Act of Evil (23 page)

Hal grew very still. The memory fused with another more recent image, the face he'd seen when, at Mattie's request, he'd gone to check on Fitz. And then, with a precision that left no room for doubt, it was all there. His old friend Vince's associate and the man who had been with Fitz in the boathouse were one and the same.

“Oh, holy Christ! ”

A final memory shoved aside everything else: his own brother's words:
Last night on that cliff . . . I really was pushed.

≈  ≈  ≈

Hal's chair flew over backward as he jumped to his feet. He strode across the restaurant, intercepting Con on his way to the kitchen. As Hal grasped his arm, the young man turned, growing alarmed as he saw Hal's expression.

“Hey—
what?
”

“Fitz's friend—how long has he known him?”

Con gaped, but quickly gathered his wits. “You mean, the Iverson dude? Not long. Why?”

“He works for PacificCon!”

“You're shittin' me.”

“No! And I think he's already tried to harm the old man.”

Hal was hardly aware of Mattie's presence as he burst out with a barely coherent account of his revelation. But his words must have done their work, for both she and Con were galvanized. As they all raced out of the restaurant, Mattie's said only, “Give me the keys.”

Hal didn't argue with her command. A lifetime on these winding roads made Mattie the obvious pilot for what was to be a desperate journey. But Mattie had barely started the engine before Con's pickup sped by. By the time they left the lot, it was already out of sight.

thirty-six

They made the journey from Genoa Bay to the house at impressive speed. Mattie astonished Hal by performing like a rally-driver, throwing his rental car around the winding curves with nail-biting precision. But still the trip seemed never-ending, and not once did they even catch a glimpse of the tail lights of Con's truck. But at last there was the Trail mailbox, a flash-picture instantly doused as the car swung into the drive. Then they plunged through the trees, almost coming to grief on the final curve before skidding to a halt in the courtyard. Save for the porch light, the house was dark. Con's pickup was stopped nearby, engine running, lights pointing at the top of the cliff path. Con was nowhere to be seen.

Hal and Mattie tumbled out of the car and raced to the top of the cliff. At first there was little to be seen. The truck lights picked out the first section of the cliff path quite clearly. No sign of Con or anyone else. But with no moon, the region beyond the cliff was a void, broken only by a faint gleam of lights in the far distance and a pale net of stars above.

But there
was
something else; as soon as they stopped both became aware of the smell of burning. Then their eyes adjusted and conveyed fresh information: the gloom below was not quite featureless. The sky straight ahead was marginally lighter. This paler column was not solid, the pattern mottled and rising—smoke.

“The boathouse!” Mattie cried. “It's on fire!”

As if on cue, from below came a dull
whump
, followed by a sharp tinkling sound. Immediately, like a fiend unleashed, an ugly orange glow infused the night.

“Fitz!” she screamed. “Oh, dear God,
Fitz
!” She began to stumble down the path.

Hal thought fleetingly about his phone, but the sight of Mattie heading into danger would not let him pause. “Mattie!” he yelled, over the growing sounds of burning. “Mattie—be careful—wait!”

But she didn't, so he raced down the path in pursuit. Without flashlights, a descent at any speed would have been hazardous. But the glow from the fire was growing with frightening speed, lighting their way all too well. Hal caught up to Mattie as they reached the curve below the overhang. He grabbed her arm, but she shook off his grip and went on. Then they were around the bend and both pulled up short, transfixed by the sight below.

The boathouse that had graced the ravine for nearly a century was an inferno. Flames were shooting from the side windows, which had blown out, and reaching like evil talons from under the eaves. The far side was even more fiercely ablaze, the ancient timbers so dry that they were being devoured like paper. Now that the fire was really taking hold, it was nearly smokeless; but the sound was a cyclone roar.

The back door of the boathouse gaped wide, the opening like an angry orange eye. Arriving there, they peered inside, shielding their faces against the growing heat. Not far back they spotted a moving figure. It was just a silhouette, but definitely Con, and looked to be dragging something heavy.

Hal knew exactly what was happening. Had there been time to reason, he might have hesitated. But, overwhelmed by the image of the struggling figure in fiery peril, he instinctively dashed forward.

It took just seconds to reach his destination, but each was an eternity. He reached the struggling figure at last, discovering Con desperately trying to drag Fitz to safety. Hal lunged forward, his foot colliding with a heavy wood carving that had fallen on its side. Pain seared through his ankle. He lurched, staggered, almost fell, only just succeeding in regaining his balance.

This mishap cost vital seconds. Unaware, Con kept dragging, but he was making little headway, then he was stopped completely by a gut-wrenching cough. As Hal recovered, there was an explosion and a blazing section of roof crashed onto an area nearby.

“Con!
Come on
!” Hal yelled, staggering in and grabbing the old man's legs, somehow surprised at the lightness of the burden. Then at last the two began to make progress, moving in a desperate sideways shuffle towards the door. Their first exit attempt was nearly fatal. They cannoned into the door-jamb and almost went over. Flaming debris was now raining down all around. Grimly they recovered, reoriented themselves and with a burst of frantic endeavor finally staggered outside.

“Thank God,” Mattie cried as they appeared. “Come on—bring him out on to the dock.”

With her help they carried the inert figure out of danger, setting it down at last. Mattie fell to her knees beside her father-in-law. In the glow from the fire they could see him clearly. Apart from singed hair and ruined clothing, Fitz seemed physically intact.

But was he
alive
?

Desperately, Mattie called his name and, as she leaned in to look more closely, the question in all their minds was answered. Fitz let out a healthy snore.

“Oh, Fitz. Oh, thank God!” Mattie cried, hugging her father-in-law, then looked up at the others. “Are you two all right?”

Hal scratched his head, realizing that, although out of breath and with an ankle throbbing in agony, he was in one piece. “Yeah, fine!” He turned to Con. “How are you doing?”

Con didn't hear. He was staring back at the shore. The glare from the fire threw him into dramatic silhouette as he lifted his arm with finger extended.

“
Look!
”

They obeyed, straining to see what Con was pointing at. At first Hal saw nothing—then he could make out a still figure a hundred yards along the shore, half concealed by a large boulder. At that moment, the sea end of the boathouse imploded, sending up a shower of sparks and an explosion of light. As the glare washed across the rock, the features of the figure were starkly clear.

Before anyone else had time to react, Con took off down the dock, screaming at the top of his lungs.

thirty-seven

Standing at his vantage point, Iverson had watched with cool satisfaction as the boathouse began to burn, After he'd left, with the flames solidly established, he'd propped the back door open to encourage a draft, then made his way to where he could safely monitor the end of a good day's work. From the start it had been clear that the blaze would be a beauty. So well was the fire doing its work that all his careful cover-up plans seemed to be superfluous: the only thing left to investigate was going to be a big pile of ash and some bones.

However, as he settled down to watch, something unexpected happened: a figure came bolting down the cliff path, stopped at the boathouse, yelled out, then rushed inside. Iverson recognized Fitz's fishing companion, Con, and cursed the improbable chance that had brought the kid on the scene. But the flames were growing fast. When no one reappeared immediately, he began to relax. Two roast chickens for the price of one was okay by him.

Then other people appeared, a man and a woman, and it all swiftly went to ratshit. The man, a powerful looking bastard, followed the first fool into the flames. By now the place was blazing fiercely, yet by some improbable miracle both men reappeared, bearing between them an unmistakable burden. “Shit!” Iverson breathed, a sublimely inadequate word to express his feelings.

Transfixed, he watched all three newcomers carry the victim out onto the safety of the dock. His only hope now was that the fucking Samaritans would discover their efforts to have been in vain, that they'd risked their idiot lives to rescue a corpse. He moved from behind the cover of his rock to get a better view. His consternation grew as he watched the pantomime on the dock. Soon the woman leaned down and hugged the old man, while the big guy stepped back with a stupid-ass grin. And then—then the kid, Con, was standing up and pointing . . .

Pointing straight at HIM.

Iverson was so dumbfounded that he froze, out in the open—he belatedly realized—standing in the firelight like a beacon.

The pointing kid yelled. It was the weirdest sound, not fear, or shock, more like a predator's scream. Then he was charging along the dock like a madman, his purpose unmistakable. The little shitbag was coming for him
.

Caught between surprise and amusement, Iverson nonetheless knew he had to get out of there. There was only one practical direction of retreat, so he started jogging swiftly along the beach. Beyond that rock outcrop fifty yards ahead was plenty of cover, a mess of logs and rubble, then woods into which he could swiftly vanish.

But before he reached the outcrop, which he had to pass to be in the clear, his feet splashed into water. “Shit!” he said again. He hadn't taken into account the tide, which had risen to the full during the evening. There was no retreat this way—unless he cared to swim.

He became aware of something else: the banshee yell of the kid was increasing at an alarming rate. Turning, he could see the lunatic figure approaching at a dead run. Con's feet thrust into the pebbly sand, spurting it back with manic force. His face was a mask-like rictus. In his hand was a jagged rock.

At the sight of this apparition, a lesser man might have lost his nerve. But Iverson stood his ground. As the racing fury approached, he remained perfectly still. Then, at the last moment, he stepped aside, letting his assailant's momentum provide half the force for the vicious punch that he delivered to the side of his head.

Con spun, crashed, and lay still. Now the only sound was the background roar of the burning boathouse.

Iverson made a swift calculation. Since the others were still occupied on the dock, his best escape route now was the cliff path. The entrance to that would soon be blocked by the fall of the building, which would be dandy—but only if he got to the path first.

Iverson paused just long enough to give his would-be attacker a vicious kick, then he began to run.

thirty-eight

Con was halfway down the dock before Hal realized what was happening. Even then it took more precious seconds to comprehend the boy's full purpose. “Con!” Hal yelled. “Con, let it go! STOP!”

He might as well have been trying to command the tide.

Hal started to run, but as soon as he put his weight on his damaged ankle, it buckled, sending a flood of agony up the leg and almost throwing him into the sea. By the time he'd recovered, Con was off the dock and sprinting along the beach. Despite his discomfort, Hal felt icy wonder at the swiftly unfolding scene: the avenger moving with uncanny speed, never letting up on his outlandish cries, pausing only long enough to scoop up a big rock.

“Oh, shit!” Hal cried. “God, Con—don't do it!”

But he needn't have worried, at least about that. Con's target turned in plenty of time, sidestepped and downed his would-be assailant with a single vicious blow. The reversal was so fast it was almost comical. After Con fell, he lay still, passion apparently no match for highly competent evil.

The entire sequence had taken mere seconds, hardly longer than it had taken Hal to recover his balance. Then, as soon as the tables were turned, Iverson was on the move again, this time toward the boathouse. Apparently, he meant to make his escape by the cliff path.

That realization fired Hal with new resolve. He was less than half Iverson's distance from the path; despite his injury, he might be able to cut the villain off. He began to hobble along the dock, going as fast as he could. The pain was bad, but he ignored it, then forgot it entirely as he neared his destination.

Soon he began to feel radiant heat. The dock was dangerously close to the blazing boathouse. By now flames ruled the entire structure, consuming the shore end that was still standing. Soon that too would crash, blocking the cliff path and destroying the nearby dock. He had to hustle.

Putting on a painful spurt, he managed to reach the interception point seconds before Iverson. The man was racing in diagonally, paying Hal no heed, intent only on reaching the path. If he got there first, it would be game over. In a last desperate effort, Hal began to hop, covering the final yards in three ungainly bounds.

Simultaneously, Iverson leaped onto the dock, ducked and twisted in a furious attempt to reach the path . . . close but not reachable.

One option remained. Planting both feet, Hal launched himself in an all-or-nothing rugby tackle. If lucky, he might just grab hold of
something
; if not, he'd kiss the deck and Iverson would be gone.