by Ron Chudley
All through the long afternoon they’d talked and drunk rye. Comfort for Iverson’s “loss” had been the starting point for this charade and he had to admit, had the farce been real, Fitz’s brusque camaraderie would have been effective. As it was, Iverson let himself be fed booze—which he mostly disposed of—while making sure his companion maintained just the right degree of intoxication: not too much to render him incapable of repelling visitors, but enough to hold him comfortably until it was time for the ax to fall.
When the talk ran down, Iverson kept things moving by getting Fitz to show off his carvings. Iverson didn’t give a shit about such junk, but it didn’t take a brain surgeon to concoct the kind of baloney that would appeal to the old fart. Then there was the music. At one point Fitz had plunked on some old jazz and Iverson was surprised to find it was something they actually had in common. Well, wasn’t that funny as hell; they might have shared some good times, had it not been necessary to fry the old goat’s ass.
After the departure of the Brit bitch, no one else had appeared. It was still too early to complete the next phase: that would involve getting Fitz passed out, then in the right location for his immolation. Next would come the delicate task of arranging and distributing the shavings to maximum effect. Finally—the fatal match.
But, now that they were unlikely to be disturbed, things could start to move. Iverson drifted from the window where he’d been appearing to drink while he really did smoke up a storm. (Sadly, he’d probably rekindled his old addiction, but if all went as planned it would be worth it.) Feigning a slight stagger, he went to the old man, smiling, his eyes moist with what looked for all the world like real tears.
“You’re a good guy, Fitz,” he said, with a slur so believable that even he was impressed. “Let’s have another drink, ol’ buddy. I just can’t tell you how grateful I am for all you’ve done for me today.”
thirty-five
Genoa Bay was a tiny haven fifteen minutes by winding road from the Trail property. When Hal pulled into the waterside parking lot, it was to find himself confronted by a scene of near-mythic beauty and peace. The bay itself was a small but deep basin, almost completely surrounded by steep hills, which reared greenish-purple in the evening haze. The water was blue-black, slashed with bronze where ripples reflected the last hurrah of a radiant sunset. In the foreground, a marina filled with yachts and snug houseboats occupied almost the entire frontage. Farther out, in the still waters beneath the cliffs, more boats were moored. To one side, perched on an outcrop commanding a fine view of the harbor, was a picturesque building. The back section was enclosed with a series of antique-looking windows. The front was a broad deck overhanging the ocean. The place was tastefully lit, with a sign indicating that it was an eating establishment.
“This is it,” Mattie said, as they emerged from the car. “Great seafood. And not too crowded during the week.”
“Looks cozy.”
“Actually, I haven’t been here in ages,” Mattie continued, as they walked up the wooden approach ramp. “But Con works here now, and he says it’s very good.”
“Con? Your dad’s fishing buddy?”
Mattie smiled. “The same. Doesn’t look like the waiter type, I know. And, frankly, it’s quite a comedown from what we expected. Con was one of my brightest students. I was sure he’d go on to university and end up as some sort of writer. His English compositions were that good. But after . . . what happened . . . he seemed to lose all interest. Just hung out in town or mooned around our place. In some ways, I think the disappearance of my son affected him as much as any of us. They were best friends, after all. Without Brian, Con sort of lost his way. His poor mother wasn’t much help either.”
“Why not?”
“She had a lot of sadness of her own, not helped by alcohol, I’m afraid. She’s a really nice woman, and I know she loves Con. But—well—she’s not often in the best state to show it. But I think Con’s finally coming out of his troubles. Fitz certainly thinks so. And . . . here we are.”
They entered the restaurant and were shown to a table. Tucked in a corner, it was near a window with an impressive view of the rich afterglow. They ordered drinks, and after these arrived Mattie said quietly. “Thank you, Hal.”
He smiled curiously. “For what, exactly?”
“I don’t know . . . Well, yes, I do, but it’s too complicated to put into a few words—or maybe any. So—just—thanks for being here.”
They talked of this for a time, while waiting for the meal, at first awkwardly and then later, as food and wine did their work, with more ease. Bit by bit, they were able to say that, though their lives apart had been good—and indeed the only ones possible—they’d also missed each other. This conversation was not so much confession as discovery. Not lovemaking, but the clearing away of cobwebs, of denial and perhaps regret, in preparation for what—they both would have agreed—was a more mature friendship. The fact of physical attraction, which was still strong, was something they couldn’t be quite so frank about. But it was a wonderful evening, not only heartwarming but—in light of recent events—a vast relief.
Toward the end of the meal, Con, who’d been busy with tables on the other side of the room, got a break and came over. “Hi, Miz Trail,” he said cheerily. “What do you think of the place?”
“Fine, Con,” Mattie replied. “We had a lovely dinner, thanks. This is Mister Bannatyne.”
“Yeah, we met when he first arrived at your house.” Con grinned. “Old Fitz thought he was from the developers. Wanted to kick his butt! But I recognized him from the TV. Hi, again, Mister Bannatyne.”
“Hello. And it’s ‘Hal.’”
“Sure! Hey, I hear some weird stuff went down last night. Fitz says your brother took a dive off the cliff. Almost offed himself. What was that all about?”
Before Hal could reply, Mattie cut in quickly. “A small accident, that’s all. Fitz was exaggerating, as usual. Oh, I saw an old friend of yours today. Gary Tremblay.”
Con looked surprised. “Gat? Wow, I haven’t seen him in ages. How was the guy?”
“Fine. He said to say hello.” Mattie smiled. “He also sent a message: if you’re ever stuck in—where was it?—Sooke—again, you’ll know who to call . . . What’s wrong?”
Her question was prompted by Con’s expression of what looked like dismay. But he recovered quickly. “Oh, nothin’—old joke. That Gat always was a smartass. Thanks, Miz Trail—gotta get back to work.”
After he left, hurrying off to busk a table in a far corner, Hal said, “What was the matter with him?”
Mattie shrugged. “You know kids, always playing pranks on each other. Con was probably just embarrassed.” She rose. “Powder my nose. Back in a jiff.”
As Hal sipped on what remained of his wine, he idly watched Con bustling away. The boy never again glanced in their direction. He had been more than just embarrassed, Hal thought, more like shocked, at least momentarily. But who knew? Kids had always been cruel to each other. And what with all the new forms of harassment available—like text messaging and the Internet—things seemed hardly to have improved.
This somewhat somber train of thought was interrupted by a small commotion on the other side of the restaurant. Someone was having a birthday. The table erupted in cheers as a waiter brought a sparkler-topped cake. After the singing, laughter, and applause, someone jumped up to speak and then . . .
Hal was seized with a powerful sense of déjà vu. This had happened before. No, he’d seen something like this before—recently—in some place like this. Where? Where ? Then he had it. Of course! A while ago when he’d dined at the restaurant on the Malahat, the noisy party whose host had turned out to be his old friend, Vince Smithson.
So much had happened since then that the evening afterwards at Vince’s had been forgotten. Now he recalled vividly the clever guy and his mansion full of glitzy guests. Also the visit to the private office, where Vince had produced the map with all of his property developments. H
al recalled this scene with great clarity, only now realizing that at the time—apparently subconsciously—he’d noted a logo across the top: PacificCon.
PacificCon! he thought. Now where have I . . . ?
“Jesus!” Hal exclaimed, so loudly that a couple at the next table glanced around. The other day, when Mattie had told him about the people trying to get hold of the Trail property, she’d mentioned PacificCon. The name had sounded familiar then, and now he knew why. He’d seen it on Vince Smithson’s map. Which meant his old pal owned the company that had been giving Mattie’s family so much grief.
“Shit!” Hal said, this time in a whisper. But that embarrassing revelation wasn’t the end of it. It had started a process he recognized from of old: a whole bunch of data would accumulate in his subconscious until a single fact created an overload and everything spewed out into the light. This final puzzle-piece, he sensed, was about to emerge. Something disturbing—dangerous—was coming—coming . . .
He found himself visualizing the evening at the hilltop mansion, recalling that soon after the visit to the map room, Vince had left him on his own, being called away on business. Suddenly, with brutal clarity, Hal recalled the face of the man who’d pulled Vince aside: someone who’d appeared to be out of place at the party, a tough-looking character with a broad face and an odd scar.
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.