Act of Evil (27 page)

They left Fitz working and gravitated, as if by tidal pull, back to the kitchen. Outside the window, the broad sweep of the bay was fading to dark, the eastern sky laced with emerging pinpoints of stars. Mattie fetched the bottle of wine they'd started earlier and poured fresh glasses.

They sat, and some time later Mattie put on a lamp. It created a warm glow, a gentle haven in the enormous night, a place where the monsters of memory and misadventure were of diminished power. Later still, Mattie put down her glass and took Hal's hand. “Thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

“Right now—tonight—just for being here.”

“I wouldn't want to be anywhere else.”

“I'm glad. Also for not talking about that
other
.”

“You mean, what happened?”

“Yes.”

“Don't you find it hard—not knowing?”

“It's been that way so long, I'm used to it. Anyway, I'm sort of swamped with relief just to have found him. Does that sound unfeeling?”

“Heavens, no! Anyway, what do I know? I can't imagine what it must be like to lose a child, so there's no way I could possibly judge. I'm just happy that both you and Fitz seem to be surviving.”

She squeezed his hand and stared out into the dark. “Hal?”

“Yes.”

“I want to ask you something. Probably I shouldn't, but if I don't now I'll probably never get up the nerve again. And I'll never stop wondering . . .”

“So ask!”

“I know we said that it's inevitable that our lives went the way they did. And I'm convinced that's true. But did you ever wonder what it would have been like if we . . .”

“Hadn't broken up?”

“Yes.”

Hal thought for while. “To answer that,” he said finally, “I have to go back to a certain day in Victoria, when I fell on my butt and looked up to see an old friend staring at me.”

Mattie gave a little laugh. “I'm not sure I understand.”

“Well, I recognized you instantly, you know that. My first thought was,
That's Mattie
! Then another one came right on top, though I tried to push it away, to sort of
unthink
it. And I guess I've been trying to avoid it ever since.”

“What was it?”

“That letting go of you was the biggest mistake of my life.”

Mattie's grip on his hand tightened, so much that it was almost painful. But on her face grew a smile of such depth and beauty that Hal would have endured any discomfort to witness it. Then she let go his hand and rose. “Dear Hal,” she said quietly. “That's about the sweetest thing I ever heard. All the more so because I believe you really mean it. Now—if I don't go to bed, I think I may fall down. Goodnight.”

Just like that she was gone. Hal sat in the window, sipping the last of his wine, the house silent save for the distant tap-tap of Fitz's chisel. The sound had a hypnotic quality: ancient, soothing to the spirit.

After a while he rose and headed upstairs also.

forty-three

He awoke with a start, thinking someone had called his name. The darkness of the room was split by a fuzzy bright haze, that came from the open door, which silhouetted a looming figure.

“
Hal?
”

This was not an echo from a dream, but a real voice, which emerging consciousness identified as Mattie's. Surprise, concern, and pleasure began a struggle for supremacy in the brisk run-up to his response. “Mattie—what is it?”

The figure drifted closer, and he realized that Mattie was dressed only in a nightgown. “Hal!” she whispered yet again. “Oh, God—Hal!”

The tone was so strange that any excitement he might have felt at this surprise nocturnal visit morphed into fear:
Fitz
, he thought.
Something's happened to Fitz
. Scrambling to sit up, he fumbled to turn on the bedside lamp.

“Mattie, what's the matter? Is it Fitz?”

Mattie shook her head. The light confirmed Hal's first impression of her attire—or lack of it—but she seemed unaware of this; even in a state of undress, and obviously distraught, she still retained an aura of dignity. This was enhanced by the fact that perched improbably on her shapely nose was a pair of reading glasses.

“What's the matter?” Hal said again.

Instead of replying, Mattie moved farther into the light and lifted her arm, revealing an exercise book. She held it out, her hand shaking. The glow from the bed lamp cast her expression into sharp relief: wonder, and something more disturbing.

“
Jesus, Mattie—WHAT
?”

Mattie spoke at last, her voice a whisper. “This is Con's. One of the ones his mum gave me this afternoon. Full of old compositions. I started reading it when I went up to bed . . .”

“And?”

Mattie's eyes again locked on his own. “A lot of the exercises were graded by me. Some I even remember. But one is . . . different.”

“How?”

“It was written later. A long time after Con left school, I think. It's more than just a composition. Like a real story—except . . .”

“Yes?”

“Hal, I don't think it's a
story
at all!”

“What do you mean?”

Mattie sat on the bed, forcing him to move over, and thrust the book in front of him. It was already open, folded back to the start of a section of writing. The letters were in blue ballpoint, small but legible, with a sharp, imperative quality that didn't look like the work of a young person.

Hal looked from the page to Mattie, then on impulse plucked the glasses from her face. The lenses were drug-store magnifiers and suited his own eyes just fine. Shifting the book into better light—which also necessitated putting his arm around her—he began to read . . .

forty-four

Damn, Jack felt psyched. He'd finally found out where his dad lived and was off to Vancouver to root the old guy out.

His mum didn't know. Would have had a bird if she had. He'd fed her some bullshit about taking in a rock concert on the mainland. Not that she probably remembered. Lately she'd been bombed all the time. Totally out of it, when he went to her room to lift some green for the trip.

It was then he hit a snag. Except for chump-change, her cash supply was zilch. While tossing some juicy curses at the snoring bitch, he thought of Paul. His bud always went sailing early on Saturdays, but if he hustled he could catch him.

The quick route to Paul's pad—traveled a zillion times—was down some steps from his backyard, then a five-minute jog along the beach. Jack made it in less than that and found Paul's boat still moored at the dock. There were sounds coming from the boathouse.

“Yo, Man!” he called, heading in. “How's it hangin'?”

Paul was at the workbench, sanding something in a vise. Jack was glad to see that he was alone. He didn't need old Gramps on his ass when he was trying to mooch cash.

“Hey, freako,” Paul grinned, pushing back the cruddy red baseball cap he always wore sailing. “You coming crewin' for a change?”

“Nah, dickhead!” Jack returned. “Gave that shit up for girls!”

“Yeah?” Paul sneered. “So how's that goin'? Still a hopeful virgin?”

“Like
you
, eh?”

“Whatever!” Paul took the object he'd been working on from the vise, a stout wooden handle with a narrow end to slot into the boat's rudder. He tossed it to Jack, who caught it easily. “What do you think?”

“What was the matter with it?”

“Kept working loose. Last time out I almost dunked. Should be cool now.” He put the handle with some gear by the door. “Wouldn't have been such a bummer if I wasn't alone.”

Jack laughed. “Yeah? Don't try that guilt shit on me, man. You fuckin'
love
sailing alone and you know it.”

“Okay, maybe. But we used to have fun.”

“We will again, fella—when you grow up.” That was meant to be cool, but came out wrong. Jack saw the hurt in Paul's eyes and kicked himself: after all, he
had
come to beg a favor. “Sorry, guy. I just meant I don't get a kick out of it anymore.”

“So why are you here, Loverboy? To tell me how you still haven't got laid?”

Jack decided to come clean. “Listen, Paulo, there's something important I've gotta do, so I come to see if I could mooch some moolah.”

“Fixing to get yourself a ho?”

Jack ignored the dig. He'd wanted to tell Paul for a while about finding his father, but hadn't because he was embarrassed. Now there seemed to be no choice. “Okay!” he blurted, “if you must know, I'm going to see my dad.”

That stopped Paul cold. “Your
dad
? The pisser who walked out when you were a kid?”

“That's right, yeah.”

“Why would you want to see that loser?”

“I just
need
to, is all. But I'm short of cash. So I wondered—”

“Bullshit!” Paul cut in.

“
What
!”

“Why'd you want to hook up with
that
asshole. He doesn't give a fuck about you.”

Jack's face grew hot. “You don't know that. And cut out that
asshole
shit. He could be a real neat old dude.”

“Oh, yeah,
sure
!” Paul sneered, “And I could be fuckin' Elvis.”

Jack felt furious, then it suddenly hit him: Paul didn't
have
a dad to find. He and Jack had always both been half-orphans, part of their cool bond. Now, just when they were growing apart anyway, he was doing something that Paul could never do.

His buddy was jealous.

But instead of helping, this understanding only made Jack madder. Shit, they were supposed to be friends. Paul should be happy for him. But all the prick could do was take cheap shots. Okay, two could play at that game. “Well, anyway, my dad's
alive
,” he sneered. “At least
he
wasn't stupid enough to let himself get wiped out on the freakin' highway.”

Right away he knew he'd blown it. What was meant as a cool retort had made him sound like an asshole. Seeing Paul's face go red with rage, he said hastily, “Hey, sorry, man! I didn't mean—”

Paul cut him off with a howl, punching Jack on the side of the head and sending him reeling. Then, before he could recover, Paul hit him again. The second blow connected with Jack's jaw and this time he hit the deck.

Stunned, Jack lay still. A violent kick brought him out of it. He turned his head to see Paul standing over him—and another kick coming. Quickly, Jack rolled away, then scrambled up. “Jesus!” he yelled. “For fuck's sake, man! Are you nuts?”

But Paul wasn't going to stop. His face was scarlet, clear to the roots of his hair. His eyes were like flames. His mouth spewed curses. His arms and legs were like robots as he came in again.

Jack backed off but was stopped by a wall. Paul was still coming, intent on murder. But by now Jack was getting it together and he knew he had to fight. As Paul rushed in, he raised his arms to block the punches, then banged a solid left to Paul's gut. It was a lucky blow, knocking out the guy's wind. Clutching his belly, Paul staggered away.

Jack knew what he had to do. He and Paul had sometimes fought, but never like this. Something really bad was going down and he had to vanish. Sidestepping Paul, he raced for the exit. He would have made it but for a wicked stroke of fate. The tiller handle, placed near the door, tripped him and he went down. He broke his fall with his arms, but before he could get up again, a body crashed onto his back, flattening him. In his ear was a deafening scream.

“
Bastard—bastard—bastard!
”

Savagely his hair was grabbed. Violently his head was jerked back then slammed down, so that his forehead crashed against the floor. It hurt like hell, but he was still conscious—and he now knew something else:

Paul really
was
trying to kill him.

This knowledge gave him new strength and allowed him to writhe out of his attacker's grip. Flexing every muscle, he threw Paul off, then punched and kicked to break free. Then he scrambled up and ran.

This time he made it outside, turning toward the beach, where he'd have a straight run for home. Gaining speed, Jack felt the first twinge of relief. He was a faster runner than Paul and once off the dock, he'd be in the clear. But leaping down meant he had to hesitate. Glancing back to make sure Paul wasn't close enough to jump him, his toe caught on something on the uneven dock. He stumbled, and for the second time went down.

But now he had a moment to think: Paul mustn't get another chance to pin him. So he twisted and rolled like a cat, all four limbs extended for protection.

Good thinking, because the crazy guy was almost on him. Paul yelled and leaped, hands clutching for the throat. But Jack was ready. As the body came down, he took the weight on the soles of his feet. He then used all the strength of his legs to throw Paul off, flipping him clear off the side of the dock.

For a moment Jack lay panting. Then he jumped up and backed off, expecting Paul to resume the attack. But nothing happened. Paul didn't appear.

Silence
.

Paul must be hiding, Jack thought, waiting to nail him. Jack crept back then dropped off the other side of dock. He then worked his way to where he could see under the dock.

It was then that he realized that all his precautions had been unnecessary. His buddy was there, okay, but he wasn't going to jump anyone. Ever again.

≈  ≈  ≈

Jack tried
CPR
, but that was a joke. You can't get someone to breathe again when their neck is busted.

When he'd approached he'd found his buddy lying on his back, eyes sightlessly staring, neck twisted like a pretzel. After falling off the dock, Paul must have landed on his head. There was neither breath nor pulse.