by Ron Chudley
Jack laughed. “Yeah? Don’t try that guilt shit on me, man. You fuckin’ love sailing alone and you know it.”
“Okay, maybe. But we used to have fun.”
“We will again, fella—when you grow up.” That was meant to be cool, but came out wrong. Jack saw the hurt in Paul’s eyes and kicked himself: after all, he had come to beg a favor. “Sorry, guy. I just meant I don’t get a kick out of it anymore.”
“So why are you here, Loverboy? To tell me how you still haven’t got laid?”
Jack decided to come clean. “Listen, Paulo, there’s something important I’ve gotta do, so I come to see if I could mooch some moolah.”
“Fixing to get yourself a ho?”
Jack ignored the dig. He’d wanted to tell Paul for a while about finding his father, but hadn’t because he was embarrassed. Now there seemed to be no choice. “Okay!” he blurted, “if you must know, I’m going to see my dad.”
That stopped Paul cold. “Your dad ? The pisser who walked out when you were a kid?”
“That’s right, yeah.”
“Why would you want to see that loser?”
“I just need to, is all. But I’m short of cash. So I wondered—”
“Bullshit!” Paul cut in.
“What !”
“Why’d you want to hook up with that asshole. He doesn’t give a fuck about you.”
Jack’s face grew hot. “You don’t know that. And cut out that asshole shit. He could be a real neat old dude.”
“Oh, yeah, sure !” Paul sneered, “And I could be fuckin’ Elvis.”
Jack felt furious, then it suddenly hit him: Paul didn’t have a dad to find. He and Jack had always both been half-orphans, part of their cool bond. Now, just when they were growing apart anyway, he was doing something that Paul could never do.
His buddy was jealous.
But instead of helping, this understanding only made Jack madder. Shit, they were supposed to be friends. Paul should be happy for him. But all the prick could do was take cheap shots. Okay, two could play at that game. “Well, anyway, my dad’s alive,” he sneered. “At least he wasn’t stupid enough to let himself get wiped out on the freakin’ highway.”
Right away he knew he’d blown it. What was meant as a cool retort had made him sound like an asshole. Seeing Paul’s face go red with rage, he said hastily, “Hey, sorry, man! I didn’t mean—”
Paul cut him off with a howl, punching Jack on the side of the head and sending him reeling. Then, before he could recover, Paul hit him again. The second blow connected with Jack’s jaw and this time he hit the deck.
Stunned, Jack lay still. A violent kick brought him out of it. He turned his head to see Paul standing over him—and another kick coming. Quickly, Jack rolled away, then scrambled up. “Jesus!” he yelled. “For fuck’s sake, man! Are you nuts?”
But Paul wasn’t going to stop. His face was scarlet, clear to the roots of his hair. His eyes were like flames. His mouth spewed curses. His arms and legs were like robots as he came in again.
Jack backed off but was stopped by a wall. Paul was still coming, intent on murder. But by now Jack was getting it together and he knew he had to fight. As Paul rushed in, he raised his arms to block the punches, then banged a solid left to Paul’s gut. It was a lucky blow, knocking out the guy’s wind. Clutching his belly, Paul staggered away.
Jack knew what he had to do. He and Paul had sometimes fought, but never like this. Something really bad was going down and he had to vanish. Sidestepping Paul, he raced for the exit. He would have made it but for a wicked stroke of fate. The tiller handle, placed near the door, tripped him and he went down. He broke his fall with his arms, but before he could get up again, a body crashed onto his back, flattening him. In his ear was a deafening scream.
“Bastard—bastard—bastard! ”
Savagely his hair was grabbed. Violently his head was jerked back then slammed down, so that his forehead crashed against the floor. It hurt like hell, but he was still conscious—and he now knew something else:
Paul really was trying to kill him.
This knowledge gave him new strength and allowed him to writhe out of his attacker’s grip. Flexing every muscle, he threw Paul off, then punched and kicked to break free. Then he scrambled up and ran.
This time he made it outside, turning toward the beach, where he’d have a straight run for home. Gaining speed, Jack felt the first twinge of relief. He was a faster runner than Paul and once off the dock, he’d be in the clear. But leaping down meant he had to hesitate. Glancing back to make sure Paul wasn’t close enough to jump him, his toe caught on something on the uneven dock. He stumbled, and for the second time went down.
But now he had a moment to think: Paul mustn’t get another chance to pin him. So he twisted and rolled like a cat, all four limbs extended for protection.
Good thinking, because the crazy guy was almost on him. Paul yelled and leaped, hands clutching for the throat. But Jack was ready. As the body came down, he took the weight on the soles of his feet. He then used all the strength of his legs to throw Paul off, flipping him clear off the side of the dock.
For a moment Jack lay panting. Then he jumped up and backed off, expecting Paul to resume the attack. But nothing happened. Paul didn’t appear.
Silence.
Paul must be hiding, Jack thought, waiting to nail him. Jack crept back then dropped off the other side of dock. He then worked his way to where he could see under the dock.
It was then that he realized that all his precautions had been unnecessary. His buddy was there, okay, but he wasn’t going to jump anyone. Ever again.
≈ ≈ ≈
Jack tried CPR, but that was a joke. You can’t get someone to breathe again when their neck is busted.
When he’d approached he’d found his buddy lying on his back, eyes sightlessly staring, neck twisted like a pretzel. After falling off the dock, Paul must have landed on his head. There was neither breath nor pulse.
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 t
he 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
“A moody psychological novel with a series of finely drawn characters.” —The Globe and Mail
“His characters are skilfully realized and the redemption is startling and tempting. A satisfying read from cover to cover.” —Hamilton Spectator
DISCOVER MORE GREAT MYSTERIES LIKE THE ONES HERE AT OUR WEBSITE, TOUCHWOODEDITIONS.COM
THE PAULA SAVARD MYSTERY SERIES BY SUSAN CALDER
Deadly Fall
THE CASEY HOLLAND MYSTERY SERIES BY DEBRA PURDY KONG
The Opposite of Dark
THE DANUTIA DRANCHUK MYSTERY SERIES BY KAY STEWART
Sitting Lady Sutra
THE HAL BANNATYNE MYSTERY SERIES BY RON CHUDLEY
Act of Evil
Act of Justice
THE LULU MALONE MYSTERY SERIES BY LINDA KUPECEK
Deadly Dues
THE ISLAND INVESTIGATIONS INTERNATIONAL MYSTERY SERIES BY SANDY FRANCES DUNCAN AND GEORGE SZANTO
Never Sleep with a Suspect on Gabriola Island
Always Kiss the Corpse on Whidbey Island
Never Hug a Mugger on Quadra Island
THE MARGARET SPENCER MYSTERY SERIES BY GWENDOLYN SOUTHIN
Death in a Family Way
In the Shadow of Death
Death on a Short Leash
Death as a Last Resort
THE SILAS SEAWEED MYSTERY SERIES BY STANLEY EVANS
Seaweed on the Street
Seaweed on Ice
Seaweed Under W
ater
Seaweed on the Rocks
Seaweed in the Soup
Copyright © 2010 Ron Chudley
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, audio recording, or otherwise—without the written permission of the publisher or a photocopying licence from Access Copyright, Toronto, Canada.
Originally published by TouchWood Editions Publishing Co. Ltd. in 2010 in hardcover
ISBN 978-1-926741-06-2
This electronic edition was released in 2011
ePub ISBN 978-1-926971-09-4
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Chudley, Ron, 1937–
Act of evil / Ron Chudley.
(Hal Bannatyne mystery series ; 1)
Print format:
ISBN 978-1-926741-06-2 (bound).—ISBN 978-1-926741-14-7 (pbk.)
Electronic monograph in PDF format: 978-1-926741-70-3
Electronic monograph in HTML format: 978-1-926971-09-4 (epub)
I. Title. II. Series: Chudley, Ron, 1937–. Hal Bannatyne mystery series ; 1.
PS8555.H83A73 2010 C813'.54 C2010-902100-2
Edited by Frances Thorsen
Copyedited by Rhonda Bailey
Cover Image: Harald Tjøstheim, istockphoto.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
TouchWood Editions acknowledges the financial support for its publishing program from the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF), Canada Council for the Arts, and the province of British Columbia through the British Columbia Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
www.touchwoodeditions.com
