Act of Evil (25 page)

“So get on with it.”

“A pleasure. Today Fitz Trail signed over his property—the one you'd set your sick little heart on—into a trust. Upon his death—
whenever that happens
—the place will pass to the Cowichan Valley Regional Authority. For a park. To be named in honor of two friends.”

There was a long silence. Vince breathed, “Why?”

“As a memorial. One was lost in the fire, the other at sea.”

“No, asshole, why did he have to do that? We offered the idiot millions.”

“He didn't
want
millions. All Fitz needed was to be left alone. The trust will make sure that happens.”

“You think?”

“Buddy, I
know
! Vince, you may be a treacherous shit, but you're a realist. You know there's no point in messing with someone if it won't achieve anything. And now it won't. The old man's given over control. He couldn't change his mind if he wanted. And after he's gone, the family won't have anything to sell. I'm here to make sure you understand that completely. Do you?”

“Fuck you!”

“I'll take that as a ‘yes.' So, that's about it—except for one thing . . .”

Hal heaved himself to his feet. Even hunched over, he towered over the other man. He lifted his stick, then extended his arm slowly so that the tip came to rest on Vince's chest.

Vince didn't move. His pale eyes dropped to the stick, which, though hardly making contact, seemed to hold him transfixed.

“If this was a movie script,” Hal said quietly, “now would be the point I beat the crap out of you. But, that'd just be playing into your hands. And squishing bugs never did turn me on. Vince, I don't kid myself that you give a damn about what you've done, or even that I know you've done it. Just so long as no one can nail you, eh?

“But one thing you
do
care about, I know: that map you showed me with all the stuff you've developed says it all. You're obsessed. You've just got to be the best, have the lot, litter the world with shrines to your ego. But now there's one place on that map that will always stay yellow. Fucking forever! And you'll always know you lost, beaten by an old man you couldn't buy and couldn't scare, who showed you up for the bastard you are. He'll always have that property and know that when he goes it'll be safe. Guys like you will never get their greasy hands on it. That's his legacy. And what's yours? A pile of overpriced junk that's making this island look like a poor relation of California.”

Hal surveyed Vince, still staring cold-eyed from the other end of the walking stick. Instead of performing the action that once would have given him huge satisfaction—cracking the prick's skull—he used the stick to propel the small man firmly backward, at last depositing him into one of the plush chairs.

“
This
isn't much of a script either,” Hal said wryly. “It sure wouldn't make it at the box office. No big drama. No bloody retribution. But it's got to be a hell of a lot better than the one you had in mind.”

Without another word he clumped out of the office, feeling relieved and frustrated and ridiculous and, ultimately, satisfied. There was no feeling of catharsis, let alone justice. But the meeting had done its job and would have to do.

Reaching his car, he performed the Houdini-like feat of inserting his battered frame into the driver's seat. Fortunately, the transmission was automatic and his right foot was uninjured. With that and one good arm he could reasonably navigate back to Maple Bay.

He'd just started the engine when his cell rang. It was in a pocket opposite his good arm, so it took time and a brace of curses to extract the thing.

“Hello?”

“Hal, laddie—where the hell have you been?”

The voice, deeply familiar yet seeming to belong to another life, was Hal's agent, Danny Feltmann. “Oh, hey—Danny.” Hal said, actually needing to search momentarily for the name. “How's it going?”

“How's it
going
? Jesus Geronimo, what's happening out there? I've been trying to reach you for freaking
days
!”

“Guess my phone got switched off. Some—er—strange stuff came up.”

“Yeah?” Danny laughed nastily. “You get into some of that West Coast weed?”

“Not exactly!” Hal said, thinking that if Danny knew what he
had
been into he'd really flip. “Anyway, sorry! You've got me now. What is it?”

Hal was one of Danny's best money-makers so, though he was thoroughly pissed, Danny couldn't afford to blow his cool too much. But Hal could almost hear teeth grinding as Danny said, “What it
is
, matey, is the voice-over gig. Remember that little number?”

“Oh, right . . . have they sorted out their legal problems?”

“Yeah—duh!!!—two fucking
days
ago! And they've been trying to rouse you ever since!”

The voice-over gig. Work. The real world. Such things still actually existed. Since the start of what had turned out to be the strangest of adventures, the rest of his life had been put on hold. Yet as he talked to Danny, that life seemed hardly real at all. And when he finally broke the connection, he felt as if he'd touched something irrelevant and not quite clean.

Nonetheless, the fact remained that he had to be at the studio to start work first thing in the morning. Considering his injuries, it was lucky the job required voice only. But if he was going to get to Vancouver in time to check into his hotel, he'd need to start for the ferry right away. No time even to return to Maple Bay to pick up his things, let alone say goodbye. With a sigh of irritation—masking a deeper regret—Hal dialed Mattie's number.

“Hello?”

That single word evoked such a powerful image of his friend he could almost feel her presence beside him. “Hi, it's Hal. Mattie, I did what I said I was going to do.”

“With the man from PacificCon?”

“No way he'll ever admit to anything, of course. But I told him about the land trust—and didn't give in to the temptation to bust his ass—and he won't bother you guys again.”

“That's wonderful. Thank you.”

Her voice had an odd quality, but he ignored that as he continued. “Look, Mattie, I'm sorry, but my agent just called. The lawsuit's settled and they need me back at work first thing tomorrow . . .” He explained the situation and she seemed to understand. But as they continued to talk, he making assurances that when the job was done he'd be returning, it became impossible to ignore her strange undertone: something that finally registered as bemusement. “Mattie!” he said at last. “What is it? Is Fitz okay?”

“Fitz? Oh—yes—he's fine.”

“So . . . What's wrong?”

She didn't answer. The line was so silent that he thought he'd lost the connection. As he was about to switch off, she said abruptly, “Hal?”

“Yes. I'm here. What's going on?”

“I'm not completely sure yet,” Mattie said, her voice low and flat. “But it's possible we may have found my son.”

forty

At the bottom of the cliff, where the boathouse had stood for nearly

a century, nothing remained but dunes of gray-white ash, drifting through the charred hulks of the largest beams. Around the edge, the vestiges of pilings sprouted from the beach like rotted teeth. In the midst of the desolation was a cleared area sporting two flagged stakes. What had been in that place was long gone.

Surrounding all was a sagging line of police tape.

Hal descended the path, going only far enough to get a clear view. This evening was the first time he'd been there since the night of the fire. That was now long in the past, but returning still made him queasy. When fire trucks had finally arrived, the flames had at least been prevented from spreading beyond the immediate vegetation. But it still looked like a war zone down there, the effect enhanced by the sour ash smell that lingered.

Hal paused. His shoulder was on the mend and he no longer needed a stick, but the remaining stiffness in his ankle was a grim reminder—if any were needed—of the horror that had taken place below. Yet, he'd been the lucky one. Two others had perished, one tragically, the other by some blind twist of justice, while yet another had been rescued only just in time. An extraordinary accumulation of events had reached its climax on that fateful night. The result had been terrible, though not in the manner intended. Also the outcome had clear aspects of triumph, for those who'd set the dark wheels in motion had been thwarted.

Yet nothing that had happened had prepared anyone for the final surprise. Gazing at the ruins, Hal could see the focal point of that revelation clearly: higher up the beach, a short distance from where the two had died—was a third marker.

≈  ≈  ≈

Nearly three weeks had passed. The remains of the two known victims had been retrieved and enquiries set in motion. But since all proof of the cause of the fire—along with the culprit—had been destroyed, the facts known to the family were to the police mere speculation. There was no proof of any cause other than accident or negligence. That scenario, of course, didn't take into account the remains of Penney-cum-Iverson. Hal had volunteered his knowledge of the man's link to PacificCon, but with few illusions as to what it would achieve.

As to the fire's intended victim, Fitz Trail had recovered well enough from his ordeal. But the tragedy—especially the death of Con—had taken a heavy toll. When Hal had come up with the idea of putting his land into a trust, he'd agreed at once, desperate to protect his family from further threat. But the heart had gone out of him. The blaze that had taken his young friend, his carvings, and his beloved boathouse had sadly dimmed his own fire. Much more than lives and property had been lost on that dreadful night.

The funeral for Con had taken place after Hal's return to work. But he was told it had been well attended, the mourners including his brother and Stephanie. Con's mother—escorted by Mattie, who'd been largely responsible for the arrangements—was like a pale ghost. She'd been sober since the night of the fire and, incredibly, the loss of her son seemed to be the reason. But even Mattie, who'd lost a child of her own, could provide little comfort. The gaunt, hollow-eyed woman was as withdrawn as if she herself were already on the other side of the grave.

Though no insurance claim had been filed on the boathouse, an investigator arrived anyway and started to poke about in the ashes. He was the one who made the final discovery.

A third body.

The mummified remains had apparently been there for a long time. Though exposed by the fire, they'd been largely protected from its fury. Accompanying artifacts had provided identification: Brian Trail.

Not lost at sea, but concealed beneath the boathouse. Not drowned, but murdered.

≈  ≈  ≈

Hal stood still on the cliff path, while evening slowly gathered the scene into merciful shadow. The charred remains had revealed at last the answer to the biggest puzzle of all: what had happened to Mattie's son? But with that had come new questions:
Why
? And, more important,
Who
?

Closing his eyes, Hal could picture the boathouse so vividly it was hard to believe that it wasn't still there. He recalled the strange feelings he'd had, almost as if the place had been trying to tell him something. But of course that was nonsense. He would not let fanciful thinking divert him from what was most important, the ordeal of Mattie. Being stuck in Vancouver during the mind-bending discovery had been torture. Talking to his friend on the phone had seemed to be of little help. He didn't even know if when he got back to the Island things would be any better. But he'd been determined to try.

Not surprisingly, Mattie had not wanted to view the scene of devastation again, but he'd felt compelled to look at it one last time. Now it was done, what had been accomplished? Apart from the revival of bad memories, not much.

Back at the house, he discovered Mattie at the window, gazing across the bay in her habitual position of waiting: for the son who'd never been out there anyway. “You saw it?” she said, as he entered.

“Didn't go too close, I'm afraid.”

“I understand. Sometimes I feel I have to go down there, to remind myself where poor Brian was hidden away all these years. Other times I think I never want to go near it again. More often though, I just want to get away . . .” She turned back from staring at the ocean. “I'm sorry, Hal!”

“For what?”

“For being so . . . for not being able to talk when you were in Vancouver. I know you wanted to help.”

“It's okay.”

“I wouldn't have been surprised if you hadn't come back. But I'm very glad you did.”

“So am I.”

“Mattie . . . ?”

“I know. There's still one thing we still haven't talked about. You didn't ask on the phone and I couldn't bring it up. I still find it hard to even think about . . .”

“Who did it?”

Mattie nodded resignedly. “Yes! The police questioned everyone for ages. It was dreadful. I don't believe they thought anyone in the family was responsible. But who else was there? Well, there was one . . .”

“Con?”

“Yes. But when Brian disappeared, Con was in Vancouver . . .”

“Yes. Fitz told me.”

Mattie shook her head, sinking down the kitchen table. “Oh, dear, poor Brian!”

Hal pulled a chair in beside her. “You don't need to talk now .”

“Actually, I do. Now you're here, I finally can. Is that all right?”

“Of course.”

“Over the years, I never stopped wondering what deep, lonely place had taken him. Now that I at least know where he is, it's a strange sort of relief. And when all this is over, we can have a funeral. A proper burial. Brian can finally have some peace: or at least the rest of us can. We never held a memorial before, did I tell you?”