Act of Evil (13 page)

“Where?”

“This back of mine—I need to get it flat. Can you help me down on the floor?”

“Oh. Sure!”

Fitz steadied Iverson as the big man lowered himself to his knees, carefully transferred his weight to his arm, then to his elbow, finally getting his shoulder down and at last—despite the accompaniment of a heartfelt groan or two—successfully deposited his heavy frame prone upon the boards. Settled, he gave a great sigh.

“That feel better?” Fitz said anxiously.

Iverson grinned crookedly up at it him. “It will. I have to wait.”

“For what?”

“The muscles to relax and release. Then whatever's out of kilter down there seems to slip back into place. Generally takes half—maybe three-quarters of an hour.”

“This has happened before?”

“A few times.”

“You seen a doctor?”

“Guess I should—but so far I've found that this works.” He sighed. “Bleeding Jesus, what a relief. I always forget how good it feels when it's over. Don't worry, Fitz, I'll be out of your hair pretty soon.”

“No sweat. If my messy old floor can help your back, you're welcome. And I'm not going anywhere.”

“Terrific! You're a great guy and I'm a lucky stiff.
Stiff
being the operative word, eh? Listen, Fitz—as if you hadn't done enough already—you wouldn't have such a thing as a cigarette?”

“Sure thing.” Fitz got out cigarettes, lit two and passed one down to his prone guest. “Here you go. Maybe later I can even find you a beer.”

Iverson laughed. “A smoke
and
a beer! Man, and to think that a while back I thought I might be going to join the fish. You're not just a good Samaritan, Fitz, you're a damn saint.” As well as he could from his prone position, he took in the boathouse. “And, by the look of it, a man after my own heart.”

“Oh?”

“I mean, wow! Look at this place. Anyone can see it's a piece of history. And it's still
here
. So often great old stuff like this gets junked to make room for garbage that won't last a dozen years. Don't you agree?”

Fitz shrugged, making a noise meant to be gruff, but which came out sounding almost affable. He placed an ashtray where Iverson could reach it and settled in the nearby armchair. Pretty soon the two were chatting as if they'd known each other forever.

seventeen

The phone rang on Thursday evening just as Mattie got out of the tub. Being alone in the house, she walked naked along the hall and picked up the extension in her bedroom. “Hi! Me again.” It was Hal, sounding a trifle over-cheerful, which meant he was nervous.

Mattie, while being pleasurably surprised, also felt embarrassed. “Hello, Hal—just a minute,” she said, feeling foolish as she donned her old robe. “Hi—this is a surprise.”

“Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“No, the time is fine,” she replied, feeling a ridiculous urge to tell him the real reason why she'd been momentarily flustered. Of course, Hal had seen her naked countless times, but in another life. “It was really lovely seeing you again the other day. I just didn't think I'd be hearing from you so soon.”

“I didn't think to be calling. But a couple of unexpected things have happened.” He explained about the court injunction that had left him with time on his hands, then mentioned the call from his brother. They'd talked of Trent on his earlier visit, but only in passing. Now he explained all that had happened since their surprise reunion. “Trent's brilliant and entertaining” he concluded, “and such a bullshitter he managed to convince me he's still rich when actually he recently lost everything. His girlfriend, Stephanie—who set me straight about his real situation, incidentally—seems like a great girl and really loves him. But she's sick to death of the tricks he's been getting up to lately. Apparently he scared her so badly with some hair-brained stunt that she gave him an ultimatum: either grow up or they're through. He swears he will, and to prove he's serious he's promised to start by coming clean with me about his real situation. God knows, that's not something I want, but it's apparently what he needs to do. So tomorrow I'm coming back to the Island to meet him.”

Mattie hadn't asked for this explanation, but he'd evidently felt the need to give it. When he'd finished, she said, “I'm sorry about your brother, Hal. But I'm glad you're going to try to help him.” Rather fatuously she added, “Does that mean I'll get to see you again?”

He gave a mildly embarrassed cough. “If that's possible—yes.”

‘Of course! It'd be . . .” she'd been about to say wonderful but, not wanting to sound girlishly effusive, modified it. “. . . 
really nice
to see you again. When are you coming?”

“Tomorrow. I don't know how long I've got. A few days, I'd guess. As soon as the injunction's settled they'll call and I'll head back. It's sort of open ended.”

“I see,” Mattie said, surprising herself by what popped out next. “So why don't you stay here?”

There was a pause, in which Mattie bit her lip, thinking she'd been really stupid. But then Hal said, quietly but with enthusiasm. “Really? Are you sure?”

“Of course. As you must have noticed, we're not exactly crowded.”

“Then—I'd like it a lot, Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

“I've still got my car. And I'm keeping my room here in Vancouver, so I'll be traveling light. What'd be a good time to arrive?”

“It doesn't matter. I'll be at school tomorrow, of course. But it's Friday, so I should be home by five.”

“I'll try to make it by then?”

“That'd be fine.”

When the call was over, Mattie realized her hair was still wet from the bath. Catching sight of herself in the mirror, she thought,
Damn, I really must get rid of this ratty old robe.
She removed it and, for the first time since she could remember, began examining her body in the mirror. Her slim figure was not too bad, though gravity had been a little unkind to certain areas. Looking at her breasts, she realized with embarrassment that she'd been wondering what Hal would think of them now. Then she laughed aloud. Who the hell cared? They were both middle-aged people, if not exactly old fogeys, certainly well started in that direction. Anything concerning the allure, or otherwise, of body parts was half a lifetime away.

Nevertheless, if only to get ready for company, she began to search through her wardrobe for a few non-fogey things to wear. Though she'd previously planned to go to bed early with a book, she dressed and went downstairs to start bringing the old house to life.

eighteen

He was in. Fitz Trail was anything but a pushover, but neither was he as difficult as had been believed. All that had been needed was the right entree. And now he was perfectly positioned to get the job done.

For a couple of days he'd scouted the area, keeping an eye on his target to get the pattern of his movements and habits and trying to figure the best way to proceed. Having lived in Maple Bay all his life, the old fart doubtless knew everyone within miles. So the sudden appearance of a stranger would be bound to evoke suspicion. Yet, it was necessary to get close, to become a buddy. If he could just break the ice and get chatting, that would do it; he had a real talent for that kind of con. But how to get a foot in the door?

By the end of the surveillance, he realized an interesting thing: when Trail wasn't out fishing, he spent most of the time in his decrepit old boathouse. That, he decided, was the ideal place to start the ball rolling. His first idea was to simply stroll up from the beach and knock on the door, pretending to have lost his way. But that was dangerous; if the crabby old bastard gave him the brush-off before he could work his charms, that'd be it. He wouldn't get another chance. As he sat on a log just out of sight and tried to work out a plan, his back had started to ache—the result of an old injury—which gave him an inspiration. Introductions weren't necessary: all that was required was to make the mark come to
him
.

Next morning he set his trap. There was a spider, he recalled, that hunted by pretending to be injured until its victim was put off guard, then pounced. He'd established that Trail would be in the boathouse, so all he needed was a little patience. Sitting on a rock on full view, he waited till he was sure his presence must have been noted, then he went into his act. He did a powerful performance, rising, falling back, staggering around. Then, at the climax, as he did his pathetic and desperate-escape routine, came the payoff: his quarry arrived on the scene.

Within minutes he was being “helped” into the boathouse itself, where the last and cleverest part of the drama took place: the old guy was given the chance to do a bold act of healing. If that didn't set the stage for a buddy-bond, nothing would.

It had all worked perfectly.

He now understood why his earlier efforts to scare up a sale hadn't worked. Apparently the Trail clan had been on the place for generations. But the good news was that they were dying off like flies: a son had been killed years ago and a grandson had been lost in some kind of sailing mishap. Apparently only orneriness was making the granddad cling to the land now. But if he ceased to be a factor—with just two women remaining—it would become a brand new ball game.

By the time he and Trail had talked for half an hour, consumed a couple of beers and some cigarettes—he'd recently quit but, hell, this was for a good cause—the entree was made. This was one lonely old dude, a pushover if handled right. Using all his skill, he even worked it so that worries about his own—mythical—son in the service in Afghanistan appeared to be wormed out of him. Oh, yes, he knew all the moves.

He'd not yet decided how this new friendship would be brought to its sad and premature end. But now he was in, rigging an “accident” wouldn't be hard. After all, the boathouse stood beneath a useful looking cliff. Alternatively, there was the nearby ocean, with all those currents and icy water. And of course lots of mishaps occurred in the woods . . .

Whatever plan evolved, in good time the job would get done. No big deal. No questions asked.

His boss would have no cause for complaint.

In his motel room now, a safe distance from the action, he relaxed with a Scotch and
Survivor
on the
TV
. Everything was well under way. And tomorrow, he and his buddy were going fishing.

nineteen

As Hal once more negotiated the steep drive down to the house by Shawnigan Lake, he found himself undergoing an odd shift in perspective. Part of his mind still retained the image of this luxury villa as belonging to his brother. Seeing it again, he shook his head, in admiration as well as annoyance. “You cheeky bastard,” he muttered, as he pulled in beside the Mercedes—which of course wasn't Trent's either. “So, where exactly
do
you hang out?”

The opportunity for the question to be answered arose at once. As Hal got out of his car, a woman appeared from the house, approaching across the courtyard. She was petite, late-thirties, trim and tanned, plainly dressed but with—from her coiffure to her slender shoes—a definite air of money. With the distance between them half covered, coming into sunlight, she stopped, turning her head away and blinking. “Whoops!” she called over her shoulder. “So sorry! With you in a minute.”

Bemused, Hal waited, The woman shook her head back and forth several times, blinking. Finally she turned back, with what looked like tears on her cheeks. Has was just thinking he must have interrupted some sort of domestic drama, when she rubbed at her cheeks, laughing. “Oh, don't be alarmed, I'm not crying.” She indicated her eyes. “Just put in my contacts. They give me fits if I come into bright light too soon. Hello, I'm Jill Bathgate. And I think I know who you are.”

So here was the real owner of the house, the wife of the actual millionaire his brother had pretended to be. After they'd made introductions, and Jill's eyes had settled enough to get a good look at him, she must have sensed his discomfort, for she put a friendly hand on his arm. “Don't worry. Your brother's not really our caretaker. I mean, we do sort of pay him—though he insists it's a loan—and he does look after the place while we're away. But he's more of a guest, really.”

Hal frowned. “But I thought . . .”

“I know. It
is
a little confusing.” Jill glanced conspiratorially over her shoulder. “To tell the truth, Trent's a bit short of money right now. But he's a sweet man, a very old friend of my husband's. After his big bust he sort of came out here to lick his wounds, and Terry's been trying to persuade him to—you know—get back on the horse ever since. He's even thinking of . . .” She looked embarrassed. “But that's another story: I'm sure Trent'll tell you when he's ready. He can be a bit—well,
unfocused
I suppose is the best word. But he's also extremely clever. And he thinks the world of you.”

“Mmm—so his fiancée told me.”

“Ah, yes, Stephanie—wonderful woman,” Jill said, with no hint of condescension. “Certainly the best thing that ever happened to Trent. I do hope if he goes back to Toronto she goes along.”

“Why wouldn't she?”

“West Coast folk often don't like it. I'm from here, so I know . . . which is why I persuaded Terry to buy this place. If I couldn't get back to sanity every now and then I'd go squirrelly.” Jill laughed. “But you don't want to know about me. It's your brother you came to see. He's a lovely man . . . and perhaps seeing you again will . . . well, who knows. And now I'll stop bending your ear.” Jill pointed to the far side of the courtyard. “Down that little drive is the guest house. We've come to think of it as Trent's place. Go on down.”