Mickey dropped his bag and put his palms up over his head.
Rowan ignored their command and, with the camera in his fist, put his hands on his hips and dug deep for his best Clive impersonation.
“What in God’s name is all of this!? Stop right there, or my solicitor will have your heads!
Look at my home! Everything is just trash!
Look at what they’ve done!” He indicated the tossed furniture.
“The only thing left of substance are these floors! Those are original Georgian-era marble floors installed over two hundred years ago, and now you fools will no doubt destroy them with your boot scuffs!”
Mickey whispered under his breath, “And I’m frightening?”