Act of Evil

by Ron Chudley

  “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 an
d 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.

  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 thi
ng 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.