Act of Evil (12 page)

Stephanie sat very still. Finally she said. “Well . . .”

“Yes?”

“This is all about your stupid ego. You do know that?”

He gave a sickly laugh. “Man,
do
I.”

“If you really want to show you can grow, it has to begin there. So, right now, you need to do something that may be very hard.”

“Okay!”

“You may not like it.”

“Never mind. What?”

Stephanie's voice was quiet, but its tone was of stern finality. “All right, Trent, you should set the record straight with your brother.”

fourteen

Penney found the man he was looking for at a booth at the very back of the dimly lit restaurant. It had taken the best part of an hour to drive up from Victoria on an unseasonably wet night and reach this out-of-the-way spot. He slid into the booth, doing nothing to conceal his foul mood. “Jesus Christ, boss,” he snapped. “Why did you have to drag me all the way out to the boonies at this time of night?”

His companion kept his eyes on the rare steak he was carefully carving. “Keep your voice down,” he said quietly. “And don't call me boss.”

“Why in hell not?”

Before the diner could reply, a waitress appeared and the newcomer ordered a beer. Only after it had been served and they were alone was the question answered. “Because,” the small man said crisply, “it's a bad habit. I'm not your boss. I don't give orders. I simply make you aware of my interests, which you help me with, as you see fit.”

“Meaning, if I'm rumbled it's my ass?”

“Take it how you like. Anyway, meeting
here
is part of the same strategy. Delicate things are going down, so it's best we're not seen together anymore.”

The other shrugged. “As long as the cash keeps flowing, who cares? But why schlep all the way over the friggin' Malahat? We could have done this on the blower.”

“That sort of thinking,” his companion sighed, “is a perfect illustration of why I want our association at arm's length from now on. You should know that phones are never one hundred percent secure. Meaning, incidentally, you will no longer call me.”

The other man nodded sourly. “If that's the way you want it.”

“When we need to meet, I'll get instructions to you. Now—business! The property in Maple Bay.”

Penney sucked on his teeth glumly. “I figured that was what this was about.”

“What else? You swore that by now the old fart would have folded.”

“Yeah, well he's stubborn as a blind mule. Seems the family has been squatting on that miserable patch since five minutes after Captain fucking Cook sailed by.”

“Who cares. I must have that land. Money and persuasion haven't worked. Your scare campaign has obviously been a bust—and I'm running out of time.”

“How much is left?”

“I can renew my options on the surrounding properties, but the investment capital won't hang about much longer: realistically, a month.”

“Shit!”

“Tell me about it. So . . . ?” He looked hard at his companion, who sipped on his beer and waited.

“So?” Penney repeated finally.

“Must I spell it out? We need to move to the next level. That—er—barbecue you arranged when there was a similar problem in Nanaimo is best not repeated, however.”

“Why not?”

“Once is coincidence, twice might seem like a pattern. Use your head. Whatever goes down, it's most important that there should be no—
no
—perception of irregularity. Understood?”

“Yeah, you bet.”

“Good. So that's it. I'll look forward to hearing, very soon, that the climate in Maple Bay has unexpectedly improved. When I do, you can look forward to an equivalent boost in your own fortunes. No need for further contact until it's over. Okay?”

“You got it.”

“Fine! Then good night—and thanks for coming all this way in the rain.”

Penney nodded, finished his beer, and left. The diner busied himself with his meal, in his quiet corner, respectable and neat—as if never in a million years would he ever be connected with anything so uncivilized as murder.

fifteen

At Mattie's place, Hal had done a good deal more than stay to lunch.

After their first awkward start, he'd spent a most pleasant afternoon and evening at the old house in Maple Bay. When he thought of it later, he realized that as mature adults their connection had seemed even better. Physical chemistry was still present, but something more subtle had been added, powerful yet unthreatening. Hal's earlier concerns, guilt about the past, nervousness at how he might now appear, fear that they'd simply have nothing to say to each other, all turned out to be groundless. And if the occasional cloud came over his heart, prompted by the suspicion that all those years ago he might just have abandoned the best thing in his life, he pushed it resolutely away, and concentrated on enjoying the moment. As the day wore on and they wandered the beautiful property by the bay, exchanging histories of half a lifetime, Hal felt wonderfully content. As for Mattie, slowly her aura of sadness had seemed to fade. They didn't speak again of the tragic disappearance of her son; somehow Hal knew that the appropriate time for this had not arrived. Nor did he get an opportunity to meet Mattie's father-in-law. The legendary Fitz—whose ancestors had acquired the Maple Bay land and who now apparently was involved in some sort of tussle to retain it—never appeared. So Hal and Mattie spent the day alone. Not until evening did he realize how swiftly the time had fled, and only by luck did he make the last ferry. A day and a half later in Vancouver, having settled in and prepared for his new gig, the meeting with Mattie still lingered warmly.

As usual, however, all else receded when he started to work. The movie was a computer-animated tale about a bunch of eccentric farm animals who, faced with being put out to pasture—or worse—had run away to make their own circus. Hal's character, a horse with a secret passion for being a high-wire performer, was one of the main instigators of the plot. Creating a comic voice for the creature was great fun, but also tough and exacting work.

Much of modern cartooning is achieved by recording voices first and building animation around the vocals, a process easier on the actors. But in this case the visuals were complete, so it was necessary to fit tricky post-synchronized dialogue while still creating an engaging character. Hal's horse—whose name was also Hal—was an ancient, sway-backed nag with a tendency to fart while attempting ballet pirouettes on the trapeze. In no time, Hal became so immersed in bringing this fellow to life that all else faded. It was as if the drama of the previous week was a fiction and this comic fantasy the reality. He was back where he belonged, happily immersed in his own world.

It all came to an abrupt halt on the third day.

They'd been running a long scene, a chase involving all the major animal characters. Each of the voices could be dubbed individually on separate tracks—which would be done anyway—but for the sake of pace and comedy, the director had decided to try a mass take with everyone putting in their lines on cue: probably unusable, but much fun and, at very least, a good way to rehearse. They'd just started the second take on this when, although the movie clip kept running, there was a sudden silence in the studio. Hal looked up from his script to see the actor whose line it should have been staring open mouthed across his mike. All the performers turned to gaze in the same direction and several more jaws dropped.

The control room was empty.

Astonished, everyone started to talk at once and mill about. Then the studio door banged open to admit the director. Mat Margasen, who'd been calm and amiable throughout, was now purple with fury. In his hand he held a paper, which he began to wave and flap.

“Fucking court injunction,” Margasen croaked. “Just fucking delivered. Whole fucking production's stopped till further fucking notice. FUCK!”

It was all to do with copyright. Out of the blue, someone had come up with a claim that the script had been stolen. The complainant had gone to court and somehow obtained an order to halt production. It didn't matter what the merits were. Until things were sorted out, everything was on hold.

Hal talked to his agent briefly. Apparently
ACTRA
, the performer's union, was aware of the mess-up. Meanwhile Danny was negotiating a fat holding per-diem for his client. It could be several days before things were settled. Meanwhile all the performers could do was cool their heels and wait.

The first evening of enforced idleness, Hal was in his hotel wondering what to do, when he was provided with an answer. His cellphone rang, on the other end was a familiar voice.

“Hi,” Trent Bannatyne said. “What do you know, bro—I didn't go to India after all.”

sixteen

As he did most Wednesday mornings, Fitz was sitting in the
boathouse, scanning the paper for news of upcoming property developments and smoking his usual chain of cigarettes. This latter was an activity he relished, despite the modern stigma surrounding an act that, in saner times, had been considered no one else's business. Mattie wouldn't let him smoke in the house anymore, one more reason he spent so much time in his own domain. But the boathouse, with its profusion of smells, tar and fish and freshly carved cedar, its ancient ambiance of creaking timbers and soothing sea-sounds, was where he felt most comfortable anyway. But after seventy years on this property, struggling to keep it intact, as was his duty—or perhaps curse—and seeing his family vanish one by one, something had happened that he'd never have believed possible: the struggle was beginning to seem pointless. His resolve to thwart the bastards who were trying to get their paws on the place—hadn't weakened—it had assumed the proportion of a sacred mission. But later, when he'd croaked, the others could do as they pleased. He didn't care any more. Meanwhile, in the boathouse he felt some small measure of peace, the least bother to the living and most connected to the dead. This last applied less to his son, who'd been gone a long time. But his grandson Brian, whose vanishing had snatched so much light from the world, here seemed just that little bit less sadly absent, which made the boathouse a good place to be.

Soon, he put the paper aside and moved to the window to work on his latest carving. About mid-morning, he glanced down at the beach, and spotted a man sitting on a rock near the low tide line. Fitz didn't pay much attention, people came by on the beach all the time. But when half an hour later he glanced up again, he was surprised to see the guy was still there, completely immobile, with the tide coming in around his feet.
Some sort of dreamer
, Fitz mused.
Better move your buns, old buddy, or you're gonna get 'em wet.

As if he'd heard Fitz's thoughts, the figure
did
move. He stood up slowly, then clutched his back and abruptly sat again. Fitz couldn't actually hear a cry, but everything about the action made him sure there'd been one. He put down his chisel and moved closer to the window.

The rising water was now washing around the man's ankles. Slowly, his pain now obvious, he looked first at his soaked feet and then at the sea. With great effort, he hoisted himself up again, managing to stay on his feet, but still precariously bent. Then, with his upper body as stiff as a ship's figurehead, he began to shuffle gingerly toward the shore.

It didn't need Fitz's own slightly arthritic seventy-year-old frame to tell him what was wrong. The guy had badly damaged his back. If in his precarious retreat from the rising tide he now should fall, he probably wouldn't be able to get up again.

Without further thought, Fitz was up out of the boathouse, down the short flight of steps and hurrying across the rapidly disappearing flats. He was sloshing ankle-deep by the time he reached the tottering fugitive. Quickly he moved to the man's side. “Here, mister!” he said briskly. “Take my arm. Hold tight and lean on me.”

With a grateful grunt, the man did as he was bid. His grip was surprisingly strong. But that was good, showing that despite his crippled state he still had reserves of energy. “Shitty disc!” he muttered. “Always pops at the worst times.”

“Sonofabitch!” Fitz said. “”All right, look—move slow—keep walking as best you can. Don't panic and don't hurry. Okay?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

“You're welcome. If you just don't fall, we'll get you out of here. Ready?”

“Yeah!”

It took several minutes to reach the shoreline, where the surface became a sharp incline, mud replaced by the stones of the beach proper. This was the hardest part, climbing through the unstable, rolling gravel. It was all Fitz could do to keep supporting the man's heavy weight. He longed to stop and rest, but the boathouse steps were only yards off. Somehow he managed to maintain his support until, at last, the weight was transferred to the stout handrail. The man leaned there, breathing hard, then lifted his head to peer at the boathouse.

“Your place?”

“Sure.”

“Somewhere in there I could get flat?”

“I guess so.”

“Dandy.” With gritty determination he started to climb the steps. To Fitz, who was catching his own breath, it appeared that the man's movements were a trifle stronger. Halfway up he called over his shoulder. “By the way—the name's Bill Iverson.”

“Fitz Trail.”

“Hi, Fitz.” Iverson heaved himself up another step. “You sure saved my bacon, there.”

“Yeah—let's get you inside.”

At the top of the steps the railing ended and again Fitz had to lend his support. But the level dock made progress easier and soon they were at the boathouse door. Once inside, Iverson peered briefly about, then adjusted his grip on Fitz arm. “Okay, Fitz—think you can help me down?”