Act of Evil (5 page)

“It's personal.”

“Really? Hey, you haven't been playing real-life detective again?”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Well, the last time you had personal reasons you didn't want to tell me about was when you got involved with the death of that actor in
LA
.”

“I wasn't
involved
, idiot. I just happened to find out some stuff that I had to follow up on.”

“Nearly got your ass killed, as I recall. You're supposed to
play
cops, not
be
them.”

“That was just a one-off, as you well know.”

Danny laughed. “Okay, already! Just make sure it stays that way.”

“Anyway, I've got family here. I'd been hoping to—”

“Yeah, yeah!” Danny cut him off. “Listen . . .” The bantering tone left his voice as he became all business. “The idiot agency just got in touch. Freakin'
finally
! They met our outrageous demands—and they've decided they want you to start the gig in Vancouver on Tuesday, So—you talented fellow—you don't have to leave the lotus-land of your freakin' fathers quite yet.”

Danny had a smartass streak and a skin as thick as a rhino—both of which somehow combined to make him a really good agent. Hal got all the necessary details, and after the usual ritual of pleasantries and insults, the call ended.

By this time he was not only thoroughly awake but starving. Having been on an early-rising film schedule for a month, his body clock wasn't about to let him become a slugabed. He rose, showered and shaved, then went down to pick up breakfast in the hotel coffee shop, sitting at the same table as he'd briefly occupied last night with Mattie.

The scrap of paper with her number was tucked away in his wallet. Before starting the job in Vancouver, he had three free days. Inevitably, he found himself considering the idea of phoning her: to do . . . what? Arrange a visit? Have yet another go-nowhere conversation about lives that now meant nothing to each other, that had fractured irrevocably twenty-five years ago? The idea was ridiculous . . . and yet he couldn't help thinking about it.

Last night, he realized, he hadn't learned a single thing about her. A few meager details of his own life had come out—he cringed at the recollection of the “escaping marriage” crap—but before Mattie could open up, sexy whirlwind Juliet had blown in and his old friend had evaporated. Remembering that moment, Hal was annoyed to find himself embarrassed. So, what the hell did she expect after twenty-five years, that he'd become a goddamn monk? But that wasn't fair; knowing Mattie, she'd probably just figured that he had more exciting things than herself to bother with, and . . . No, in fact, he had no idea
what
she thought; why she'd come, or why she'd gone . . . or subsequently left her phone number.

Or why he was thinking about this at all.

By the time he'd finished breakfast he'd decided on a plan of action. The hell with Victoria. What he'd do was head for Vancouver and spend the three days until his gig started being a tourist. Right! He finished breakfast and headed across the hotel foyer, intending to check out. The clerk at the desk was on the phone. As Hal approached, he looked startled. “Oh, just a minute—you're in luck,” he said into the phone. “Here he is
now
.”

As the instrument was held out to him, Hal looked enquiringly at the clerk, but what he thought was,
Mattie!

The desk clerk said, “It's some guy, Mister Bannatyne—says he's your brother.”

≈  ≈  ≈

Hal felt both surprise and relief. He did indeed have a brother, apparently now living right here on the Island, but had almost given up expecting to hear from him.

Several years younger than Hal, Trent Bannatyne had also shown an early interest in the theater. But that was as far as it went, his real talent being for numbers and money. He'd graduated with a degree in economics and moved to Toronto at about the same time Hal finished theater school. For a while they'd seen each other often enough. But then, Hal's itinerant lifestyle and Trent's increasing involvement with the world of high finance, had resulted in fewer and fewer opportunities to get in touch, gaps finally building into years. Their father having died of a stroke, their mother had moved to live with her sister in Florida. Both kept in contact with her, Hal going down to visit quite regularly, Trent mostly by phone calls. Nonetheless, by passing back and forth as much information as possible, Marcie Bannatyne had managed—as parents will—to maintain some semblance of family. Then, about a year ago, she'd given Hal surprising news. Trent, for reasons his mother couldn't explain, had given up his high-flying business career and moved back to Vancouver Island. The last time Hal and his mother had talked, just after he started the film, she'd even given him a new phone number for Trent, hoping as always that her boys would get together. Hal had tried the number several times, to no avail, and had just about given up hope of contacting his long-lost sibling.

“Hello. Trent?”

“Hi, bro! How ya doin'?”

Trent's voice was brisk, warm, and self assured.

“I'm fine,” Hal replied. “I've been trying to get in touch with you.”

“Really?”

“Yes, but the number Mum gave me didn't seem to work.”

Trent chuckled drily. “Oh, that . . . I had it changed. Sorry, man!”

“Never mind, you found
me
. But how did you know where I was?”

“Whatja think? From our mudder, brudder!”

Hal's eyebrows raised. That kind of verbiage didn't sound like the old Trent, and gave him a slightly odd feeling. “So where are
you
? Here in Victoria?”

“Not exactly. But on the Island. Unlike certain globetrotting ‘movie stars,'
I
came home.”

“Amazing! Mum told me you were back but didn't seem to know why. I figured—what with the internet and all—you could probably just as easily work from here as anywhere.”

Trent chuckled. “Good thinking, but no! I gave up all that big business shit. I'm into the arts now.”

“The arts? Which one?”

“Acting, actually.”

“
Really
!”

“Well, right now it's just an idea. But don't sound so surprised. I know you're the big star in the family. But, who knows, maybe I'll give you a run for your money. Anyway, we can talk about that later—when you come up.”

“Up?”

“To
see
me. You do want to see me, bro?”

“Of course, you idiot. Where are you exactly?”

His brother told him. When the call ended, instead of checking out, he found out from the desk clerk where he could rent a car.

six

The route out of town, Hal discovered, was as much changed in twenty years as everything else in Victoria. Instead of the pokey little road he remembered, there was a new highway—not huge by big city standards, but four fast-moving lanes with decent overpasses—swooping north almost as far as the mountains. Climbing the Malahat Range, which fenced off the city from the rest of Vancouver Island, was still a tortuous exercise. But the resulting view of islands and sea, the Fuji-like cone of Mount Baker on the
US
mainland, and the emerald slopes that garlanded the road itself, was breathtaking. With surprise he recollected that once he'd taken all this beauty entirely for granted.
This is paradise
, he thought, as he swung his little rental car over the summit.
A real pretty place for an actor to starve to death
.

He kept going on the Island Highway, down from the mountains, skirting the villages of Mill Bay and Cobble Hill. These places had really grown, but the feeling of country tranquility was much the same. He came to a crossroads and, following his brother's directions, turned west toward Shawnigan Lake. He reached Shawnigan Village, turned left, and followed the winding road south, to the rear of a succession of lakeside properties. The modest summer cottages of the old days had been converted into year-round residences, the gaps between now packed with expensive real estate that filled every bay, cove, and headland of what had once been a quiet stretch of water. Hal drove on for a couple of kilometres, looking for the address he'd been given. Then he saw it: two large dogwood trees flanking high gates of oiled cedar, beneath an exquisitely crafted timber arch that sported the legend
LAKE HAVEN
carved in bas-relief across its apex. Beyond, the drive curved down toward the water, bisecting a steep bank covered by moss, sword ferns, and the deep green of wild erythronium. At the bottom was the solid mass of a house. From the rear, this was mostly windowless, cut stone and heavy wood, topped by an intricately gabled roof of dark slate. Through gaps in the trees, the lake could be seen, plus an elaborate series of decks, which began at one end of the house, sweeping around and joining it by descending levels to the shining docks and waters beyond.

Hal sucked in an admiring breath. What he was looking at must have cost a fortune; obviously, when Trent had said he'd quit finance to become an artist, he must have been kidding. Hal started through the gates, now more intrigued than ever to see his brother.

The drive ended in a courtyard, cut back into the side of the hill, with space for several cars. Already parked was a Mercedes convertible, and Hal swung in beside it. As he got out, a figure appeared from around the front of the house, stopped, hands on hips, staring.

It was only five years since Hal had seen his brother, but he was shocked by how much he had aged. His first thought was,
Christ, the guy looks older than me
. But this was Trent all right. Instead of the sober business suit of old, he was dressed in shorts and a wild Hawaiian shirt, which went well with his shock of prematurely white hair and deep tan. His cheekbones stood out and his eyes were bordered by a network of deep wrinkles—but the grin that grew on his face was of unmistakable delight.

A second after the smile, came motion. Trent Bannatyne charged forward, sandaled feet slapping on the courtyard stones. “Bro!” Trent grinned. “Bro, you old bastard, hello, hello! So here we are again—back together in old
BC
.”

≈  ≈  ≈

A short while later, after they'd exchanged a barrage of greetings and general sibling camaraderie, Trent led the way into the house.

Only then did the full splendor of the lakeside dwelling become evident. The place was a modern symphony in stone and plaster and polished wood. Every room had many windows, affording a series of unobstructed lake views. Beyond, the decks he'd glimpsed could now be seen in detail, the nearest overtopped by a succession of beamed arches which extended the feeling of the house, making the transition from designed interior to rugged outdoors artfully seamless. In his capacity as performer and sometime celebrity, Hal had been entertained in a number of quite grand houses. This outshone most.

Trent led the way into a living room filled with elegant furniture and a lot of expensive-looking art, through sliding doors onto the nearest deck. There was a glass-topped table and chairs beneath a huge umbrella. Trent indicated a seat with a grin. “Take a load off. You like my little place?”

Hal laughed. “Trent, it's fabulous! What did you do? Make a killing in the stock market?”

His brother shrugged. “Actually, that's not too far from the truth. Back in '08 I was heavily into oil futures, you remember how the black shit was going through the roof: one hundred and fifty bucks a barrel? Then, right about the time when the housing market started to go sour with all those toxic loans, I had this premonition. I
saw
the crash coming. I mean, hell,
now
it doesn't seem like you needed to be a genius to work out what was going to happen, but
then
most people had their heads in the sand. Anyhoo—I had this hunch and followed it. Unloaded my futures at top dollar and invested the lot in safe-as-dullsville shit like Great West Life and came back home to the Island, and—well—here you see me. Now I just sit around and love my woman and think about what I want to do next.”

“Which, you said, may be acting?”

Trent shrugged. “That—or something else. Right now, honestly, I haven't decided.”

Hal chuckled. “Well, it looks like you can afford to take your time. Good for you.”

There were sails and powerboats towing water skiers out on the sparkling lake. The hills beyond and the cloudless sky shimmered with a late-morning haze. The sounds of seabirds and dogs and distant marine engines and occasional far-off laughter blended in a summer chorus so idyllic that Hal felt entranced.

Under a separate awning to one side of the deck was a wet bar, from which Trent produced a bottle of cold Chardonnay, opening it as they talked. And what talk it was. Trent might have left the world of finance, but he seemed to take considerable pleasure in reminiscing about the life he'd led. His stories of business deals, stock market coups, and intriguing corporate ventures made his older brother's showbiz career actually seem almost pale. Yet Trent never seemed to boast. His voice was quiet and modest. And perhaps most surprising was a final revelation: Though they hadn't had much personal contact, Trent had followed his brother's career quite closely, helped by information from their mother. He remarked on a number of Hal's film roles, mentioned reviews that he'd read of stage shows, and dredged up a more thorough account of Hal's career than the actor might have been able to manage himself.

This took them into the early afternoon. They retired to the sumptuous kitchen, and Trent, without a pause in the conversation, fixed lunch. As they were finishing, Trent said. “By the way, bro, I've been meaning to ask: how much longer will you be in this part of the world?”