Act of Evil

by Ron Chudley

  To his surprise, Hal felt himself redden. “Of course not, idiot. She’s just an old friend.”

  Trent shrugged. “If you say so. But you might be missing out on something. Anyway—better not keep her waiting. I’ll see you, bro. And thanks for everything.”

  “You’re welcome. I’m just glad we got together again.”

  “Me too!” Then, as Hal turned to leave. “Oh—just one more little thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “You may not want to mention this—probably for everyone’s sake better not—but last night on that cliff, I really was pushed.”

  thirty-two

  The leaping salmon was finished. For Fitz, in the final stages of a carving, there would always come a point when, after some small adjustment—shaving a projection here, correcting an angle there—he stood back and something inside him said, there! He never quite knew when this would happen, and hadn’t been expecting it today, which still felt unpleasantly disrupted after last night’s strange happenings.

  But in truth, after his strong reaction to the final revelation, Fitz had begun to have his doubts. Yes, maybe the injured man did look a bit like him, but he also seemed like a real fruitcake. His story of being pushed off the cliff could well be a cover for having been drunk, or perhaps even suicidal. The more Fitz thought about it, the more likely that kind of explanation had seemed. Ruefully he’d reminded himself of the near-tragedy the last time he’d got paranoid about intruders. There’d been none then or since. And the nearest thing to a trespasser had been the arrival of Mattie’s old beau. Had it not been for Con, he might have made a fool of himself then too. So getting too upset about this latest incident was not wise. If he didn’t want to get the reputation of a senile old fool, he’d better—as the young people said—be cool. Fitz had repeated that admonition to himself, finally relaxing enough to concentrate on carving. He then became absorbed, going through half a pack of cigarettes as he shaved, sanded and polished, and it was shortly after noon when the “there” moment arrived, and he knew he was done.

  At the same time he felt hungry. In the fridge he usually kept a supply of basics, cheese, bread, smoked sausage, some cans of sardines, but a search showed that the larder was almost bare, just a half-empty jar of Polish pickles and a couple of lonely beers. He took out a brew, opened it, and downed half in a single swig. That felt better. He went back to the carving, stared at it for a moment, then hefted it bodily into the light of the bay window. But before he could stand back to regard his work, his attention was taken by the sight of his new friend, Iverson, down on the beach.

  That in itself was no surprise. Since the fishing trip, where Con had accompanied them, the fellow had poked his head in the boathouse a couple of times. They’d just been short visits. Iverson made it clear that he respected Fitz’s privacy. He was a good man, affable but not pushy, who clearly did not want to make a nuisance of himself. Fitz liked him all the more for that. In time, he figured, they might become real friends.

  But now, he realized, something was odd. Iverson was sitting by himself on a rock, much as on that first day. Was his back bothering him again? Fitz was wondering about that, when the man rose, paced, looking agitated but quite fit, stopped, gazed out to sea, shook his head, then slumped back onto the rock. His head lowered into his hands and his shoulders began to heave.

  He appeared to be weeping.

  Fitz’s first reaction was to turn away in embarrassment. To watch another man in emotional crisis seemed like ill manners. After a moment’s thought, he fetched the remaining beer from the fridge and carried it, along with his own half-finished brew, down onto the beach.

  He made enough noise to be sure that his approach was noticed, but said no word. He stood quietly, gazing out to sea. Finally, not looking at Iverson, he handed down the beer. Iverson reached up and took it. In a snuffled mumble he said, “Thanks.”

  After that the two were quiet and, except for sipping on their beers, motionless. Eventually Iverson said, “Sorry!”

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t mean to bother you.”

  Fitz sat slowly nearby. “Looks like you’re the one bothered. Something bad happened?”

  There was a long silence. Fitz waited. Finally Iverson said, “Reckon I told you about my boy with the Princess Pats in Afghanistan?”

  “You did.”

  “So—this morning—I got this call . . .”

  Iverson tailed off. Fitz felt a chill. He didn’t dare attach a conscious surmise to what was coming, but he knew—he knew.

  “Yesterday his unit was patrolling this road north of Kandahar. Their vehicle hit a roadside mine. Two guys were injured—one killed . . .”

  Another long silence. Fitz had no need to ask the obvious; a man didn’t sit weeping because his son was merely wounded. From bitter experience, Fitz knew that there were no adequate words for such occasions. Finally, all he said was, “Reckon you could use somethin’ stronger’n beer, eh?”

  For a moment it looked like Iverson hadn’t heard. Then he gave a shuddering sigh and stood. Only then did Fitz see the wetness on his cheeks. He grimaced, rubbed his eyes with his sleeve, grunted, then shook his head pathetically. “I feel like a fucking clown.”

  “I guess, you’ve a right. Come on. I’ve got some rye stashed.”

  Iverson nodded, then looked freshly pained. “I don’t need anyone seeing me like this.”

  “Don’t worry. If anyone comes down, I’ll send them packing.”

  “You’re a good guy, Fitz,” Iverson said gruffly.

  “Yeah, yeah.” the old man replied. “Let’s go.”

  Slowly the two moved up the beach, heading for the boathouse, which, in early afternoon, was already being consumed to the cliff’s long shadow.

  thirty-three

  They arrived home to discover yet another vehicle parked outside the house. This was familiar even to Hal, who’d noticed it on his first visit: a minivan bearing the legend SYLVIE'S POTTERY WORKS.

  “Oh, Sylvie’s here!” Mattie said, pleased. “You remember my friend, Sylvie?”

  “Hard to forget,” Hal smiled, as they alighted from the car, to discover Sylvie herself emerging from the boathouse path. She was wearing a flowing outfit similar to the one she wore on her last visit, except the boots had been replaced by sandals. She came out of the cut at a fine pace, brown legs pumping. as if the journey up the cliff had required as little effort as a short flight of stairs.

  “Hi, Mattie, hello Handsome!” Sylvie called in greeting. “I wondered where you two had got to.”

  “We two? ” Mattie laughed. “How could you know Hal was here?”

  Sylvie indicated Hal’s rental car, abandoned due to the necessity of returning Trent’s Jeep. “I remember that from last time. Don’t try to hide anything from me, kiddies. Auntie sees and knows all.”

  Hal was amused to see Mattie blush. “Don’t be a twerp. Hal’s just a friend.”

  “You mean a hunk! ” Sylvie said, giving Hal an unashamed leer. “I also recall telling you to send him along to me. I’m still waiting, ducks.”

  “Good to see you too, Sylvie. You want a cup of tea?”

  “Love to, darling, but can’t. Just dropped by to see your pop-in-law. To run by him my idea for an exhibition, and to get some pictures. I talked to some friends in Vancouver, and they’re really keen on the idea.”

  “Terrific! What did Fitz say?”

  Sylvie looked awkward. “Actually—I didn’t get to talk to him.”

  “Wasn’t he there?”

  “Yes he was. Down in the boathouse, as I expected . . . but . . . we didn’t talk. Didn’t seem much point really.”

  “Was he in a bad mood?”

  Sylvie grimaced. “No, I fear old pops was pretty sloshed.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah! When I knocked, I thought at first he wasn’t there. Then he came weaving out. Wouldn’t talk. Wouldn’t even let me in to take pictures of his stuff. Said he was busy—though God kn
ows at what. The state he was in, I hardly think the old dear would be fit for carving, or anything else much.”

  “Damn!” Mattie said, with a vehemence that surprised Hal and evidently astonished Sylvie.

  “Oh, shit,” Sylvie said. “Did I let the cat out of the bag?”

  “No. It’s something I needed to know. It’s just . . . after what happened last time he got drunk, I would have thought . . .” She glanced at Hal. “I guess that thing last night must have affected him more than he let on.”

  “Last night?” Sylvie said. “What happened?”

  Hal and Mattie eyed each other. Words weren’t needed for agreement that an explanation was next to impossible. Mattie said, “Oh, we had a bit of an upset. Not Fitz’s fault, but I guess I took it too much to heart. I hope he wasn’t too rude to you.”

  Sylvie shrugged. If she sensed that they were holding something back, she gave no sign. “It was fine. I’m a big girl. I can take a little brush-off. And my gallery idea will keep. Look, dears, I’d love to stay awhile, guzzle tea and ogle Mister Wonderful, but I’m on my way to Vancouver. That’s why I wanted pictures of Fitz’s carvings. But they’ll keep.” She gave Mattie’s hand a squeeze. “Sorry about pops, dear. But don’t let it worry you. He’ll be okay, I’m sure. Anyway—you said you’d buried the gun, right?” She smiled at Hal. “Bye, Gorgeous.”

  With a casual wave she strode to her van, which roared to life and exited the property like a rocket. When they were alone, Hal said, “‘The gun? ’ You told her about Fitz and the gun?”

  Mattie shrugged. “I guess I tell Sylvie everything.”

  “Was that wise? She’s a great girl, but she looks as if she might be a . . .”

  “What?”

  “A bit of a blabbermouth.”

  “Not about anything that matters. All right, she’s a bit of a flake—and she’s certainly taken a fancy to you—but Sylvie’s as loyal as they come.”

  “Of course,” Hal said hastily. “If she’s your friend, I can’t imagine anything else.”

  Mattie grinned. “Thanks. Listen, on the way home, I was thinking it was time we got out of here for a bit. We need a change of air. So what say I take you out to supper?”

  “Sounds terrific.”

  “Good. But right now, I want to relax. I’m going up to take a bath.” She headed for the hall, but turned back. “Hal, I’m not really too worried about Fitz. If he’s tied one on, he’ll just sleep it off down there. But since we’re going out, I would like to make sure he’s okay. But the thing is . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I really don’t want to see him drunk. Not today. It’ll just make me angry again and spoil our evening . . .”

  “Would you like me to check on him?”

  “Would you?”

  “A pleasure.”

  Mattie smiled ruefully. “I very much doubt it’ll be that. But thanks. You’ll take a weight off my mind.”

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  One thing that Hal had found surprising about the boathouse was how completely its aspect altered with the time of day. Until early afternoon, the cliff was bathed in warmth and light. But as soon as the sun swung into the west, the path and the deep cleft in which the old building nestled fell first into shadow, then, by slow stages, into a shade so deep that, in contrast to the still-glowing bay, it seemed quite mysterious.

  This was the situation as Hal went to carry out his task. By the time he was halfway down the cliff path, where it curved under the overhanging rock and the thick canopy of arbutus, it was as if he’d slipped forward in time to the onset of night. Reaching the bottom, where the path ended at the dock and the boathouse door, Hal found himself not only in semi-gloom but aware of an uncomfortable feeling of oppression. What was it about this place, he wondered. On his first visit, he’d had a sensation which, though brief, was of almost brutal intensity. Now here it was again, the sense of being—what?—in an almost physical presence.

  Damn ! Hal thought. This is stupid. Let’s just get this thing over.

  The boathouse door was ajar. Approaching, he became aware of music. It was jazz, funky New Orleans stomp, almost a dirge, low and soulfully sweet. This music, Hal mused, had seen its first incarnation at the time the old place was built and certainly fitted it well. But rather than darkening the boathouse’s somber mood, the music leavened it, transmuting menace into something more like melancholy.

  Instinctively, he kept quiet. Almost on tiptoe, he slipped through the door. The barn-like structure was very dim. Had it not been for the bay window, scooping reflected rays from the luminescence of the bay, he wouldn’t have been able to see a thing. Then his eyes adjusted, and the first objects that came into focus were Fitz’s carvings.

  Several of these stood in a row, in a grouping that was new since Hal’s last visit, silhouetted by the light beyond. There were animals and birds and, at the far end, the leaping fish Fitz had been working on. The cumulative effect of these images—stylized yet eerily lifelike—was so compelling that Hal sucked in a breath. In the background, the jazz slouched along, sweet and mellow, and if Fitz’s creatures had begun to sway to the antique rhythms, Hal would not have been completely surprised.

  The moment passed as the field of his vision broadened. Hal then saw that to one side was the tableau’s creator. He was sitting in the rocking chair, a glass in one hand, a cigarette in the other. His eyes were half closed, his head nodding in time to the music. If he was drunk, as Sylvie had asserted, he didn’t seem very bad, just sitting quietly, listening to music and contemplating his handiwork. The picture looked not only harmless, but very civilized. After all the turmoil, it was good to see at least one person taking it easy. No wonder Fitz didn’t want to rattle on to Sylvie about her grand plans for his career. He looked like he was content with things just the way they were.

  Hal had no intention of intruding. He’d verified that Fitz was okay, which was all Mattie wanted to know. Quietly, Hal started to turn away . . .

  And stopped.

  At the last moment his eye had been caught by an extra detail: another shape on the far side of the tableau, slightly apart and so still as to have remained unnoticed. It was a man, leaning casually and gazing out into the bay, a heavy-set fellow, perhaps in his fifties. He too was holding a glass and a cigarette, the smoke of which rose in a tiny unbroken stream into the rafters.

  Then, as Hal watched, Fitz sucked in a breath and took a drink from his glass. The movement caused the man by the window to turn and glance around at his companion. For the first time, Hal got a look at his face. It was broad and wide, rugged in a slightly coarse way. The squarish skull was covered by a brush of dark hair, receding at the temples, one of which bore a quite pronounced scar. Something about him was vaguely familiar.

  Then the man turned away, looking back at the bay. With the withdrawal of the face, the feeling of familiarity evaporated. Anyway, Hal thought, at least the old man wasn’t drinking alone. So that was a good thing.

  He backed off, leaving the boathouse without a sound. As he started up the cliff path, he could still hear the music of New Orleans, a sweet lament for a time long departed.

  thirty-four

  Lyall Penney, known as Bill Iverson to his new buddy Fitz, was very pleased with himself. Having surveyed the boathouse the night before and developed a meticulous plan of action, he was now carrying it out to the letter.

  The vitally important thing was that the death should appear purely accidental; no reason for questions, or investigations delaying the disbursal of the estate. Once the old man was out of the way, Iverson’s boss needed to know that a clear and legal path was open for the acquisition of the vital parcel of land. In that way the investment capital could be kept on the hook, and the facilitator of all this—his worthy self—suitably rewarded.

  So this operation was going to be immaculate and based on two factors.

  The first was the character of the man. He was a heavy smoker. That and the fact that he was also a drinker
formed the basis for a scenario all-too familiar to fire investigators. The second factor was the character of the fire itself: it must not only do the job, snuffing out Fitz for good, but be seen to be accidental and entirely the old coot’s fault. So traditional accelerants such as gasoline were out; they’d been okay in the Nanaimo job, but wouldn’t do here. Of course, he’d been told not to use fire at all, but that was too bad. Time was short and he was running out of options. A fire would do fine—just so long as there was absolutely no hint of foul play.

  As for accelerants, nothing artificial was even needed; the tinder-dry building was practically knee-deep in wood shavings. With minor encouragement, they could promote a fine inferno. Should there be enough evidence left to investigate, it would be clear that the starting point of the fire was where the old man had dropped his last cigarette before drunkenly passing out.

  Now, in the early evening, most preparations were complete. Sucking Fitz in with a tale of a mythical soldier-son had been—if he did say so himself—a stroke of pure genius. Considering Fitz’s own history of loss, hitching a ride on that emotional roller coaster had been the perfect way to go. Letting the old fuck come to him, as he had with the bad-back scenario, had been elegant in its simplicity.

  But since this opening gambit was fluid, requiring Fitz to discover and approach him in his own time, an early start had been needed. As it turned out, that stage was quick. He’d been safely and secretly ensconced in the boathouse by early afternoon. That was good, but also left a small problem: though the fire itself was unlikely to be noticed down below the cliff, the smoke certainly would. To avoid the risk of premature detection, it was vital that nothing happen until after dark, which meant there was a whole lot of time to fill.

  Once they were alone, it would have been simple enough, of course, to knock the old guy out and wait till the appropriate time to roast him. But that left hours in which anyone might appear, so Fitz needed to be compos mentis to ward off busybodies. This precaution bore fruit in late afternoon, when a mouthy Limey broad had dropped by. Fortunately, folks were well used to getting the bum’s rush from the grouchy woodcarver, so that had worked out okay.