Act of Evil (14 page)

Hal thanked her and watched her head back to the house. At the door she turned. “Oh, and if you can persuade Trent to bring you up to the house later, I know Terry'd just love to meet you. 'Bye.”

A minute's walk brought Hal to his destination, a well proportioned cottage standing in its own tree-shaded yard. Parked in front was a battered Jeep. The cottage had two sets of windows on either side of a central front door, the left ones covered by drapes. As he knocked, Hal peered through the right side and saw a cozy kitchen, which showed no signs of life.

Getting no reply, he banged louder and then called. Still nothing. But Trent's vehicle—he assumed it was his brother's—was here, and chatty Jill Bathgate had thought he was home. Hal knocked a third time, then tried the door. Soundlessly, on well-oiled hinges, it swung open.

“Trent?”

Unconsciously, he'd used stage projection, his voice bouncing richly off the back wall of the kitchen, but evoking no hint of a response.

“Hey Trent? It's me, Hal.”

Still nothing. He closed the door and backed off, looking round about. A short walk took him through the trees to the lake. Here was sparkling water, boats, distant sails. To the left, a path followed the shore back to the main house. Nowhere was there a sign of life. Hal retreated, deciding to have one more try at the cottage.

This time he went right in, calling as he went. Greeted by silence, he put attention on the one place still unchecked, the next door room with the curtained windows. Maybe Trent was in there sleeping. Hal knocked on the door.

“Trent?”

With still no answer, he went ahead and opened. Inside was dim, but he could make out a bed with a telltale hump in the middle. Entering, he immediately tripped on something on the floor. He lurched clumsily, saved himself by clutching the wooden bedstead, then recovered and moved carefully around the bed.

The commotion had caused no reaction from the bed's occupant. Of course it was Trent. Even with his head half buried in the pillow, and a bird's nest of silver hair obscuring much of what was visible of the face, there was still no mistaking his brother. He was on his side, arms and leg crookedly splayed, absolutely still.

He looked dead.

The hair on Hal's neck stirred. With sickening vividness, he recalled once discovering the body of a colleague who'd taken a drug overdose. The guy had looked exactly . . . Appalled, Hal thrust aside the vision and gripped Trent's shoulder—vastly relieved to discover it was neither cold nor stiff.

“Hey, brother?”

Trent's head turned and his eyes squeezed open a fraction. After a moment's puzzlement, the lids snapped wide and he sat bolt upright. “Shit—Hal! What time is it?”

“Afternoon.”

“Yeah? Wow!” He scrambled out of bed and stood, swaying and grinning. “'Fraid I was up all night. Didn't hit the sheets till sunup and I entirely forgot you were coming. Sorry.”

“Don't sweat it, man.”

Trent, who was in his underwear, began to pull on clothes, his movements becoming more coordinated as the task progressed. Whatever had kept him up, it was seemed not to have been revelry, because as the sleep dropped away he seemed fresh and lively. Nevertheless, Hal couldn't contain his curiosity. After the exchange of a few pleasantries, he found himself saying, “So what were you doing up all night?”

“Oh—what else?—the computer!”

“Doing what?”

“On the Web, bro! Checking world markets: London, Frankfurt, Tokyo—you know the drill.”

Hal smiled. “I don't, but I'll take your word for it. Hey, does that mean . . . ?”

Trent, who by this time was dragging a brush through his mop of hair, shrugged. “Don't know what it means yet. But we'll see. You hungry?”

“No! But I could use coffee.”

“You got it!”

Moving with a snap and energy in contrast to the laid-back character he'd presented at their last meeting, Trent hustled to the kitchen and got busy. As he filled the coffee pot he said, “First thing I have do, bro, is thank you.”

“Yeah? For what?”

“Not calling me a stupid asshole. But I
was
—as I already told you on the phone—and I deserve to be called out on it.”

Hal grinned. “Maybe so. But its understandable. I mean, a place like this . . . I guess I might be tempted to pretend I owned it too.”

In the act of putting bread in the toaster, Trent winced. “Don't patronize me, Hal, okay? I may be broke, but I'm not stupid. I mean, pretending to be lord of this manor was ridiculous, but I'm not fool enough not to
know
that.”

“So why did you do it? Am I such a shallow bastard you couldn't tell me you've had troubles?”

Trent shook his head violently. “No, no, no! If anyone's shallow it's me. Anyway, I hadn't meant it to go that far. It started as a joke. Then I was sort of over my head, and I was too chicken to fess up.”

“But why start in the first place?”

“Oh, come on! You're my big brother. And this great honkin' success. I just hated to have to start out admitting I was a loser.”

“Oh, come on! All you've lost is money, isn't it?”

“
A shitload!
”

“But it's not the first time, is it?”

“Maybe not,” Trent replied. Then, in the act of removing toast from the toaster, he looked around sharply. “How did you know?”

Realizing that Stephanie must not have told Trent that they'd talked, Hal was saved by the memory of his meeting with Jill Bathgate. “I met your buddy Terry's wife on the way in. She . . . sorta mentioned it.”

Trent gave a resigned flick of the brows. “Yeah, I guess she couldn't resist.”

“It wasn't like that. They obviously think a lot of you. And she—Jill—was saying that Terry hopes you'll—how did she put it—get back on the horse.”

“Probably want me the hell outta here,” Trent laughed, then sighed. “No, that's bullshit. Terry's a great guy. I've lost some dough for him over the years, but I've made a hell of a lot more.”

Having poured them both coffee, Trent was now buttering his toast, following up with dabs of thick, black Marmite. Their English-born grandmother had introduced both boys to the esoteric—and to most North Americans, disgusting—concoction at a young enough age to ensure lifelong addiction. Traveling as he did, Hal hadn't seen Marmite in ages. It not only made his mouth water but, absurdly, did more than anything else to reawaken ancient reflexes of kinship.

Noticing Hal's gaze, Trent broke off to chuckle. “Hey, of course—another Marmite man. Takes you back, eh, bro? Want some?”

Suddenly sharing toast and Marmite with his brother seemed like the best idea in ages. Hal nodded and, as Trent fixed more toast, found himself wishing that their mother could be there. How long was it since the three had actually been together? Appalled, he realized that it was actually more than a decade. God, how the ways of the world pulled families apart. No point feeling guilty about it. The centrifugal forces generated by differing personalities, talents, and lifestyles often made the sundering inevitable. But it was sad all the same, and this little domestic scene brought home that fact with unexpected force.

Moments later, as they were munching in silence, Hal said, “Do you by chance remember Mattie, that girl I was going with at
UVIC
years ago?”

Trent frowned. “I think I once met someone you were with back then. What about her?”

“I ran across her while I was working on the film—or rather, she ran across me. Anyway, we sort of—reconnected. I'm going to stay with her.”

Trent's eyebrows raised. “Renewing a conquest?”

“Nothing like that. Just catching up with an old friend. In my line I lose touch with too many people.”

“But doesn't being—you know—this famous star, make up for that?”

“Trent, I'm not famous. I'm just a working stiff who's been lucky and done okay. To be a real
star
—as you call it—I'd have to move down south, forget about being a proper actor—or a
Canadian
, come to that—and play the Hollywood game. Apart from anything else, that'd bore me senseless.”

Trent whistled. “Wow! And here's me thinking you might be too stuck up to want to know your old bro.”

“Jesus, Trent—that really
is
stupid.”

“Yeah, sorry!”

“But it also shows what losing touch can do. Which brings me to what I really wanted to say: wherever we are, or whatever happens, from now on we've gotta make sure that we never do that again.”

twenty

“We made real progress,” Hal said. “It was great. I didn't realize how much I'd missed seeing the guy all these years. My fault as much as his. But at one point I nearly let the cat out of the bag: I didn't realize you hadn't told him we'd talked.”

He was sitting in Stephanie's small, bright kitchen, having left Trent in order to catch her before she left for work. Haste wasn't necessary, but he'd wanted to give her the good news as soon as possible. Now, however, Stephanie's relief turned to concern.

“I'm so sorry.” she said. “I didn't want him to think I'd gone behind his back. What happened?”

“It slipped out that I knew more about his troubles than he'd actually told me. But it was okay. I'd already met Jill Bathgate—so I said it'd come from her.”

“Thank goodness. What did you think—of Jill, I mean.”

“Seems like a nice lady. She and Terry really like Trent, that's obvious.”

Stephanie looked surprised. “You met Terry? But I thought he was—”

“Just got back today. After Trent and I were done, we went up to the big house to meet him.” Hal shook his head. “That Terry, wow!”

“What?”

“Well, I thought Jill was chatty but, man, old Terry was a dynamo. Gave me the third degree for an hour. If I hadn't needed to get away to catch you, I reckon he'd be talking still.”

Stephanie laughed. “Yeah, that's Terry all right.”

“Don't get me wrong, he's obviously a neat guy. From what I can see, Trent's been so embarrassed about what he sees as his failure he's forgotten how much his buddy respects his real ability. When Terry wasn't picking my brains about showbiz—and when Trent was out of the way—we talked a lot about that. Anyway, they haven't given up on him, that's for sure.”

“I'm so glad. But I'm even happier about what you did for him.”

“For me too,”

“Good. But I think he needed it most. That awful hanging scene, for instance: now I've had more time to think, I believe it was actually a cry for help.”

“Really? How do you figure?”

“It needed something really bizarre to make him see how ridiculous his life was becoming. Anyway . . . I'm sure that now's the start of better times. So thank you for being there for him.”

“You're welcome.”

“And it was so nice of you to let me know so quickly.”

“My pleasure.” Seeing her glance at the clock, Hal rose quickly. “But I've made you late for work.”

“Who cares. I'm just so glad you came. Are you going back to Trent's now?”

“Not today. I left him busy on the computer.”

“That's a good sign. But where will you go?”

“Actually, I've arranged to stay with an old friend. Someone I knew years ago and just got reacquainted with.”

“That's nice, What's his name?”

“
Her!
Mattie Trail.”

Stephanie nodded, then frowned. “That name's familiar. She's not a teacher by any chance?”

“Yes, as a matter of a fact. I believe she teaches English at Cowichan High. Do you know her?”

“Not personally. But she did teach my son.”

“Really? Small world.”

“Also . . .”

“Yes?”

“
Her
son was one of Gary's friends: Brian Trail. But the poor boy was . . .”

“Drowned? Yes, I heard.”

“Mrs. Trail told you?”

“Well, yes—not the details.”

“Such a terrible thing. It was a couple of years ago. Everyone was devastated. God, you have to wonder how you'd feel if your own . . .” She didn't finish.

This seemed to be a good time to make an exit. As he said goodbye, she came to him and delivered a solid hug. “I must confess I've no idea what kind of actor you are, Hal,” she said quietly. “But one thing I
do
know: you're a real good man.”

≈  ≈  ≈

This time he drove unerringly to Mattie's address and turned in at the battered mailbox. As he bumped down the drive, he got a good look at the woods through which it wound. The trees were huge, Douglas firs hundreds of years old, which was remarkable; though Vancouver Island was still clothed in a thick blanket of green, most of the old growth had been logged off generations ago, at least in the south. The giants here were a testament to the length of the time the land had been in the Trail family and the zeal with which it had been protected. No wonder Mattie's father-in-law was so passionate about it. By the time Hal was approaching the big old house—itself a piece of history, by the look of it—he was feeling pretty impressed by the spirit that had kept this rare property intact.

An old pickup, which Hal didn't remember from his first visit, was in the parking area. Mattie's car was absent. As he pulled in, Hal checked his dashboard clock: 4:40. Mattie had said she'd be home at five. He was early.

He got out of the car and stretched, breathing deeply of the breeze that wafted up from the water. Here, on the ocean side of the house, the ground was clear, with only lawn, some perennial beds and a low stone wall to distract from the dazzling view. To right and left, framing the seascape, were thrusting headlands and, in the distance, the steep swell of Salt Spring Island. Having grown up on the coast, Hal was not over inclined to be impressed by scenery. Nevertheless, standing quietly on this sweet afternoon, with the old house nearby, the great trees behind, and his eyes taken prisoner by the grand panorama, it was hard not to smell at least a passing whiff of paradise.