Act of Evil (15 page)

“What in hell are you doing?”

Hal's heart leaped. He whirled to confront the owner of the voice, a wiry, tanned fellow with a shock of white hair, who seemed to have appeared from nowhere. Then Hal recalled from his earlier tour that there was a path leading down the nearby cliff. Simultaneously he realized who the newcomer must be. “Hello, Mister Trail,” he said, holding out his hand, “I guess I should introduce myself . . .”

That was as far as he got. The man used a dismantled fishing rod he was carrying to deliver a sharp slap across Hal's wrist. “Don't bother,” he snapped. “You can tell the crooks who sent you that the answer's still ‘no.' Now get off my land.”

Hal hastily withdrew his arm “Look, you don't understand,” he began, then stopped as yet another man appeared.

This one was younger, hardly more than a teenager. He was carrying a brace of fat salmon and half-running, drawn by the commotion. Seeing Hal, his expression also became angry. He stepped up and stood shoulder to shoulder with the old man. “You heard him, asshole, fuck off!” he cried—then abruptly drew in a breath, frowning. “Hold on! Don't I
know
you?”

Mystified, beginning to feel exhausted, Hal shrugged.

“I know him all right,” the old man snapped. “It's another of those land-grabbing bastards.”

Before Hal could protest the younger man shook his head. “No he's not,” he cried. “I've got it. This guy's from the
TV
.” He tossed the fish into the back of the pickup and came forward, wiping his hands on his jeans and grinning. “Am I right?”

“Don't be a fool, Con,” the old man began, but was interrupted by his companion chanting an inane little jingle.

“‘The man from the West,'” Con sang, in a mock-country twang, “‘His heart is the best.' That's you in that old
TV
ad! It
is
you, eh?”

Indeed it was: a rare on-camera appearance in a
TV
commercial, which in a moment of weakness (encouraged by an obscene amount of money) he'd agreed to years ago, and which had haunted him ever since. Despite his vast array of professional credits, a certain segment of the public remembered him only as the corny old Man from the West
.
Young Con was evidently one of the tribe. “Yeah!” Hal sighed. “I have to admit it is.”

“Right on!” Oblivious now of his peevish companion, he came forward, cheerful hand extended. “Dude, I must have seen that ad a zillion times. Could I get your autograph?”

≈  ≈  ≈

When hal's real identity was finally established, the transformation of the old man was so radical as to be almost comical. From being an angry curmudgeon, Fitz Trail became a picture of amiability, and touchingly apologetic for the earlier misunderstanding. Having heard something of Fitz's struggles against developers, Hal dismissed the apology. “That's perfectly okay,” he said warmly. “When you first appeared I mistook you for my brother. We all make mistakes.” He grinned and rubbed his wrist. “I'm just glad you didn't have a gun, is all.”

This quip provoked a hoot of laughter from Con, who elbowed Fitz in the ribs. The old man looked even more embarrassed. Apparently there was some significance to this that Hal didn't know about. He resisted the urge to ask what it might be.

Mattie didn't return at five, as promised. A note, discovered in the kitchen, explained about Hal, and asked Fitz to entertain him till she returned. “There you go, Fitz,” Con laughed: he seemed as at home in the house as if he lived there. “If you only came inside once in a while, instead of chippin' away down in the boathouse, you wouldn't have attacked Miz Trail's guest.”

“That's enough from you,” Fitz said, mildly. “Don't you have some place to go?”

“No, sir,” Con grinned. “Not every day I get a chance to meet a
TV
star. Reckon I'll stick around.”

Fitz snorted, “Young pup! You think you can do what you like around here.”

This was evidently a well practiced routine. Fitz and Con were as familiar as family. It came to Hal that Con must be somewhat the age of the strangely vanished Brian. Had Con been one of his buddies? Childhood friend, maybe? That would explain his familiarity with the place. Interrupting his thoughts, Fitz said, “Okay, Mattie's going to be a while, so we can relax. Care for a beer, Hal?”

Hal said he would. Con went to the fridge, discovering only milk. “Hell,” Fitz said, “There's plenty down below. And I could use a smoke.”

Hal didn't mention that he'd already had a tour of the property with Mattie, happy to do so again. The old man was an enthusiastic guide, proud of his family's tenure of the land. The steps down the cliff were steep, winding precipitously, so they took a while to navigate. By the time they reached bottom, Hal knew a surprising amount about the Trail family's history in Maple Bay.

This also included background on their destination, the boathouse. It had been built by Fitz's grandfather in the 1920s, the tradition being that during
US
Prohibition it had been used for rum-running. “Probably bullshit,” Fitz added. “My dad was pretty obsessed with getting his hands on cash, but I doubt he'd have had the guts to smuggle whisky to the San Juans—let alone the smarts. Later on, he sold off most of the land we used to own, then lost the money playing the market. Damn fool. But he made a decent enough job of this.” Fitz indicated the boathouse, to which the path had finally brought them. “Older'n me and still rock solid. Thirty years ago, this part of the bay silted up and you couldn't float boats in anymore. So I closed off the sea end, and it's been my second home ever since.”

“Mostly for goofin' off in,” Con quipped,

“Maybe so,” Fitz chuckled. “But I reckon you're pretty good at helping me with that.”

Con laughed and threw open the door.

The three of them moved inside.

twenty-one

The inside of the boathouse was much as Hal might have expected. The semi-gloom, the result of the place being shielded by the cliff from the westering sun, receded as his eyes adjusted. Revealed was a barn-like interior filled with ropes and tools, fishing gear and miscellaneous junk, plus something unexpected: a collection of remarkably fine wood carvings. Some, such as the figure of a leaping salmon, in progress on the bench, were realistic, with a skilful economy of detail and line; others were more abstract, clearly influenced by native ceremonial art. Hal was impressed. “Chippin' away,” had been Con's description of Fitz's activities. Was this just teasing? Or didn't they realize the considerable talent that was on display here? Yet another question, in a list that seemed to be growing.

But what got to Hal was the atmosphere of the building itself. As soon as he entered, it settled on his mind like a chord from a great organ. Oddly, at first he couldn't make out whether the mood was threatening or benign, but it was very powerful. The nearest he'd ever come to the notion of “feeling” in a structure was in old theaters; on occasion, he'd sensed a residue of the hurly-burly of emotions that had been invoked in those places. But that had been pale compared to what crowded in on him here.

Hal glanced quickly at the others. Con was threading his way through the clutter toward an old fridge. Fitz had drifted to the workbench and had idly picked up a chisel. Neither seemed aware of what Hal was experiencing—and almost immediately it was gone. The place must have reminded him of something, he decided, a movie, maybe, or an old dream, which had prompted this somewhat melodramatic response.

However, the boathouse did have one truly unusual feature: a large bay window overlooking the ocean. Seeking distraction, Hal took the beer that Con offered and said, “This window's kind of different. Not what you'd expect in a place like this.”

Fitz now had a chisel in one hand and a beer in the other. “Picked it up in a junkyard years back. Stuck it there when I walled in the sea end. Bit out of place, I guess, but it gives decent light. And a good view of the comings and goings.”

Con grinned. “Fitz keeps a real close eye on the
comings and goings
.”

“Good thing I do.” Fitz snapped. “Like just yesterday. I noticed this fella down on the flats in a real bad way. Might even have drowned if it wasn't for me.”

“What was wrong with him?”

“Hurt his back. I fetched him up here and got him straightened out. Pretty scary for a while. But he was okay. Afterwards we had a good chat.”

“You're kidding!” Con turned to Hal. “He
never
lets strangers in here. You getting soft in your old age, Fitz?”

“Not too soft to kick your cheeky butt.”

“You and whose army?” Con laughed. “Seriously, you
talked
to this guy?”

“Sure. Name of Bill Iverson.”

“Never heard that name round here.”

“He's not from here. Just retired and bought a place up the bay. Tomorrow I'm taking him fishin'.”

Con looked astounded. “Wow, cool. Hey, Fitz, looks like you got yourself a buddy.”

“Wouldn't go that far. But the guy's heart's in the right place.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, for a start, he's real pissed about all the development around here.”

“Sounds like a regular soulmate.”

“Don't be an ass. He's just a fella.”

For all Fitz's attempts at diffidence, Hal could see he was excited. Since his only companions, apparently, were his daughter-in-law and someone young enough to be his grandson, this was hardly surprising. Con seemed happy too. Likely he was relieved that Fitz had found another companion. Young people needed their own kind. Even if Con was an old friend of Brian's, he could never replace him. But then, Hal thought, who knew what was really going on here? He'd only just met them, so what did he know?

One thing he was certain about, however, was the quality of Fitz's carving. Having examined several pieces, his attention finally centered on a remarkable rendering of a sailboat. Carved from a single block of fine-grained yellow cedar, it stood in the bay window, sleek lines of hull and sheets wrought with an unerring sense of the raw power of the sea. Hal had never been on a sailboat and had little interest in things nautical, but this creation—so evocative that one could almost feel the wind lashing the shrouds and the figure of the lone helmsman—had an effect that was almost hypnotic.

“That's my grandson's boat,
Orca
.”

Hal gave a start. The old man had moved in beside him and was contemplating the carving meditatively. “Young Brian was a damn fine sailor—though that doesn't seem to have helped him in the end.”

Startled by the sudden introduction of a subject that until now had been avoided, Hal said, “Oh? What happened?”

“Hey, Hal!” Con said suddenly. “You want another beer?”

“I'm fine, thanks.” Hal replied, not taking his eyes off Fitz.

“Hit you again, Fitz?” Con said

“No, boy. What happened, Hal, is that my grandson went sailing one day and—”

“Aw, jeez, Fitz,” Con interrupted. “Hal doesn't want to hear about all that.”

“Con doesn't like to talk about Brian,” Fitz said quietly. “Best buddies since they were shrimps, so in a way it's understandable. But, I keep telling him, you can't fix things by being afraid to talk.”

“Aw, shit, old man,” Con muttered. “It just depresses me, is all.”

“Brian's mum's the same,” Fitz went on, apparently oblivious. “But you know what I say? If folks aren't talked about, they're not properly remembered, which is like a sort of double death. When my son, Will, got killed, I clammed up for years, hardly let myself think about him, let alone talk; which maybe helped a bit, but made things worse in the end. Now I can't hardly remember his face. I'm not going to let that happen with Brian.”

Hal was taken aback. This confession was not what he'd have expected from the taciturn old fellow. But the mood was swiftly broken as Con banged down his beer bottle. “Yeah, well—it's late and I gotta get movin'. Nice talkin' to you, Mister
TV
star. See you, Fitz.”

Con strode to the door and was gone.

Fitz shrugged. “I guess I shouldn't be so hard on the kid—but he's got to learn. Another beer?”

Hal said okay. Fitz fetched fresh bottles, then settled in the rocking chair. Hal was drawn to the bay window. The sky was taking on the deeper tones of evening. Though the water glowed bright, the enclosing headlands and distant island were beginning the long slide into dark. A far-off tugboat moved at a pace that indicated it was under load, the distance too great to reveal what that might be. Nearer to hand were several drifting sails. At water's edge hovered a motionless heron. It was a magically peaceful scene, but Hal's curiosity would not allow him to be lulled. Once a story was begun, he had to know the end. Knowing he might regret it, he said, “So what
did
happen to Brian?”

Fitz stared out at the bay for so long that it seemed he wasn't going to answer. Finally he said, “There was no place he was happier than out there. He had this little sailboat, which I built for him. Not so big a good sailor couldn't easily handle her alone. And that boy was good: a better feel for wind and weather than most grown men. That's what made it all so strange . . . ”

Fitz's voice drifted off, his gaze consumed by the ocean.

“He and Con were best pals,” Fitz continued. “Pretty much inseparable since they were kids. Did most everything together too, except for the sailing, Con wasn't so much into that. Oh, he'd crew for Brian now and then, even handled the
Orca
by himself well enough. But he never had the passion. When Brian was older, most often he went out alone. There he'd be in all weathers.” Fitz pointed to a cap on the window ledge. “And always wearing that crummy old Cardinals cap. Sailing meant as much to Brian as this land means to me. He just couldn't get enough . . .”