Act of Evil (28 page)

The guy was totally dead.

Jack felt sick. If he hadn‘t made that crack about Paul's dad, the fight never would have started. But how could he know that Paul would totally freak. And all
he'd
done was try to defend himself.

But who'd believe
that
? Everyone knew they used to fight, and it would look like they'd been at it again.

Oh, yeah—he was going to be charged with murder.

He had to do something. But what? Well, at least one thing was clear: he had to have time to think.

Meaning he had to hide the body,

Sickened, but made strong by fear, he forced himself to drag the thing that had once been his friend up into the dark under the boathouse, far beyond the reach of the highest tide.

Back on the dock, the first thing he saw was Paul's cap, which must have come off in the fight. He picked it up. It made him feel guilty again, but he couldn't put it down. What the fuck was he going to do now?

Then he noticed the boat.

Moments later he returned to the boathouse. He collected two things: the tiller handle that he'd tripped over, and a yellow slicker Paul often wore sailing. Then he made the boat ready. He wasn't a sailing genius like Paul, but he could manage. Casting off, and with a decent breeze to stern, he headed out into the bay.

By then he was wearing the slicker—and the red Cardinals cap.

forty-five

Hal turned the page, but the next was blank, as was the rest of the book. Con had either been unwilling or unable to finish the account of that dreadful day: how, presumably, he'd wrecked the boat, how he'd returned and what he'd done to permanently conceal the body. All of this could only be imagined.

If one dared.

He closed the book and put it down carefully on the bed. His left arm, which had been around Mattie all the time he read, was numb. But he hardly noticed. Neither spoke for a long time.

A full moon had risen over the bay, its pale glow slanting through the window added a surreal quality to the tableau: two figures, transfixed in the wonder of awful revelation. Finally Mattie said quietly, “Poor boy!”

To whom was she referring? The survivor or the slain? Cain or Abel? For which, after all, was really which? Two young men had been lost on that long ago day: one physically, the other in just about every other way. Though not taken by the sea, at least Brian had gone quickly. Con had found no such mercy and had spent his life haunting the scene of the tragedy, till released at last by an act of fiery atonement.

Mattie was the first to move. She shifted her weight off Hal, picked up the exercise book, and drifted to the window. She gazed trancelike out at the water, which stretched away, dark and still under the moon.

How often had she stood thus, reliving the last passage of the boat she'd believed to have been manned by her son. Watching her, Hal couldn't even begin to imagine what her thoughts might be. The moon lit one side of her face, the lamp the other. The effect was ethereal. Her features looked ageless, showing no emotion.

Some time later she came back to the bed and lay down. The exercise book was still clutched in one hand. The other sought out Hal's. She lay back with eyes closed. Presently, the rhythm of her breathing changed. Hal lay still. After a while he followed her into sleep.

He awoke to discover dawn light in the window. As his eyes opened, it was as if Mattie had been waiting. She released his stiffened fingers, rolled over, and kissed him lightly. Then she left the room. Minutes later, he heard her steps pass his door and descend the stairs. Hal put on some clothes and followed.

A kettle was already simmering when he arrived in the kitchen. Two fresh mugs waited by the teapot. As she poured the tea, Mattie said, “Just before I woke I had this dream: Brian and Con walking down a long road. There wasn't much more to it than that. They were laughing at something and holding hands, but somehow their hands were
hurting
. Then I woke to find that the hurting was actually in my own hand. I was still clutching on to you, and my fingers were stiff as hell.”

“Mine too. Sorry!”

Mattie smiled. “Don't be. It was a good hurt. Anyway, I think the dream was triggered by what Con's mum said: about the boys goofing off together some place. Remember?”

“Yes. Talking of her . . .” Hal indicated the exercise book, now on the kitchen table. “Do you think . . . she
knew
?”

Mattie shook her head strongly. “Absolutely not! And we never—
never
 . . .”

Mattie put down her mug and grabbed the book. With decision, she flipped it open to the story they'd read, then ripped out the pages. Tossing aside the book, she looked about, her eyes finally coming to rest on the kitchen window. Beyond, sunrise streaked the sky yellow. She nodded to herself and headed for the kitchen door.

The air felt mild and sweet as Hal followed Mattie across the garden toward the ocean. Morning was growing out in the bay; fresh, new morning with the promise of a beautiful summer day.

Mattie walked to the cliff's edge. Beyond was the familiar panorama, islands and mountains and sky. The sea was calm, haunted no more by the image of the little sailboat that would never return. The beach below was silent, perhaps mourning the building that had stood sentinel for a century and the act of evil that had turned it to ashes.

Mattie still held the pages she'd torn from Con's book: the dark tale that had finally made its journey into the light. She tore them in half, then again and again, till the pieces were as small as her strength would allow. Finally she tossed the pile skyward, where it was caught by the wind and scattered like a flock of escaping birds. When the last one had vanished into the morning, she turned back to Hal, and together they returned to the big, old house.

epilogue

Hal and Mattie were strolling along a beautiful beach. They were wearing period dress, which seemed odd until Hal remembered that they were in a play and—
oh
,
Christ
!—they should be onstage right now. In panic, he turned to Mattie—to discover that she was down in the surf, trying to snag a toy boat that was sailing by. When he called, she shook her head and kept vainly reaching for the boat, which Hal now saw had a tiny figure at the helm. “Nay, prithee, Milord, my heart is
here
!” Mattie cried . . . the words fading beneath a droning sound that, as he opened his eyes, Hal realized was the noise of jet engines.

He gazed out the window at the unbroken cloud-sea that seemed likely to stretch clear across the continent, and felt a moment of complete gloom. Then the emotional impact of the dream faded, and he gave a rueful chuckle, stretched, and sat up.
Jesus
, he thought,
if my subconscious was a writer, it'd be unemployed
. Then, ironically,
Or maybe making even more money than I do.

Anyway, dreams aside, the fact was that he was back on the road—or in this case sky—on the way to the next gig; a response to a performer's powerful urge to keep following the work, in contrast to Mattie's equally strong need to stay put. Both knew this wouldn't change. So what was left? Clichéd Freudian dreams, apparently. After that? Regrets, certainly. But after
that
?

Getting on with it.

“Excuse me, you wouldn't, by any chance, be Hal Bannatyne?”

He turned to his seatmate, an earnest middle-aged lady who looked as if she might, hopefully, be recognizing him from something other than his ill-advised
TV
commercial.

“Guilty!” Hal said.

The woman was quiet-spoken, pleasant and not pushy. She had indeed seen some of his better work. And if
The Man from the West
had intruded on her intellectual radar, she had the grace not to mention it. They spent an hour in pleasantly un-fan-like conversation and were still chatting when the seat-belt sign came on, preparatory to their descent into Toronto.

He was home: or at least what would
be
home, if only he could manage to spend more than a few weeks out of a year there. But the day after tomorrow he was off again, down to the Caribbean to do a pretty decent role in another—this time, modern—flick.

Presumably, that enterprise would not produce the kind of unexpected excitement that had occurred on Vancouver Island.

But one never could tell.

Ron Chudley is the author of a number of TouchWood mysteries including:
Old Bones
(2005),
Dark Resurrection
(2006),
Stolen
(2007), and
Scammed
(2009).
Act of Evil
, (2010), is the first in the Hal Bannatyne series. Ron has also written extensively for television (including
The Beachcombers
) and for the National Film Board of Canada, and has contributed dramas to
CBC
Radio's Mystery, The Bush and the Salon, and
CBC
Stage. He lives with his wife, Karen, in Mill Bay, BC.

other titles by Ron Chudley