by Ron Chudley
Transfixed, he watched all three newcomers carry the victim out onto the safety of the dock. His only hope now was that the fucking Samaritans would discover their efforts to have been in vain, that they’d risked their idiot lives to rescue a corpse. He moved from behind the cover of his rock to get a better view. His consternation grew as he watched the pantomime on the dock. Soon the woman leaned down and hugged the old man, while the big guy stepped back with a stupid-ass grin. And then—then the kid, Con, was standing up and pointing . . .
Pointing straight at HIM.
Iverson was so dumbfounded that he froze, out in the open—he belatedly realized—standing in the firelight like a beacon.
The pointing kid yelled. It was the weirdest sound, not fear, or shock, more like a predator’s scream. Then he was charging along the dock like a madman, his purpose unmistakable. The little shitbag was coming for him.
Caught between surprise and amusement, Iverson nonetheless knew he had to get out of there. There was only one practical direction of retreat, so he started jogging swiftly along the beach. Beyond that rock outcrop fifty yards ahead was plenty of cover, a mess of logs and rubble, then woods into which he could swiftly vanish.
But before he reached the outcrop, which he had to pass to be in the clear, his feet splashed into water. “Shit!” he said again. He hadn’t taken into account the tide, which had risen to the full during the evening. There was no retreat this way—unless he cared to swim.
He became aware of something else: the banshee yell of the kid was increasing at an alarming rate. Turning, he could see the lunatic figure approaching at a dead run. Con’s feet thrust into the pebbly sand, spurting it back with manic force. His face was a mask-like rictus. In his hand was a jagged rock.
At the sight of this apparition, a lesser man might have lost his nerve. But Iverson stood his ground. As the racing fury approached, he remained perfectly still. Then, at the last moment, he stepped aside, letting his assailant’s momentum provide half the force for the vicious punch that he delivered to the side of his head.
Con spun, crashed, and lay still. Now the only sound was the background roar of the burning boathouse.
Iverson made a swift calculation. Since the others were still occupied on the dock, his best escape route now was the cliff path. The entrance to that would soon be blocked by the fall of the building, which would be dandy—but only if he got to the path first.
Iverson paused just long enough to give his would-be attacker a vicious kick, then he began to run.
thirty-eight
Con was halfway down the dock before Hal realized what was happening. Even then it took more precious seconds to comprehend the boy’s full purpose. “Con!” Hal yelled. “Con, let it go! STOP!”
He might as well have been trying to command the tide.
Hal started to run, but as soon as he put his weight on his damaged ankle, it buckled, sending a flood of agony up the leg and almost throwing him into the sea. By the time he’d recovered, Con was off the dock and sprinting along the beach. Despite his discomfort, Hal felt icy wonder at the swiftly unfolding scene: the avenger moving with uncanny speed, never letting up on his outlandish cries, pausing only long enough to scoop up a big rock.
“Oh, shit!” Hal cried. “God, Con—don’t do it!”
But he needn’t have worried, at least about that. Con’s target turned in plenty of time, sidestepped and downed his would-be assailant with a single vicious blow. The reversal was so fast it was almost comical. After Con fell, he lay still, passion apparently no match for highly competent evil.
The entire sequence had taken mere seconds, hardly longer than it had taken Hal to recover his balance. Then, as soon as the tables were turned, Iverson was on the move again, this time toward the boathouse. Apparently, he meant to make his escape by the cliff path.
That realization fired Hal with new resolve. He was less than half Iverson’s distance from the path; despite his injury, he might be able to cut the villain off. He began to hobble along the dock, going as fast as he could. The pain was bad, but he ignored it, then forgot it entirely as he neared his destination.
Soon he began to feel radiant heat. The dock was dangerously close to the blazing boathouse. By now flames ruled the entire structure, consuming the shore end that was still standing. Soon that too would crash, blocking the cliff path and destroying the nearby dock. He had to hustle.
Putting on a painful spurt, he managed to reach the interception point seconds before Iverson. The man was racing in diagonally, paying Hal no heed, intent only on reaching the path. If he got there first, it would be game over. In a last desperate effort, Hal began to hop, covering the final yards in three ungainly bounds.
Simultaneously, Iverson leaped onto the dock, ducked and twisted in a furious attempt to reach the path . . . close but not reachable.
One option remained. Planting both feet, Hal launched himself in an all-or-nothing rugby tackle. If lucky, he might just grab hold of something; if not, he’d kiss the deck and Iverson would be gone.
His clutching fingers snagged one of the fast-pumping knees. The legs thrashed, a heel cracked against his Hal’s chest. But the quarry’s forward momentum was slowed. After a wild struggle, during which Hal managed somehow to tighten his hold, the man finally came down.
The impact made Iverson’s legs jerk out of Hal’s grasp. A violent kick cracked his forehead, sending a shock wave down his spine. But he somehow managed to grab a foot and give it a sharp twist. That triggered a sense-memory of long-ago stage fights, which rescued him from confusion. He twisted Iverson’s foot again. Then, when the man’s other leg drew back to kick, Hal punched savagely at the exposed crotch.
Iverson gave a low-pitched squawk, followed by a huge in-suck of breath. In the firelight, the whites of his eyes gleamed pale above the gaping O of his mouth. Hal used that moment to launch himself forward, pinning the other man to the dock.
At that point, had he been as experienced—and ruthless—as his opponent, he might have finished things; some solid punches while the man was helpless could have done the job. Lacking the killer instinct, he waited too long. Iverson heaved violently, bucking off his attacker. Hal rolled away and before he could recover, Iverson lashed a bone-jarring jab at his head. The blow only half-connected, which probably saved Hal from being knocked out. But a stage fight it definitely was not: the impact sent an electric pulse from jaw to brain, causing a shower of stars, plus a roaring in his ears louder than the nearby inferno.
Before he had time to rally, Iverson was on his feet. Hal was now sprawled across the dock, blocking the escape route. As Iverson edged around him, he again tried to grab for the legs. This time the move was anticipated. A boot kicked him smartly in the shoulder. There was a crack as something parted. A red haze flooded his vision, barely allowing him to see Iverson backing off. In the glow of the fire, the man’s face was an ugly mask of triumph.
Hal made to rise, but couldn’t. When he tried to push himself off, his shoulder screamed in protest and he fell back.
Iverson snarled and turned away. Now he had a clear route to escape. As Hal watched helplessly, the man bounded towards the cliff path—but stopped. He picked up something and came back.
Hal’s clearing vision showed Iverson holding a fat driftwood club. He gasped and began to scramble crablike away. But behind him the situation was worse. Flames had now taken firm hold on the dock. In trying to escape Iverson, he was retreating into the fire.
Hal’s predicament was not lost on his attacker. Club raised, he paused, leering satisfaction. Hal could either have a roasted butt or a smashed skull, either way was fine with him.
There was a moment of absolute stillness—but what happened next was completely un-anticipated: out of the darkness, swift and silent, came an apparition.
Hal had an instant to register Con.
Iverson, however, saw nothing. Con was on the dock and launching himself before the other man knew what was happening. Under
the first impact, the club went flying. Caught off balance, Iverson staggered in the direction of the boathouse. As he neared what was left of the doorway—which looked like the hatch of a furnace—he managed to stop, desperately trying to regain balance and reverse his trajectory.
He almost succeeded. But then Con came at him again, his expression as serene and empty as an avenging angel’s. Then came the impact. This time Iverson anticipated. His fist lifted to defend himself, as he’d done so well before. But now he seemed to inhabit a different time-continuum—Con moving normally but he in slow motion—so he’d barely begun to move before Con connected. Strong as he was, Iverson could not withstand the momentum. He gave a grunt and staggered toward the boathouse door, seemingly fused to his assailant, who kept running and shoving, like a tough little tug pushing a liner.
Hal could no longer see Con’s face, since the boy’s head was buried in his opponent’s chest: a last, fatal embrace. He did, however, catch a glimpse of Iverson. In the raw glow of the flames, the man’s expression was of pure amazement.
Then the time-snapshot shattered. The conjoined pair catapulted through the boathouse door and kept going—back—back—until the fire was a corona about them, then part of them, then replacing them . . . a searing flash.
And they were gone.
A moment later, in a lava-like cascade of sparks, the last of the building came down.
Hal barely had time to roll off the dock.
Doubtless he would have followed the others into eternity, had it not been for the blessedly high tide.
thirty-nine
The building might have been in Toronto or New York. Though small by comparison to structures in those cities, it was every bit as sleek, a fitting part of the mini-metropolis emerging from once-sleepy Victoria. The offices of PacificCon occupied the top floor, overlooking the Inner Harbor with its ring of new hotels and condos, many of which had been developed by that company,
Hal Bannatyne, with one arm in a sling and his free hand holding a walking stick got a few stares on his way up in the elevator. At the PacificCon reception desk, the girl gave him a look of half-recognition; as an actor, he had a familiar enough face to get that reaction often. Saving her from speculation, he said, “Hi, I’m Hal Bannatyne. To see Mr Smithson. I don’t have an appointment, but he’s an old friend.”
“Oh yes, Mr. Bannatyne !” the receptionist said; she was a poised twenty-five, with flawless skin and a severe hairstyle that did little to blunt her good looks. “Of course, the actor! That’s right, I saw you.”
“Really?”
“No, I mean—saw you—just nearby, shooting a movie. I was there the day you fell on your behind.” She giggled, then indicated his stick. “Sorry! Did it happen again?”
“Not quite!” It was interesting that someone who’d witnessed the accident that had begun this small saga was now playing a part at the conclusion. It had a bookend quality, a wry elegance of connectivity which he might once have thought of as fate. Now it just seemed ironic. “Is your boss in?” he said.
The girl smiled. “I’ll check. You said you were friends?”
“Yeah—went to school together.”
“Really? Cool! Just a minute . . .”
She picked up a phone and spoke to someone. After a brief conversation, she put it down again, looking surprised. “What?” Hal said.
“Mister Smithson’s coming out. I never knew him do that before. Please, Mr Bannatyne, before you go in . . .”
“Yes?”
“Can I get your autograph?”
Presently, a nearby door opened and Vince appeared. His big grin froze when he took in Hal’s appearance.
“Jesus, man! What happened? You look like something out of a James Bond movie.”
Hal, who’d expected to feel anger at the sight of the one who’d caused so much pain, instead felt perplexed. Of course, Vince could have no idea of his personal involvement in the drama at Cowichan Bay. But seeing him standing there, mouth hanging comically, for all the world like a regular civilized person, was pretty surreal—like much that had been happening lately. Considering these matters earlier, he’d realized that not only was life often stranger than fiction, but his own life seemed lately to be becoming odder—and more dangerous—than the roles he played.
God, he hoped this wasn’t going to become a pattern.
“What happened to me was no movie,” he said quietly. “But it is why I’m here. I thought you might like to hear about it.”
Vince frowned, then he gave an immaculately tailored shrug. “Come to provide your old bud with a little entertainment?”
“You could say that.”
“Why?”
“It’s something you need to hear.”
“No kidding? Okay—shoot!”
“I think we should be alone.”
“Alone!” Vince gave an amused glance at the receptionist. “Wow—always the performer, eh?”
“I’m not performing now, believe me.”
“Really?” The man’s geniality was an increasingly thin mask. “I’ve got a few minutes, I guess. Why don’t you come inside?”
vince’s office was a glass-walled corner overlooking James Bay and the mountain-laced panorama of the Strait of Juan de Fuca. It had thick broadloom, a huge slab of red cedar for a desk, a computer, some comfortable chairs, a small bar, an Emily Carr painting on one wall, and little else.
Vince waved Hal to a chair and moved to the bar, where he fetched two bottles of mineral water. “Now I’m intrigued,” he said, opening the bottles and handing one to Hal. “What did happen? You really look a mess.”
Hal settled himself gingerly, his cracked collarbone and badly sprained foot making the process awkward. He accepted the water and drank. Only then did he realize how dry his mouth had become. “I was in a fire.”
Rather than taking a chair, Vince perched atop his desk with his legs crossed, which gave him the appearance of an Old World tailor. The contrast of this eccentricity to the grim reality of the man was unnerving. “A fire?” Vince repeated. “Bummer! How did it happen?”
“I thought perhaps you could help me there.”
Vince did a double take. “Come again?”
“Never mind. I’ll explain later.” Hal put down the water bottle and picked up his walking stick, passing it absently from hand to hand. “First I’ve got a question for you. It’s about another fire, one that happened in Nanaimo a couple of years back. I wasn’t here, but someone told me about it.”
“Really! Go on.”
“This blaze involved an eco-activist and his family. Seems they were burned alive one night in their home: a property that had stood in the way of a major development, which was then able to proceed. Sound familiar?”
Vince, in his tailor pose, was as still as an ornament. “Who told you this?”
“Not important. At first, I didn’t realize that the outfit involved was yours: PacificCon. I only recently made the connection.”
The small man nodded slowly. “Okay—yes—now you mention it, I do vaguely remember something like that. A tragic accident, which horrified everyone. That we were able to pick up the property was fortunate for the company. But, naturally, no one would wish to profit from such circumstances.”
“Naturally.” Hal agreed, continuing quietly, “So you’re saying you had nothing to do with having that fire set?”
Vince broke his tailor pose and swung off the desk. “What ? What the fuck kind of question is that?”
Hal changed hands with his stick. “Simple enough. I’m asking if you had the Nanaimo place torched, so you could—how did you put it the other night?—get your land parcel together. What do you say, old friend?”
The friend’s face was very white. His nostrils flared as he took a small snorting breath. “You’ve got to be shittin’ me, man. Either you’re crazy or this is a sick joke.”
He was good, Hal thought, no doubt about it. But pique at being rumbled could easily masquerade as the anger
of someone unjustly accused, so the guy didn’t need to be that much of an actor. “It’s no joke, Vince. I remember from the old days that you weren’t one to mess with. But the Nanaimo thing isn’t really why I’m here. That’s just background to the real story. That concerns another fire, the one I was in the other night—in Maple Bay.”
Vince’s expression drifted from anger to caution. “Maple Bay?”
“Yeah! Maybe you heard about it on the news: the fire on the Trail Property?”
His companion was very still. He’d been standing over Hal, not exactly threatening, but in a stance that bristled with ire. Slowly he backed off, a slim silhouette against the glass-walled sky. “What do you know about that?”
“I just told you, I was in it!”
“So you did.”
“I also had a tussle with the guy who set the fire: the character I met at your party, actually. Penney, I think you called him. Except up in Cowichan Bay he was calling himself Iverson. That’s how I connected all this together.”
Vince didn’t move a muscle. With the light behind him, it was hard to see his expression. But the silence fairly hummed with tension. After a long time, he said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, that’s about right.”
“What?”
“What I thought you’d say. It’s okay. I didn’t expect anything different. I’m sure you’ve got your ass thoroughly covered. And I’m not naïve enough to think you’d admit anything. I can’t nail you, Vince. Probably no one can. Not yet, anyway. So I’m going to have to settle for something different.”
Vince did a sidling movement away from the window. Significantly, he now seemed uninterested in any attempt at denial. He flicked a nervous glance at Hal’s stick. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Hal chucked. “Oh—you think I might beat up on you? Sweet thought, but hardly practical. I did come here to fuck with you, man. You can bet on it. But not that way.”