Act of Evil (18 page)

“Thank me? For what?”

“Well, just being here, for a start. And for not calling me a complete ass after I acted like one.”

“Trent, we already went over that. Enough said, eh?”

“Okay, but I've got another reason for calling. To sort of give you a heads-up.”

“About what?”

“I can't reveal details yet. Don't want to jinx it. I just had to let you know that in a short while—a day or two at most—I may have some
very
good news.”

twenty-five

The phone was answered on the first ring—which at least was something. “Yeah?”

“Penney?”

“Yeah!”

“You know who this is?”

“Sure, boss . . . Yeah!”

“How are things going in Maple Bay?”

There was a barely perceptible pause. “Okay. Contact has been made and—er—I'm in a good position to get the job done.”

“But it hasn't happened?”

“No! But almost!”

“What does that mean?”

“I was all set to conclude arrangements. Then something came up that forced a change of plans.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever! Look, here's the bottom line—you've got to move real soon.”

“But you said . . .”

“A month, I know. But the situation's changed. Unless I can give some kind of commitment very soon, a big chunk of my capital is all set to fly.”

“
How
soon?”

“A week at best.”

“Jesus!”

“That's how long I can hold off. But I need to hear good news by then.”

“I get it.”

“So what are you saying to me?”

“That you'll
get
your news.”

There was a pause. Then the voice on the other end of the line, soft in pitch but ice-cold, said just one word. “When?”

“Call me in two days!”

“Really?”

“I've already infiltrated the target and got the lay of the land. One plan didn't work out, but I've got others.”

“You sure?”

“Depend on it!”

“Believe me, I am.”

The man who'd initiated the call, known to the Victoria community as the respectable developer, Vince Smithson, hung up and went to rejoin his business meeting. The man who'd received it, known to his potential victim as good ol' boy Bill Iverson, poured himself a drink and sat thinking hard.

twenty-six

It was Monday evening and Trent was in a slump. Although the
CANTSO
holding company stock had done exactly as he'd predicted—which certainly made him feel good—his own position hadn't changed at all.

Or if it had, it was likely for the worse.

Since Trent had access to no funds himself, Stephanie's insistence that he take his findings to Terry Bathgate had seemed sensible. It was a pity that his old buddy had been sound asleep—still on the Toronto clock—when he'd gone up to the house. But since time was of the essence, he'd been roused anyway. Trent had then given his big news, thereafter spending an hour presenting a case so closely argued yet so intricate and exhausting that finally Terry had almost literally thrown him out.

Without giving a reaction.

The next day, Trent had returned to discover that his buddy had gone back to Toronto.

What did that mean? Trent had no way of knowing, since Terry had neither left a message nor, apparently, said a word to this wife about what had transpired. Jill had seemed bewildered—and not a little put out—that her husband had so suddenly departed again. Though she didn't put it in so many words, it had seemed to Trent that she believed he must have messed up yet again.

He decided it was useless to try to explain.

Now, over two days later, alone in his borrowed lodgings, with still no word from the man with whom he'd entrusted his last great hope, Trent was beginning to sense that the bottom was finally about to drop out of his world. Stephanie had declared that she didn't care if he thought himself a failure, or even if he
was
one, which no doubt said a lot about her feelings for him. Unfortunately, he was now sure he couldn't live with it himself.

Early on, before his good feelings had started to evaporate, he hadn't been able to resist phoning his brother, not exactly giving details of the big break, but hinting broadly. That, he now realized, had been yet another mistake.

Meanwhile, during the period of increasingly agitated waiting, he'd naturally been glued to his computer, skipping around the markets, watching as his
CANTSO
predictions began to move into reality. The share price was rising rapidly, but it had been impossible to see whether Terry and the companies he represented had been in on the surge. With the sun setting and the Tokyo exchange set to close in hours—for them, Tuesday—and still no word from Terry, Trent could sit still no longer. He slammed shut his laptop, rose, and with stiff limbs and heavy heart stalked through the cottage and flung open the front door.

Jill Bathgate was approaching down the drive.

“For heaven's sake, Trent.” Jill snapped, as soon as she saw him. “Terry's been trying to call you for ages.”

“Yeah? I've been
waiting
for him all day.” Trent cried indignantly.

“Well,
he
says all he gets is your damn voice-mail. He just phoned
me
to come find out what the hell's going on.”

Trent hauled out his cell. “That's ridiculous,” he said—immediately discovering that it wasn't: somehow, in his agitation, he'd managed to turn the thing off. “Jesus, fuck!” he breathed.

“About what Terry said,” Jill said more mildly. “Well, no harm. He'll be calling back soon—and you look like hell. Come on! While you're waiting you may as well come up for a drink.”

≈  ≈  ≈

A short while later, when they had settled in the spacious living room—which not long ago, in a moment of folly, Trent had pretended to be his own—with drinks between them and his phone, now turned on, sitting nearby, Jill said. “Trent, remind me, how long is it that you've been with us now?”

Bemused, managing to sip his drink but hardly able to keep his eyes off the phone, Trent said, “About a year, I guess.”

“That's what I thought,” Jill replied. Then, after a pause. “Don't you think it's maybe time you moved on?”

She had his attention. “What do you mean?”

Jill took a careful swallow of her drink, watching him over her glass. “I mean . . . I know where you're living's supposed to be a guest house. But, well, after a while, guests can become something else.”

Trent was very still. “
Freeloaders
, you mean?”

Jill shrugged. “I wouldn't put it that strongly. Still, it'd be nice to have a place to offer business associates Terry might wish to entertain. His
partners
, for instance.”

In shock, yet filled with a sense of inevitability, as if this moment of final casting-off had been preordained, Trent nodded numbly. He also realized that, of course, Jill must have known all along about the grand scheme he'd put to Terry. All this shit about taking a powder, leaving him in the dark, then letting his wife put in the knife, had been Terry's cowardly way of avoiding what he'd obviously seen as a huge embarrassment. Whatever the merits of Trent's plan, Terry hadn't taken it seriously. Coming, as it had, from a demonstrated flake and loser, the whole thing must have seemed preposterous—and now it was too late. He'd better accept that and get the hell out of there.

And—God—this time with a little dignity.

All this went through Trent's mind very swiftly. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to take a deep breath, then swallowed the last of his drink and rose.

“I understand, Jill,” he said quietly. “Okay, then . . . I reckon I'll pack up and get out of here tomorrow.”

His cellphone rang.

Trent didn't move. He just stood staring at the thing, letting it go on and on. After all, what was the point in answering now. Finally, Jill picked it up.

“Oh, hi, sweetie,” Jill said. “Well, I must have found him, mustn't I, because this is his phone. Would you believe he had it switched
off ?
” She laughed. “Neither could I, but you know Trent. What? No, of course not. I've been teasing him a little, but I knew you'd want to do
that
yourself.”

Trent had been staring, appalled at the callous manner in which his old friends were discussing him. To cap it off, as Jill pushed the cell into his hand, he saw she wasn't even trying to hide what appeared to be a triumphant grin.

Feeling sick, but knowing he must do it, Trent took the phone “Hi, Terry,” he said, in hardly more than a whisper.

Terry's response, was anything but quiet. In fact, almost a bellow. “Jesus, buddy, I was starting to think you didn't want to hear the news.”

“What news is that?”

“Shit, what else, man? That we're rich! Oh yes, and the other thing—I want you to be my partner.”

twenty-seven

Trent was scarcely aware of leaving the big house, but sometime later he found himself back in the cottage, with his cell still in hand, gazing like a zombie at the computer he'd used to extract the information that had given him back his life.

A partner!
A goddamn PARTNER!

How was a man supposed to get his head around a life-change like that. Yet this wasn't one of his high-flying fancies. Not the result of gambling, either. Through his own real smarts and hard work, he'd come up with information that—during the tortuous time of waiting—Terry had used to get firmly on board with what was already turning into a market phenomenon. He, Trent, had made that possible, a fact Terry had freely—one might almost say
deliriously
—acknowledged. And now . . . now the world had changed entirely.

Finally noticing the phone in his hand, Trent realized he had to tell Stephanie. It was she, after all, who'd convinced him to take the plunge with Terry. But she was at work and this news was too big for a phone call; besides, when he said the magic word
partner
, he wanted to see her face. But, man, he had to tell
someone!

Then it hit him: Hal!

God, yes, of course! Ironically, had it not been for the appearance of his brother, the idiotic charade he'd played and the worse foolishness that had followed, he'd likely never have been shamed into the evolution of mind that had made this change happen. And now, instead of hiding the shameful facts of his old life, he could reveal the brand new reality—and thank Hal for the part he'd played.

He opened the phone and called his brother. When Hal answered, Trent resisted the urge to blurt everything out. Again, he realized this revelation was too big for the phone. So he confined himself to, “Hello, Hal. Where are you right now?”

Hal was evidently surprised, but he answered with good grace. “Oh, hi, Trent . . . in Maple Bay, remember? With that friend I told you about?”

Perfect. He could get over there, give Hal the news, and be back in Duncan by the time Stephanie finished work. “Oh, right.” he said briskly.” Where in Maple Bay, exactly? I want to slip over and see you. It's important.”

Trent could sense Hal was bewildered that he wouldn't elaborate. But he gave directions to an address at the south end of Maple Bay. By the time the conversation concluded, Trent was already in his Jeep and ready to roll.

The journey east through Duncan then to the coast took half an hour. He missed the Genoa Bay turnoff, a vital part of his directions, and lost some time backtracking. The road sign and the Trail mailbox were also difficult to spot in the dark. But he did it, at last finding himself in a driveway that wound through trees with trunks so huge they looked like towers in the headlights.

By this time, Trent was so pumped he could scarcely stop himself singing. But what he felt, when he thought of the reaction his big brother would have to his news, was not so much pride as amazement. After all the shit that had gone down recently, what was happening seemed truly miraculous.

When he reached the house, Trent cut the motor and lights and sat staring. It was large and old, looking slightly out of place in the rural setting, with a couple of lighted windows, plus a dim lamp on the porch. Even in the gloom the house appeared in need of some renovation, yet it stood on its perch, overlooking the water, with the dignity of an ancient castle.

Also—surprising to Trent, who was not used to thinking in such terms—the building had an aura of peace and civility. A perfect setting, he realized, to begin spreading the news of his good fortune.

Trent got out of the Jeep and closed the door quietly, not even pocketing his keys right away. Such was the serenity of the night, he wanted to create as little disturbance as possible. He headed for the lighted porch, walking slowly, now consciously prolonging the magical moment of anticipation.

He arrived at the porch and was about to knock when something caught his attention. The walk around the house had brought him into full view of the bay. A three-quarter moon had risen from behind a distant headland, sliding its silver track across the dark water to where Trent could now see a steep cliff, just yards from the house. The night was so still that the low chug of a diesel could be heard in the distance. Trent spied faint running lights and a boat wake, cutting a delicate garland across the path of the moon.

The scene was tranquil, achingly lovely. To Trent it was like a visual celebration of the miraculous change in his life. For a year he'd lived on this island, surrounded by awesome scenery, scarcely paying it any mind, so buried in his problems that he'd missed the very real wonders that were all about.

Well—all that was over.

Trent felt something rare, not a buzz now but a true lift of the heart. He drifted toward the ocean, trying with all his senses to absorb the moment. At cliff's edge was a low stone wall, beyond, a sheer drop to the rocks below. Trent smiled. The place might be dangerous, but it didn't bother him. In his present mood, he could almost imagine himself taking off and flying, though of course he felt no urge to try. But for the sheer hell of it, he stepped on to the top of the wall and stood with the breeze ruffling his hair and a hundred-foot drop at his toes. He wasn't nervous, or dizzy. He just felt alive—peaceful in a brand new way. He was finally getting his life together.