Act of Evil (17 page)

Trent stopped, eyes aglow, and Stephanie had the urge to applaud. Unlike the hanging fiasco, however, when he'd actually requested such a response, Trent obviously wasn't looking for praise. But his certainty was unmistakable—and very convincing.

“That sounds wonderful.” Stephanie said finally. Then, since he said nothing more. “So, what are you going to do about it?”

Trent's excitement abruptly faded. “I don't actually know.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well . . . I guess I hadn't got that far. First I wanted to make sure I was right, I guess.”

“And now you are?”

“Of course! But . . .”

“What?”

“Steph, as you well know, I'm flat broke—”

“But Terry Bathgate isn't, for God's sake!” Stephanie all but exploded.

“Yes, but—”

“You
must
know you've got to tell him!”

“But I've already lost him a fucking fortune.”

“
Trent!
” Stephanie was so exasperated she sprang to her feet. “Is all you've just told me just a fantasy? Just another
game
?”

Trent scrambled up, too. “No!
No
!
NO
!!!”

There was a long silence as they stared at each other. Finally Stephanie, her insides aquiver, reached out and took her fiancé's hand. Using it to pull him in close, she lifted her face to his. “So listen to me,” she said quietly. “When I drove down, I saw the lights were still on in the big house. If you truly believe you're onto something—but also if you believe in yourself, and in
us
—you really need to go up and see Terry right now.”

twenty-three

It had all worked out perfectly. Trail had walked right into his trap. It was comical really, the way the old fart considered himself to be a tough, hard-nosed protector of his pathetic realm. Yet, when it came down to it, he'd been a pushover, buying the bad-back routine like a widow falling for a phone scam. But, instead of his life's savings, what this bozo was about to lose was his life.

The man Fitz knew as Bill Iverson appeared bright and early for his rendezvous. True to his claim to have rented a place up the coast, he arrived at the boathouse on foot. The tide was low, so the journey along the beach had been easy. The expanse of sand and exposed flats that ran below the cliff was deserted—not even any early dog-walkers—so it had been private too. Not that he was concerned about being observed. Once the job was done, which would be quickly, he would vanish, never to be seen again. Still, it was good to be discreet. It was always wise that a death should appear to be accidental, and in this case it was a requirement.

The ocean was the perfect place for fatal accidents.

Iverson put down the rod he'd purchased for the occasion, sat on the boathouse steps, and calmly surveyed the scene. A slim but solid dock ran a hundred feet out into the water. At the end was moored Fitz's motor launch, a modest affair with a forward cabin and two sturdy outboards, small but seaworthy. Iverson found himself wishing that he had a nice little set-up like this: some land by the sea, a cool old workshop and a boat to while away the hours. Then he chuckled cynically.
Oh, yeah!
he thought,
And how long before you got bored with that shit? Get real, man. Stop fucking dreaming and get it together
.

He did just that, concentrating on the boat itself. The cabin was quite big enough to conceal two people for the length of time needed for what he had to do. Once they were out to sea, trolling in the fishing lanes, there would be no witnesses anyway. From the encounter the other day, when he'd feigned the back-injury, he'd ascertained that the old man was wiry and strong. To make sure that there were no signs of a struggle, he'd need to take Fitz completely by surprise. A single sharp blow on the head would do it, in such a position that it'd seem to be the result of a fall. Then all that would be needed was to let a little water into the bilges and hold the old man's face in it till he drowned. Finally, he'd head in to a quiet beach, disembark, put the trolling motor on cruise and aim the launch into the bay, to be found by whomsoever. Ah, what a tragedy. Poor old guy. But such things happened. Sad—and perfect.

Iverson was just putting the finishing touches to his plan when he heard sounds from above. He moved down the beach a little and stood clutching his rod, like a happy and expectant fisherman. After a moment, Fitz appeared. Despite the early hour, he looked fresh and sprightly, descending the path carefully, but with fair agility. As a seasoned professional, Iverson reminded himself not to underestimate the old coot for a single minute.

Fitz reached the bottom and saw the other man. “'Mornin', early bird,” he said cheerfully. “Keen to get at those coho, eh?”

Iverson laughed. “Couldn't wait. Sure appreciate the invite, Fitz.”

“You're welcome. Least I could do for a new neighbour. They'll be running good, I reckon. How's the back?”

Iverson said it was okay and followed Fitz into the boathouse. There were rods in a rack by the door. The old man selected one that was already set up. He put it aside and fetched a tackle box. “How you set for lures?”

Iverson shrugged. He supposed it inevitable that they'd have some ritual fishing bullshit before setting out, but he hoped it wouldn't last long. “Dunno. Got a silver spinner thing, but I'm not sure what's good around here.”

“Spinner's okay, but I maybe got somethin' better you could try. See when we get out.”

“Yeah—thanks.”

But they didn't leave right away. Just when it looked like they would go, Fitz put down the tackle box and took out cigarettes. He offered one to Iverson, who reluctantly accepted: too many of those and he'd get hooked again. He couldn't wait to get the job done, but it was even more important that things remain cool, that the prey be relaxed and unsuspecting until the hammer fell. So he lit up, hoping the nicotine would calm his impatience. But then, rather than leaving, Fitz became interested in the carving on the workbench—apparently a work-in-progress—and started whittling away. Iverson would dearly have loved to grab the chisel and insert it in the old fuck's brain, but he listened with a fixed smile as he was regaled with a long dissertation on old-growth timber, its benefits for carving, and how development and greed had stripped the Island of all the best trees.
We'll strip this little paradise double quick when you're history
, Iverson thought, but continued to smile and make inane comments, while half an hour passed and the asshole chattered and whittled and smoked and carved and chattered some goddamn more.

Then, just as Iverson had begun to think that the idiot had forgotten what they were supposed to be doing—and his own fingers had begun a near-irrepressible twitch—Fitz glanced at his watch and put down his chisel. “Okay!” he said cheerfully, “Tide's turning. We should go.”

“That's it? We've been waiting for the
tide
?”

“Sure! Coho always strike better when it's on the flow. Some folks don't agree, but that's my opinion.”

He grabbed his rod and tackle box and Iverson followed him onto the dock. Fitz in the lead, they headed at last for the boat.

Iverson allowed himself a long, silent sigh of relief. His fingers had ceased to twitch. Instead, a satisfying calm began to infuse his body, plus the anticipatory tingle of the coming kill. All gain aside, this was the part of the work he enjoyed most, the satisfying act of termination. Better than food or sex or any kind of drug, the raw power of offing a human being made every other sensation seem pale, while making him feel immortal. Ah, sometimes life was so good you could taste it.

They arrived at the launch. At close quarters, Iverson could see it was perfect for his purpose. There was even a little wooden club lying in the gunwales, no doubt for stunning the catch. The big man had to restrain a chuckle: sometimes you'd think the fools were just asking for it.

Fitz climbed aboard and stowed his rod, then reached out to Iverson, the meaning obvious. Iverson handed across his rod and it was stowed too. “Okay,” Fitz said cheerily. “Cast off, will you, then climb aboard. There's a coho out there with your name on it.”

Iverson did as he was bid. He let go the forward line, but when he went to unhitch the other, he got a surprise. A young man was coming fast down the cliff path. Even as Iverson spotted him, he reached the dock. On the boat, Fitz also caught sight of the newcomer.

“Well, better late than never,” Fitz said. “That's my young friend, Con. Often comes fishin' with me. Good kid, but finds it hard to get up in the morning. Hey, Con,” Fitz bawled. “Thought you weren't coming. Get a move on! Meet the fella I told you about.”

Stone faced, Iverson watched as the newcomer approached—and his careful plan disintegrated.

twenty-four

They had a near-perfect day together. It started when Hal awoke in Jennifer's room to find sun pouring through the windows overlooking Maple Bay. The light had a soft, coastal quality that reminded him of long-gone summers. But instead of waxing nostalgic, he felt pleasantly exhilarated. Moving to the window, he realized why; working in a patch of garden, some distance away between the forest and the cliff, was Mattie. She was wearing sandals, shorts, and a droopy old sweater, her hair in a ponytail down her slim back. At this distance she looked about twenty.

He didn't still love her: to have imagined otherwise would have been pathetic and juvenile. Yet, when he looked down at the earnest figure toiling in the morning sun, he realized that what he
did
feel was more intriguing than anything he'd known in earlier years. It was like a family attachment, but more complicated: the gentle affection one might have for an old friend, yet with a physical attraction which, though strong, was perfectly containable. In other words, while enjoying the sight of her still-lovely bones, he didn't feel compelled to jump them.

They had breakfast alone, her father-in-law already having gone fishing. It being the weekend, Mattie's day was free. They spent the morning on the patio overlooking the sea, talking about old times. She didn't mention her son, nor did Hal reveal that he'd learned the sad history from Fitz. He had the feeling she knew he'd been told, though maybe this was wishful thinking. In any case, the shadow that, to some degree, had hung over her since their first meeting, seemed to have lifted. Was this because of his presence? He hoped so, and Fitz had certainly believed that his arrival had done her good. If so, what would happen when he left? Surely, nothing of consequence. Pure egotism to imagine otherwise. After all this time, he must be no more than a diversion for Mattie. What he'd earlier mistaken for melancholy was probably no more than boredom, to which his visit was a mild antidote. Or perhaps he was just giving too much thought to the whole damn thing. He determined to stop thinking, to simply enjoy this unexpected time. To live in the moment.

But turning off his head was not easy.

After lunch they walked by the ocean. The afternoon was bright and hot, with a sky of unbroken cobalt; not uncommon summer weather, but a revelation to those who imagine a West Coast of endless damp. Mattie still wore her sandals and shorts but had exchanged the sweater for a light T-shirt. Hal had to content himself with city attire and rolled shirt sleeves. Though the tide was rising, there was still ample room to walk. They ambled for miles, passing beaches, tree-hung cliffs, and occasional marinas, sloshing through mud flats and scrambling over rocks: all of which was accomplished in leisurely fashion, as they either chatted or ambled along in companionable silence.

Later, when the tide had risen too high to allow either going on or returning by the same route, they climbed a cliff path and entered the woods. By now, Hal had no idea where they were, but Mattie was an experienced guide. Unerringly she found a path, leading back in the direction they'd come. The Island, Hal knew, was festooned with hiking trails, but being a city kid he'd paid them little mind. Though the trees here were not the old-growth giants of Fitz's domain, they were still impressive; Douglas fir and cedar, coast maple, and orange-barked arbutus, the undergrowth deep-green salal, holly, and crinkly Oregon grape.

Here also it was refreshingly cool. As they walked side-by-side along a broader section of path, Hal realized that they were holding hands. The contact had happened so naturally that he didn't know when it had started. It didn't feel sexy or romantic, just quietly
right
. Recalling, by contrast, his recent romp with the uninhibited Juliet Jeffries, he realized that this near-sisterly contact with Mattie meant more—and would be longer remembered—than anything that had happened in a long time.

They arrived home, hot, tired and content, about five-thirty in the afternoon, and Mattie went off to take a shower. Preparing to do the same, Hal went to his room. As if on cue, his cell, which had been abandoned on the dresser, began to ring.

“
That'll be Vancouver,
” Hal thought. “
They've probably been trying to get me all day. Damn
!”

But his annoyance was not because he'd missed the contact, but that it was happening at all. Somehow he'd assumed that this break would last longer, and only now did he realize how much he wanted it to.

“Damn!” he said, aloud this time. Then, in resigned tones as he answered the phone. “Hello?”

“Hi, Hal,” his brother's voice said, “I've been trying to get you all day.”

“Oh, sorry!” Hal replied. “I've been out on a hike, and I didn't take my phone.”

Trent chuckled evilly. “A hike, eh? Is that what they're calling it now?”

“No, it's nothing like—”

“Forget it, bro!” Trent cut in. “I'm just a crude asshole. The lady's pure and you've been a perfect gent, I'm sure. Look . . . I just want to thank you.”