Act of Evil (3 page)

“Envelope.”

“Yes, sir—shall I have it sent up?”

Who in hell would be leaving an envelope at this time of night? But then he had an intuition—or maybe just a hope. “Hold it there,” he said, “I'll be right down.”

The desk clerk had the envelope waiting. It looked used, stuff having been crossed out and replaced by his name. Inside was an old department store invoice—scribbled on the back, two words.

SORRY—MATTIE!

Plus a phone number.

three

The night beyond the house was as dark as the wrong side of the grave. Had Fitz not lived on this land all his life, known every square foot like he knew the warts and wrinkles of his own aging carcass, he wouldn't have had a fool's chance of doing what was necessary.

There was no sign of them yet, but they'd be coming, he was convinced of that now. When people like that were frustrated, when they'd used every means of persuasion or coercion and still hadn't got what they desired, they didn't just give up.

The same rogues, he now knew, had been behind the big development near Nanaimo, the Island's second largest city. In that case, a large parcel of land which had been extracted from the province's sacred Agricultural Land Reserve—pretty surely by political chicanery—had been slated for an expensive new subdivision. The land was on a promontory overlooking the water, making it ideal for an exclusive gated community, the problem for the developers being that the owner of a key piece of access land had refused to sell. That individual thus became the darling of conservationists and those against the ever increasing urbanization of Vancouver Island—a lone knight against the forces of the developers and crooked politics. But one night the knight's castle had mysteriously burned, with himself and his family inside. Although the fire was undoubtedly arson, no one was apprehended, and a while later the crucial land was sold and the development quietly went ahead. That's the way things were done in this part of the world: everything civilized and quiet—with the big operators winning out in the end.

Fitz was the one in their way now.

Sitting on the porch of the big old house, looking out toward his invisible domain, he absently stroked the stock of the shotgun resting across his knees. It was a side-by-side twelve gauge, as ancient as himself, and probably hadn't been fired in half a century. Coming upon it in the attic had been blind luck, and right now he could use every bit of that he could get.

He reached over and took a swig of rye. Strange to think that the root cause of this debacle was the stock market boom of the 1920s: that and his dad's laziness and ill-judgment. Stranger still to remember that once the family had owned half the land around here, much of the south end of Maple Bay. Fitz's grandfather, William, had bought the property back in the 1880s, cleared it, farmed it, loved it well. But he'd worked too hard and died too young and his son hadn't loved it at all. Seeking a life of ease, George Trail had sold off most of the farm, retaining only a small parcel overlooking the bay, which included the house over which his son now stood guard.

The irony of this piece of history was threefold. First, the stocks purchased by the sale of the land became valueless within a year, wiped out by crash of '29; second, George got his sought-after leisure all right, but only because he couldn't find the work he then desperately needed—he'd been saved from actual starvation by produce from the piece of land he
had
retained; third, that remnant not only came to be loved by his own son, Fitz, but, because of its strategic location, became the cause of the present problem.

Also, it had be admitted, the fault was as much Fitz's own. He hadn't taken the early overtures seriously. Of course, he hadn't known they were from a development company, and the offers weren't high enough to alert his suspicion. Only later, when he discovered that a lot of properties nearby had suddenly changed hands, did he realize something was going on. Finally, when he received notice of a public hearing for a big hotel and marina complex slated for Maple Bay, it all came clear. He went to that meeting—discovering that his own property was slap in the middle of the proposed development site. Worse, the meeting itself seemed like a whitewash: most of the people present being merchants who were solidly
for
the proposed development.

Fitz was appalled. He hated what it would do to the quiet community, and was outraged to find his own precious land included. He voiced his opposition in no uncertain terms. This was politely noted, but was obviously going to be ignored. Only later, when contacted by a protest group offering support, did he learn what had happened to the holdout to the plans of the same company in Nanaimo.

Not long after that the real pressure on him began.

First it was financial; they'd simply offered a lot of money, in fact, a small fortune. He wasn't even tempted. What they were doing was wrong, they were rogues who'd tried to trick him with those earlier attempts to buy his land. He spurned all offers. Then the legal threats began, to see if the old man could be intimidated. But that was a crock. The land was his, free and clear, all taxes paid; it hardly needed a lawyer to tell him that no one could force him to sell.

So then came actual harassment. Nothing obvious at first, just incidents that could be put down to kids: stuff stolen, trash dumped, tires slashed, graffiti sprayed everywhere. The police were sympathetic, but what could they do? And they certainly weren't impressed by accusations against developers.

But he knew.

Worst of all, not even his own family believed there was any real threat. They thought he was just a paranoid old fool. He was almost beginning to believe that himself when the phone calls started.

Cunningly, the calls always came when he was alone. At first there would just be silence, then a click. On later occasions, breathing. Finally a deep voice said the words,
Get out!
Then,
Leave!
Finally,
Save yourself !
This sequence was repeated several times. Significantly, the word
sell
was never used.

But he knew.

However, after the calls started the vandalism stopped. So, with no witness, he had no proof that the harassment was even still happening. He hadn't even told anyone about the calls anyway; the way things had been going, who'd have believed him?

Then he received a quite different communication. A cheerful woman, identifying herself openly as from the development company, had made what she called “a final offer,” giving him the deadline of a week to decide. He'd told her what to do with her offer.

The next day he got another anonymous call. “
Six days left—or you die!
”

Each day thereafter the same thing—a countdown. But he hadn't responded. He hadn't caved. He hadn't done a thing—except hunt out the shotgun. Then today—the final call.

“
Okay, buddy—tonight's the night
.”

Was it really? Or was it just a bluff like everything else? Waiting alone in the dark, nursing his gun, Fitz wondered about that for the hundredth time. Well, if the threat was real, whoever showed was going to get a big surprise. Thinking of that as he took another swig of rye, Fitz chuckled and mis-swallowed, the liquor burning even as it half choked him. He coughed till his eyes streamed. By the time he'd got himself under control, he felt exhausted, too weak to get out of his chair—let alone use his precious gun.
Oh, God
, he thought,
what a mouse-fucking catastrophe it is to be old
.

But, damn it! DAMN IT! He was
not
going to let himself—and the remnant of his clan—get walked over. He might well be a pathetic old fart, (a “geri”—as he'd heard his granddaughter elegantly put it) But this could also be an advantage: no one would be anticipating an armed response from a geri.

The night was very still. From the blackness beyond the drive came a ghostly hoot-hoot, then an answering call. Since he was a boy, there'd always been at least one owl pair nesting in his woods, a detail that the incinerated eco-knight would no doubt have appreciated. From the road beyond, he could hear the murmur of passing traffic. Sooner or later, one of these vehicles would stop. Through the ensuing silence,
they
would come creeping . . .

Okay, buddy—tonight's the night
.

The hand that steadied the gun had begun to ache badly. How long had he been out here? No idea, but already he was feeling exhausted. He probably shouldn't have brought along the bottle. But, hell, a man had to have something to keep up his spirits. Still, he'd better not drink too much more. Otherwise, when the time came, he might not be able to get out of his chair, let alone all the rest.

He pushed the rye away, settled the gun more comfortably—and found himself wishing that Will could be there to keep him company. Immediately he regretted the thought. Not only was Will long-dead, if he
had
been there the poor lad wouldn't have been much help. He hadn't had much feeling for the land as it was, and the idea of defending it with firearms would have sent his mild accountant's brain into shock. Too bad. Fitz took another swig of rye, remembering too late that he'd meant not to. Ah, well . . .

He settled back and began to consider resting the gun on the ground. He thought about it carefully, trying to balance the comfort of not having to nurse the heavy weapon against the difficulty of retrieving it quickly in the dark. This was a simple matter of logistics—benefit derived versus problem created—but somehow it got more complicated. He'd closed his eyes, and in his mind he could visualize the gun—which, as he examined it more closely, he found to be even older than he'd realized. Also, its barrels appeared not properly aligned, a crack had opened between them, and one had an ominous twist to the side.
My God
, he thought,
if I fire this thing, it's going to explode in my face
. He tried to put the gun aside—but found that he couldn't. It was too heavy—no, his hands were stuck to it—no, he seemed to be paralyzed, incapable of movement of any kind . . . and then he saw something else: at the edge of vision, just beyond the porch, something moved. Out of the dark a figure appeared, creeping on all fours. He couldn't make out its face but, he could see it was carrying a gas can. He tried to yell, but couldn't, since he was a frozen statue. The figure poured gasoline over the steps, over the porch, finally over the old man himself. He could feel the evaporating chill, was drowned in the sweet, pungent smell. There was the flash of a lighter, the spurt of a tiny flame, that kissed his gas-drenched world and exploded. He screamed . . .

And he was in his chair, clutching the gun and lurching forward—awakened by something very real, something bright and
coming
. He'd dozed off—and now he could see lights amongst the trees. A vehicle had entered his drive and was approaching fast.

God—this is it! They're here! And not even trying to hide.

Which could only mean they didn't care. Instead of stealth, they were going to swoop in, torch the house, and get out before they could be identified. He'd never thought of that. Probably the same thing had happened to that poor bastard in Nanaimo.

The car came around the last curve of the drive, headlights raking the lawn and bathing the front of the porch. The glare was so blinding that all he could make out was its source. Still, he succeeded in lurching to his feet. His body felt like it was made of crumpled tin. All he could manage was an arthritic hobble, but that was okay, it would serve. He might be a sad old wreck, but he was
here
—and, by God, he was going to give the bastards the shock of their lives.

The car stopped. Fitz came down the porch steps, closing in from behind. The driver's door opened. A figure emerged, straightened, started to turn.

The gun went off, the roar like a celebration.

“Get off my land,” Fitz man croaked. “The next one won't be a warning.”

The intruder gave a gasp. After an involuntary step back he froze, silhouetted against the car lights.

Damn!
The old man thought,
He's calling my bluff. Scaring won't do it. Ah, well . . .

Slowly he brought the gun level, his finger reaching for the second trigger.

The figure still was immobile. There was a slow intake of breath. Then a voice said, “Dad—Dad, for God's sake—it's me! Mattie!”

four

The phone rang at 6:00
AM
. Mattie hadn't been even close to sleep, so it didn't matter. Her first thought was that it must be the police, but that wasn't logical: despite the horror of what had almost happened, no one could possibly know. Even if it
was
the law, surely they wouldn't call at this time in the morning.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Ma—how are you doing?”

Her daughter's voice filled Mattie with relief. “Oh, it's
you
, darling. What a nice surprise. I'm so glad.”

“You don't sound so happy,” Jennifer said. “Is everything okay?”

Mattie tried to pull herself together. “Everything's fine. You just woke me, is all.”

“Whoops. Of course—sorry, I forgot. What time
is
it there?” Her voice had a new flavor, almost a trace of a French accent.

“It doesn't matter, dear. It's lovely to hear your voice any time. How's Toulouse?”

“Great. I'm so busy, time just seems to fly. Only a week and we start vacation.”

Mattie was surprised, then realized she shouldn't be. The French academic year would likely not be that different from Canada's. Jennifer, who'd graduated from Simon Fraser University only two years before, was teaching English in France. Bright and meticulous like her father had been, she was probably already a better teacher than her mother, which made Mattie both proud and slightly ashamed. “Of course,” she said. “It's almost summer break, isn't it. Have you anything planned?”