Act of Evil (19 page)

Then, as he stood at the world's edge, drinking in the night, he got a small surprise. He realized he could see lights at the foot of the cliff, There was some sort of building down there, a shed or a boathouse. Trent was taking this in when something else caught his attention. Off to his right, where the cliff bulged out and became less precipitous, was what looked like a path: something had come from there, a sound or a movement, he wasn't quite sure. Trent concentrated on the place, but whatever it was wasn't repeated. Or nothing had actually happened. A trick of the light, or of the imagination.

He opened his mouth to call. Then didn't. The idea seemed silly. Anyway, it was time he was going in. Time to start spreading the good news.

He turned to step off the wall.

Something came fast out of the dark, a movement that became an impact, that became a wild, hard, unstoppable plunge.

His last thought was, “Oh, no—not
now!
”

Then he went down.

twenty-eight

“This brother of yours seems like a pretty strange character,” Mattie said. “Are you sure he's coming?”

“That's what he said.”

“To give you some sort of news?”

“Apparently. But he wouldn't say what. A couple of days ago he hinted about something big going down, so maybe it's that. I just hope . . .”

“What?”

“That this time its . . . well,
real
.”

“You mean not some sort of trick, like when you said he pretended to own his friend's house?”

“Yeah, I guess so. But I'm sure he's not likely to try anything like that again.”

“I certainly hope not. Poor man.””

“I can see how the guy might want to hide the fact that he was broke. But there's no need for that anymore. Anyway, I know his fiancée, Stephanie, wouldn't stand for him playing any more tricks.”

Mattie smiled. “This Stephanie seems quite a gal.”

“She is. Just what my brother needs. Fortunately he seems to know it.”

Hal and Mattie were in the living room of the big house. A pleasant evening of talk and good wine had been interrupted by Trent's phone call. Since then they'd been waiting over an hour. Mattie was looking ready to turn in. Similarly Hal, who after a weekend in the company of his friend felt more relaxed than in years, was anxious to get to bed. Not, it must be emphasized, that that they contemplated doing this together. Though in many ways they'd never been closer, the notion of a physical reunion had not seemed appropriate at all.

Not yet anyway.

The conversation had wound down and both were trying to suppress yawns when, finally, there was the sound of the front door opening. But it was Fitz, not Trent, who appeared a moment later.

“What's going on?” the old man snapped. “Who's here?”

“No one
yet!
” Mattie said mildly “But we're just waiting for . . .”

“Then who the hell owns that Jeep?”

“
What?
” Hal and Mattie said together.

“I just this minute came up from the boathouse, and there's this junky old Jeep sitting out front.”

“
Trent
owns a Jeep,” Hal said.

“He must have arrived,” Mattie replied.

“Who the hell's Trent?” Fitz demanded.

No one answered. The others were already heading for the door.

≈  ≈  ≈

They found the Jeep sitting dark and silent in the parking area. It was empty of life, but Hal recognized it immediately.

There was no sign of Trent.

They called and searched. They checked the house, thinking perhaps he'd circled around and come in from the rear. Finding no one, hearing nothing, they re-emerged, and now Mattie had a flashlight. They called again, searching fitfully. There seemed nowhere Trent could have gone. Then, as Mattie's light swung by the cliff, Hal caught a glint of reflection from the top of the wall. Getting her to shine the light there, he walked quickly to the place. What had been a glimmer became recognizable form. Sitting on the top of the wall was a bunch of keys.

Hal picked them up. Adrenalin surged into his gut and, feeling as if he'd been punched, he leaned out over the wall, looking down.

He could see nothing below in the darkness, but that didn't allay the fear that was taking hold. “Here!” he called. “Over here!”

As soon as Mattie arrived, he grabbed the flashlight. The powerful beam had no trouble reaching the cliff bottom—nor picking out the figure lying there.

Running, scrambling and sliding, they descended the path, somehow without themselves becoming casualties. Fitz knew the terrain best and was in the lead. Hal and Mattie followed closely. The place where the body had been spotted was several yards back along the beach. Covering that last distance across the sand and rocks seemed to take an eternity. Not that it really mattered, for surely no one could have survived such a fall.

They all reached Trent at the same time. He was not lying on the ground but across a huge arbutus branch. The tree from which the limb had snapped was directly above. Trent must have hit it, substantially breaking his fall, for when the light hit his eyelids they scrinched open.

“Jesus Christ!” Trent muttered. “What happened?”

≈  ≈  ≈

He had not come off completely unscathed. After the shock of finding a survivor rather than a corpse, the next thing discovered was that Trent's left leg was bent under his body at a grotesque angle. It must have absorbed what remained of the impact, for it was badly broken. The smallest attempt at movement caused agonized yells. He was very much alive—though how he'd managed to fall over the cliff was quite another matter.

Fortunately, Hal still had his cell on him. A 911 call brought help, ambulance and paramedics, within half an hour. Before midnight, the sedated and stretchered warrior was on his way to Cowichan District Hospital.

Hal followed the ambulance in his car. Although Mattie looked exhausted, she insisted on coming along. Still numbed by shock, they headed into Duncan, but not until they were entering the near-deserted town did Mattie put words to what was on both minds. “Hal, I can't understand it. How could your brother have fallen? I mean, in the history of the house there's never been an accident like that.”

They were waiting at the Trans-Canada Highway intersection for the light to change. Since it was no longer an emergency, the ambulance was not using its bells and whistles. When they got going again, Hal said, “One thing, anyway: at least we know it was an accident.”

Mattie looked surprised. “What else might it have been?”

“Well, in other circumstances—the way Trent's life's been going lately—I guess it's remotely possible that in a moment of anger or depression he might . . . you know . . . But he was bringing good news, I'm sure of that.”

“So how come he fell over the wall?”

“God knows. He doesn't know your place. Maybe he was just so excited he tripped over the thing in the dark. Anyway, the main thing is the poor guy survived.”

In a few minutes more they reached the hospital. The ambulance stopped at the Emergency entrance and they pulled up nearby. Stephanie, who'd been contacted earlier, was already waiting. They stood back as Trent was brought from the ambulance and Stephanie anxiously followed. At the admitting desk there was a mild kafuffle, but it was soon sorted, and Stephanie vanished into the interior, following in the wake of her battered prince.

Feeling the enervating release of tension, they simultaneously subsided onto the hard waiting-room chairs. Trent was in good hands and wouldn't be going anywhere. There was nothing more to be done. But, at well after midnight, even the short walk back to the car seemed like a chore. They sat, resting briefly, and Hal again found himself holding Mattie's hand.

But sitting like winded geriatrics wasn't going to bring Maple Bay any closer. They rose, and were just debating on how to leave a message for Stephanie, when the lady herself emerged from the rear, looking distraught.

“What's happened? “Hal said quickly. “He's not worse, is he?”

Stephanie shook her head. “No! But I'm so confused. I don't know what to say.”

“I'm just so sorry,” Mattie said. “I've no idea how such a terrible thing could have happened.”

The other woman seemed to be searching for words. At last she said, “Actually, I think I
do
.”

“What do you mean?” Hal said carefully.

Stephanie's eyes were blinking tears. “Trent didn't just fall over that cliff—he says he was
pushed
.”

twenty-nine

From the darkness, Iverson watched as the ambulance bore the charmed-life idiot away. By that time his earlier frustration had turned to relief. The instant he'd pushed the guy he'd known he'd made a mistake. Only night, the fact he'd no idea there was any other man but Fitz around, plus the haste of what had seemed a fortuitous moment, could have made the error possible. Still, as things had turned out, the blunder had an upside. Had it indeed been the intended victim—the old man, rather than this freaky stranger—his survival would have presented a worse problem: with Fitz merely injured and safely ensconced in hospital, finishing him in time would have been next to impossible. As it was, he'd been given another chance.

This time, there would be no slip-ups.

His error, he admitted, had been impatience and too much dependence on improvisation. Now, with the deadline drawing ever closer, a more careful strategy was required. Ironically, the less time left for doing the job, the more was needed for proper planning.

Okay, so he'd just better get his act together.

After the ambulance departed and the old man went back in the house, Iverson waited patiently. After a while a light came on upstairs, then went out again. It seemed Fitz had hit the hay, a more prosaic end to his day than had been intended, but never mind. Iverson waited a while longer. The house remained dark and silent. The others, who'd left following the ambulance, would no doubt eventually return. It would have been nice if, before then, he could have crept into the house and finished the botched job. Unfortunately, nothing so obvious could be contemplated.

So, when he was ready, Iverson carefully descended the cliff path, back the way he'd come. Reaching the boathouse, he tried the door. Locked, which held him up for about two minutes. Inside, he was tempted to put on a light—surely it would not be noticed—but nixed that idea; considering the errors of the night, even the smallest risk was no longer acceptable. His little flashlight would have to do.

But before he got to work, he stood in the dark, waiting, listening, making extra sure that he was alone. It was then that he was overtaken by a quite uncharacteristic sensation: for a brief moment, it felt as if this creaky old junk pile was somehow aware, and that it housed some dark and dreadful secret.

An instant later, the feeling was gone. “Shit,” he muttered to the shadows, “What was
that
about? Must be getting fucking senile.”

However, unused to such flights of fancy, he quickly forgot it. Taking his time, he drifted quietly about, examining every detail of the messy hideaway; tools and beer cans and carvings and fishing gear and books and ashtrays and piles of wood-shavings: all the detritus of one eccentric old man's life.

Here also was the key to what would come to be regarded as his natural death.

All Iverson had to do was find it.

thirty

Hal awoke, feeling shocked and amused and embarrassed and aroused in about equal parts. He'd been dreaming he was back in the past, making love to Mattie. They were having a fine old romp, until he looked across at a mirror and saw, grinning nakedly back at him, the reflection of his father. He instantly understood that the “parent” was in fact himself, but
that
made him remember his true age. And when he looked back at Mattie, she was not only still just eighteen, but looking at him in horrified disbelief. “Oh, God, Hal—where did you
go?
” Mattie whispered, and vanished in the dazzle of waking morning.

What a crock, Hal thought. If my subconscious was a script writer, it'd be doing soaps. Why must dreams be so damn corny?

Clichéd or not, this one unsubtly hinted at things he didn't want to think about. So he rose and dressed and ambled, yawning, through the big old house, finally ending up in the kitchen. Its sole occupant was Fitz, who was slumped over a mug of coffee.

“Want some?” the old man said without preamble.

“Thanks.” He went to the table and sat facing the window, with a clear view of the cliff and the wall from which Trent had taken his extraordinarily non-fatal plunge. Bringing his coffee, Fitz followed Hal's gaze. “So how's your brother? They get him patched up okay?”

“We left them at it. I guess he'll have his leg in a cast. But otherwise . . . Some kind of miracle he wasn't killed. Thanks for all your help, by the way.”

Fitz grunted. “Least I could do. But how he went over beats me. Drunk, you reckon?”

That possibility had occurred to Hal, but it didn't seem likely; for all the high drama of last night, Hal hadn't got the feeling—or the smell—of liquor being involved, despite the possibility that Trent might have been celebrating the good news he had, as it turned out, been bringing.

Then, of course, there was the
other thing.

He didn't know what to make of his brother's claim of being pushed. Was it a true belief, or an invention to cover his own stupidity, or klutziness? Hal didn't know. But since Fitz would hear about it soon enough, he figured he might as well be the one to tell it.

“My brother is an unusual guy,” he began carefully, “with a really vivid imagination—so I don't take him seriously . . .”

Fitz glanced at him sharply. “Meaning?”