Act of Evil

by Ron Chudley

  “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.

  “What in hell are you doing?”

  Hal’s heart leaped. He whirled to confront the owner of the voice, a wiry, tanned fellow with a shock of white hair, who seemed to have appeared from nowhere. Then Hal recalled from his earlier tour that there was a path leading down the nearby cliff. Simultaneously he realized who the newcomer must be. “Hello, Mister Trail,” he said, holding out his hand, “I guess I should introduce myself . . .”

  That was as far as he got. The man used a dismantled fishing rod he was carrying to deliver a sharp slap across Hal’s wrist. “Don’t bother,” he snapped. “You can tell the crooks who sent you that the answer’s still ‘no.’ Now get off my land.”

  Hal hastily withdrew his arm “Look, you don’t understand,” he began, then stopped as yet another man appeared.

  This one was younger, hardly more than a teenager. He was carrying a brace of fat salmon and half-running, drawn by the commotion. Seeing Hal, his expression also became angry. He stepped up and stood shoulder to shoulder with the old man. “You heard him, asshole, fuck off!” he cried—then abruptly drew in a breath, frowning. “Hold on! Don’t I know you?”

  Mystified, beginning to feel exhausted, Hal shrugged.

  “I know him all right,” the old man snapped. “It’s another of those land-grabbing bastards.”

  Before Hal could protest the younger man shook his head. “No he’s not,” he cried. “I’ve got it. This guy’s from the TV.” He tossed the fish into the back of the pickup and came forward, wiping his hands on his jeans and grinning. “Am I right?”

  “Don’t be a fool, Con,” the old man began, but was interrupted by his companion chanting an inane little jingle.

  “‘The man from the West,’” Con sang, in a mock-country twang, “‘His heart is the best.’ That’s you in that old TV ad! It is you, eh?”

  Indeed it was: a rare on-camera appearance in a TV commercial, which in a moment of weakness (encouraged by an obscene amount of money) he’d agreed to years ago, and which had haunted him ever since. Despite his vast array of professional credits, a certain segment of the public remembered him only as the corny old Man from the West. Young Con was evidently one of the tribe. “Yeah!” Hal sighed. “I have to admit it is.”

  “Right on!” Oblivious now of his peevish companion, he came forward, cheerful hand extended. “Dude, I must have seen that ad a zillion times. Could I get your autograph?”

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  When hal’s real identity was finally established, the transformation of the old man was so radical as to be almost comical. From being an angry curmudgeon, Fitz Trail became a picture of amiability, and touchingly apologetic for the earlier misunderstanding. Having heard something of Fitz’s struggles against developers, Hal dismissed the apology. “That’s perfectly okay,” he said warmly. “When you first appeared I mistook you for my brother. We all make mistakes.” He grinned and rubbed his wrist. “I’m just glad you didn’t have a gun, is all.”

  This quip provoked a hoot of laughter from Con, who elbowed Fitz in the ribs. The old man looked even more embarrassed. Apparently there was some significance to this that Hal didn’t know about. He resisted the urge to ask what it might be.

  Mattie didn’t return at five, as promised. A note, discovered in the kitchen, explained about Hal, and asked Fitz to entertain him till she returned. “There you go, Fitz,” Con laughed: he seemed as at home in the house as if he lived there. “If you only came inside once in a while, instead of chippin’ away down in the boathouse, you wouldn’t have attacked Miz Trail’s guest.”

  “That’s enough from you,” Fitz said, mildly. “Don’t you have some place to go?”

  “No, sir,” Con grinned. “Not every day I get a chance to meet a TV star. Reckon I’ll stick around.”

  Fitz snorted, “Young pup! You think you can do what you like around here.”

  This was evidently a well practiced routine. Fitz and Con were as familiar as family. It came to Hal that Con must be somewhat the age of the strangely vanished Brian. Had Con been one of his buddies? Childhood friend, maybe? That would explain his familiarity with the place. Interrupting his thoughts, Fitz said, “Okay, Mattie’s going to be a while, so we can relax. Care for a beer, Hal?”

  Hal said he would. Con went to the fridge, discovering only milk. “Hell,” Fitz said, “There’s plenty down below. And I could use a smoke.”

  Hal didn’t mention that he’d already had a tour of the property with Mattie, happy to do so again. The old man was an enthusiastic guide, proud of his family’s tenure of the land. The steps down the cliff were steep, winding precipitously, so they took a while to navigate. By the time they reached bottom, Hal knew a surprising amount about the Trail family’s history in Maple Bay.

  This also included background on their destination, the boathouse. It had been built by Fitz’s grandfather in the 1920s, the tradition being that during US Prohibition it had been used for rum-running. “Probably bullshit,” Fitz added. “My dad was pretty obsessed with getting his hands on cash, but I doubt he’d have had the guts to smuggle whisky to the San Juans—let alone the smarts. Later on, he sold off most of the land we used to own, then lost the money playing the market. Damn fool. But he made a decent enough job of this.” Fitz indicated the boathouse, to which the path had finally brought them. “Older’n me and still rock solid. Thirty years ago, this part of the bay silted up and you couldn’t float boats in anymore. So I closed off the sea end, and it’s been my second home ever since.”

  “Mostly for goofin’ off in,” Con quipped,

  “Maybe so,” Fitz chuckled. “But I reckon you’re pretty good at helping me with that.”

  Con laughed and threw open the door.

  The three of them moved inside.

  twenty-one

  The inside of the boathouse was much as Hal might have expected. The semi-gloom, the result of the place being shielded by the cliff from the westering sun, receded as his eyes adjusted. Revealed was a barn-like interior filled with ropes and tools, fishing gear and miscellaneous junk, plus something unexpected: a collection of remarkably fine wood carvings. Some, such as the figure of a leaping salmon, in progress on the bench, were realistic, with a skilful economy of detail and line; others were more abstract, clearly influenced by native ceremonial art. Hal was impressed. “Chippin’ away,” had been Con’s description of Fitz’s activities. Was this just teasing? Or didn’t they realize the considerable talent that was on display here? Yet another question, in a list that seemed to be growing.

  But what got to Hal was the atmosphere of the building itself. As soon as he entered, it settled on his mind like a chord from a great organ. Oddly, at first he couldn’t make out whether the mood was threatening or benign, but it was very powerful. The nearest he’d ever come to the notion of “feeling” in a structure was in old theaters; on occasion, he’d sensed a residue of the hurly-burly of emotions that had been invoked in those places. But that had been pale compared to what crowded in on him here.

  Hal glanced quickly at the others. Con was threading his way through the clutter toward an old fridge. Fitz had drifted to the workbench and had idly picked up a chisel. Neither seemed aware of what Hal was experiencing—and almost immediately it was gone. The place must have reminded him of something, he decided, a movie, maybe, or an old dream, which had prompted this somewhat melodramatic response.

  However, the boathouse did have one truly unusual feature: a large bay window overlooking the ocean. Seeking distraction, Hal took the beer that Con offered and said, “This
window’s kind of different. Not what you’d expect in a place like this.”

  Fitz now had a chisel in one hand and a beer in the other. “Picked it up in a junkyard years back. Stuck it there when I walled in the sea end. Bit out of place, I guess, but it gives decent light. And a good view of the comings and goings.”

  Con grinned. “Fitz keeps a real close eye on the comings and goings.”

  “Good thing I do.” Fitz snapped. “Like just yesterday. I noticed this fella down on the flats in a real bad way. Might even have drowned if it wasn’t for me.”

  “What was wrong with him?”

  “Hurt his back. I fetched him up here and got him straightened out. Pretty scary for a while. But he was okay. Afterwards we had a good chat.”

  “You’re kidding!” Con turned to Hal. “He never lets strangers in here. You getting soft in your old age, Fitz?”

  “Not too soft to kick your cheeky butt.”

  “You and whose army?” Con laughed. “Seriously, you talked to this guy?”

  “Sure. Name of Bill Iverson.”

  “Never heard that name round here.”

  “He’s not from here. Just retired and bought a place up the bay. Tomorrow I’m taking him fishin’.”

  Con looked astounded. “Wow, cool. Hey, Fitz, looks like you got yourself a buddy.”

  “Wouldn’t go that far. But the guy’s heart’s in the right place.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Well, for a start, he’s real pissed about all the development around here.”

  “Sounds like a regular soulmate.”

  “Don’t be an ass. He’s just a fella.”

  For all Fitz’s attempts at diffidence, Hal could see he was excited. Since his only companions, apparently, were his daughter-in-law and someone young enough to be his grandson, this was hardly surprising. Con seemed happy too. Likely he was relieved that Fitz had found another companion. Young people needed their own kind. Even if Con was an old friend of Brian’s, he could never replace him. But then, Hal thought, who knew what was really going on here? He’d only just met them, so what did he know?