Act of Evil (6 page)

“Filming's finished here on the Island. Now I'm off to Vancouver to do some work on an animated feature. But I don't start for a couple of days. So we could hang out, if you like.”

Unexpectedly, Trent looked glum. “Ah—now, there's the thing.”

“You're busy?”

“Not busy—committed. I've lately become interested in—er—things spiritual. Not
religion
, you dig—Eastern philosophy and mysticism—and I've arranged to go to this conference in New Delhi. It starts day after tomorrow, and I'm afraid I'm flying out tonight. In fact . . .” He looked at his watch and rose. “It's been a wonderful catch-up, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to start getting ready to leave.”

Hal got up quickly. “Gee, I'm sorry, Trent—you should have said . . .”

Trent raised his hand in dismissal, then dropped it onto Hal's shoulder. “Don't be a nerd. I wouldn't have missed this for the world. It's been so great, I only wish it could go on all night. But when I get back from India I'll fly out to
TO
—maybe as early as the fall—and we can jaw for a week. Now that we've done this today, I'm embarrassed we didn't do it ages ago. Mum'll be tickled as hell to hear about it, eh?”

“No kidding!”

Trent's eyes twinkled. “And when you talk to her, don't forget to tell her what you think of my place.”

Hal looked around appreciatively. “You bet. And when you get back from New Delhi, why don't you give me a call.” He scribbled on a scrap of paper and handed it to his brother. “Here's my cell number: it'll get me anywhere, anytime.”

“Thanks, bro.” Trent pocketed the paper, then moved toward the house, the meaning clear. Mildly surprised at this somewhat abrupt end to their meeting, Hal followed. They were just entering when there was the sound of footsteps behind them.

“Hey, darling!” a voice said.

Trent stopped, and they both turned. Moving along the deck from the direction of the side of the house was a woman. She was in her early forties, fit and athletic, as tanned as Trent, with a pleasant, open face and a shock of brown hair pulled into a loose braid. She was wearing a shirt, shorts, and sandals—and a really big grin. She marched up to the pair, planted a kiss on Trent's cheek then turned to Hal. “I know who
you
are. You're Trent's famous actor brother, Hal. Trent, you didn't tell me he was coming to visit today.” She laughed. “And, by the look of your face, I'll just bet you didn't even tell him about
me
. So I guess I'll just have to introduce myself. Hi, Hal, I'm Stephanie—your brother's fiancée.”

Hal remembered Trent saying something early on about “my woman,” and realized no mention had been made of her since. Embarrassed, he introduced himself, finishing with what he hoped would be a believable fib. “Actually, Trent told me a whole lot. Congratulations. I'm just so glad we had a chance to meet before he has to leave.”

“Leave?” Stephanie raised her eyebrows in what appeared to be surprise. “Leave for where?”

“You know—India: he told me about flying out tonight. Are you going too?”

Stephanie shook her head. “No!” Abruptly she moved past them into the house. “I've got to go in now. Nice to meet you, Hal.”

She was gone. Trent sucked in a breath, then gave an embarrassed chuckle. “Sorry about that, bro. Truth to tell, Steph
wants
to go to Delhi. But she's . . . not spiritually ready, And she's kinda mad that I won't take her. Bit of a sore point, I'm afraid. But she'll get over it. Hey, I know—when I come out to
TO
in the fall, I'll bring her along. That'll make her happy. And you guys can really get to know each other then.” By that time they were through the house and entering the back courtyard. When they reached Hal's car, Trent paused and stood regarding his older brother, crinkled eyes shining. “Hal,” he said, “it's been special! What was the matter with us, eh? Seeing each other so little through the years! Now I just can't wait to do it again. 'Bye for now, you beautiful bastard. You know I love you.”

Hal grinned, “Yeah, Trent, me too.”

As he was getting into his car, there was a sudden flurry of movement as Stephanie appeared from the house. She passed her fiancé and moved in, reaching Hal before he closed the door. “Sorry, I was rude, Hal,” she said breathlessly. “Rushing off like that. It was lovely to meet you at last. I hope it'll be longer next time.”

She leaned down and pecked him lightly on the cheek, at the same time squeezing his hand. Then, with a nervous smile, she was gone.

Hal closed the door and started the car. The brothers exchanged final goodbyes, then Hal started up the steep drive. Only when he was out of sight of the house, did he stop to examine the thing which, under cover of her farewell, Stephanie had pressed into his palm. It was a scrap of paper. Unfolding it, he read:

Fran's Restaurant—Duncan—anytime after 4:00 PM. There's something I really need to tell you.

seven

The Trail house sat in an open area in the center of the heavily wooded property. The eastern perimeter of this clearing was a cliff, with the beach directly below. At cliff's edge was a stone wall, solid but low enough not to impede the view. At one end of the wall, to the right of the house, was an opening for a path, which descended the cliff diagonally. Halfway down, this turned into steep steps. They were sturdily built, embraced by the twisted roots of arbutus trees, which thrust and clung, as if fashioned from the very rock that gave them life. These tough evergreens covered the lower cliff face. They provided shade for ferns, Oregon grape, and patches of intruding broom and overhung the thing to which the steps descended—the boathouse.

This was a large wood structure, not as old as the dwelling above but venerable in its own right. It sat snugly at the bottom of the cliff, built on stout pilings so that originally craft had been floated inside at high tide. This was no longer possible, since the beach had silted up, so the sea end had been enclosed. High up in the new wall was a big bay window, providing a commanding view of the ocean. To one side of the boathouse, connecting it to the water, was a sturdy dock. At the rear, where the steps arrived from above, was the building's only entrance. The roof was of shakes, the walls weathered cedar. Nestled in its sheltering cove, the place was private and peaceful, a quiet haven by the rocky strand over which it stood watch.

Two men descended the steps, one slow and careful, the other with the sure agility of youth. The young man reached the boathouse first. He glanced toward a boat that was tied up at the dock, then stopped and waited for his companion. “You wanna beer first, Fitz,” he said, “You look like you could use one.”

The old man glared. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“Hair-of-the-dog. Fitz, your head's gotta be splittin'. Miz Trail told me what went on last night.”

“What did she say?” the old man said carefully.

“That you got pie-eyed.”

Fitz sighed resignedly. “She had that right. I guess. Okay, one beer. Then we'll head out.” He brushed past his companion, who followed him inside.

The interior of the boathouse revealed that it had long since evolved from its original purpose. It was now a workshop, fishing lodge, and all around old-man's den. The central slot where boats had once been moored was covered with stout boards. A workbench ran down the entire north wall, on which was a profusion of ropes, chains, paint pots, and an extensive collection of woodcarving tools: knives, adzes, awls, rasps, mallets, and chisels. In a cleared space stood a work in progress: a half-finished rendition of a fish, carved skilfully in cedar, which seemed to leap from the pile of chips and shavings that surrounded it. Scattered about the shop were many more carvings, mostly animals or birds, all strikingly executed.

At the ocean end of the building, where the bay window projected, was an old kitchen table, a couple of chairs, and a crumbling couch. Nearby was an ancient fridge, and a mess of books, newspapers, and overflowing ashtrays scattered all about. Beside the window, which commanded a stunning view of the east end of the bay, was a battered rocker. On the window ledge was yet another carving, different from the rest: a delicate rendition of a sailboat, windswept, broaching hard, with the suggestion of a solitary figure at the tiller.

Fitz headed straight for the fridge, and extracting a couple of cans of beer, one of which he thrust in the young man's direction. Both cans popped and hissed almost in unison. The old man headed for the couch, his companion following and perching on the end. They drank and Fitz sighed profoundly. He had white hair and beard, both neatly trimmed, sharp, prominent features, and a high forehead. His skin, though weathered, showed little of the discoloration of age. His eyes were pale and piercing. After a while he said, “So—how's your new job going, Con?”

Con shrugged and sucked on his beer. “I'd hardly call waiting tables for minimum-and-tips a
job
—more like a fuck-off. But it'll do till I get something better.”

“If you want ‘better' you should go back to school.”

“Oh, man, don't start that again.”

“Well you should. You need education to get anywhere these days. Con, you used to be so—“

The boy cut him off with an explosive gesture. “Oh, Jeez! Can it, old man, will ya? I came to do some fishin', not to be preached at. Seems like that's all you ever do these days. When you're not jawin' on about damn developers.”

Fitz sighed. “You're right. Sorry, kid. Did Mattie . . . tell you what happened last night?”

“Like I said, that you got plastered.”

“Nothing else?”

“No! But she did seem pretty mad.”

Fitz shook his head sadly. “She had a right, Con. Seems like I nearly killed her.”

Con stared. “No shit! How?”

“Don't ask! Believe me, you don't want to know.”

“Yeah?”

“But maybe you should—so you can keep an eye on me.”

Con laughed. “
Me
—keep an eye on
you
? Fitz—what happened?”

Fitz took out a cigarette and lit up. He inhaled deeply, letting the smoke out in a cloud from which his companion just perceptibly recoiled. “As you know, I hardly ever touch hard liquor.” Fitz said. “Years ago, after Brian's dad was killed, I hit the stuff pretty bad. I got over it. But it wasn't easy. Ever since—even after what happened to Brian—and in spite of everything else that's been going down lately—I've managed to keep it more or less together . . . until last night.”

“Christ! What did you do?”

“Give it time, I'm getting there.” He took another swig from his beer, coughed, and sighed. “Do you know how long our family has been in these parts, son? Since 1875, four years after
BC
got lured into damn Confederation. At the start we owned almost all this end of the bay. Even after the First War, we still held a whole hunk on either side of here: that same land my neighbours sold out to those damn developers.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. But what happened? Why'd you sell the land in the first place?”

“My dad did that before I was born. The fool took it into his head to play the market—sold the land then lost all the money in the crash of '29. It's lucky we didn't lose the house as well . . . Anyway, a few days ago, after I started getting those weird phone calls I told you about—”

“You mean that shit's still goin' on?”

“Of course! Those guys don't give up, I told you that. Anyway, this last week it's been a sort of countdown.”

“Come again?”

“You know—five days before something bad happens. Then four, then . . . you know,
countdown!
”

“Jesus! Didn't you call the cops?”

Fitz gave a derisive snort. “What good have they ever been? In the other stuff that went down, all they could think of was vandals or kids. I know they think I'm just a crazy old coot. And what proof have I ever had anyway? Those bastards are far too clever for that.”

“Yeah—but what's all this got to do with almost killin' Miz Trail?”

“Stop interrupting—I'm getting there. Halfway through this countdown thing—a few days back—I got to thinking that if this
wasn't
just empty threats this time, if they really planned to
do
something—like maybe burn me out, like that poor bugger in Nanaimo . . . I told you about that, eh?”

“About fifty times. Go on!”

“Well, I reckoned I'd better be prepared. I remembered this old shotgun in the attic. I thought, if things ever get ugly, this could come in real handy. Then yesterday, when Mattie was away in Victoria, the last call came. I figured, that's it, if someone
does
come—to try to scare shit out of me, or maybe worse—
they're
the ones gonna get the surprise.”

“Good thinking.”

“Yeah, but I made this one big mistake. You see, I figured I'd wait out on the front porch in the dark. But it was cold out there—and I remembered this bottle of rye that's been hanging round for years. Great, I thought, couple of swigs of that'll not only keep out the cold but settle my nerves.”

“Fair enough.”

“Mistake! Instead of helping, it got me to brooding on all the troubles this family's had: my son killed, Brian lost, now this whole damn problem with the property. After a few drinks, I became certain something bad was going to happen. Then I fell asleep and dreamed it really
was
: a terrifying nightmare where I was being burned to death. Christ! I woke up . . . 
and it seemed like it was all coming true
. There were these lights in the drive—coming down fast! I rushed out and when I saw what I thought was an attacker I fired a warning shot, trying to scare him off.”