Free Act of Evil by Ron Chudley

subdued, with polished wood floors, modern furniture, and low lighting. To the rear was a covered balcony, with a spectacular view of the inlet separating the main body of the Island from the Saanich Peninsula. Hal’s arrival coincided with a table coming free on the balcony. He ordered a drink and examined the menu: it all looked good and he decided to just take whatever was recommended.
    While waiting for his food, he took note of the Saturday evening crowd, a fairly even mix of tourists and locals, he guessed, casually dressed but mostly well heeled. They were enjoying themselves quietly, the exception being one mildly boisterous table in a far corner of the balcony. Hal took this all in, but soon his thoughts returned to what had consumed them most of the day: his perplexing brother.
    How was he going to get back in touch with Trent? Or, more correctly, how were he and Stephanie going to maneuver the guy into contacting him ? The whole situation was pathetic and somewhat ridiculous, and it’d have been nice to be able to move on to Vancouver and forget it. But he couldn’t. The reunion, bizarre as it had been, nevertheless reminded him how much he cared about his kid brother and engendered unexpected regret at all the years they’d missed out on. Just as, albeit for other reasons entirely, he’d forfeited a whole lifetime with . . .
    Mattie!
    With surprise Hal realized that the Trent thing had driven that surprising blast from the past right out of his mind. Yet here she was, here they both were , once more knocking at the door of his life. And it didn’t take a genius to figure he wouldn’t be thinking about it if, on some level, it wasn’t important.
    What was it about this island? He’d only come here to work, to make a simple little movie, for Christ’s sake. Now all hell seemed to be letting loose. As if to emphasize this thought, the loud party erupted into a particularly strident chorus of laughter. Someone rose and, after a remark that caused more mirth, threaded his way toward the interior. His trajectory caused him to pass nearby, and as he did so, Hal’s casual glance became more studied.
    The man was unusually short, hardly more than five feet, but wiry and strong-looking, with proportionately broad shoulders, like a well-dressed acrobat. His face was narrow, sinewy, with a big mouth but thin lips, and eyes of a blue so pale as to be almost colorless.
    White eyes . The term floated into Hal’s mind, not merely as a description but from some remote memory corner. He knew that face . . . and, as he realized that, the small man stopped and stared at him. The white eyes blinked, rolled up, then snapped back into focus. The thin-lipped mouth broke into a grin that was almost wolfish. “Goddamn Hal Bannatyne !” he breathed, Not a question but a brisk statement.
    That did it. Hal recognized the little guy. His name was—wait for it, of course— Vince Smithson —an old buddy from Vic High. “Vince?” he blurted.
    â€œYou know it, man!”
    â€œFor crying out loud!”
    â€œFor crying out louder!”
    â€œWow!”
    â€œWOW!”
    Thereafter at a loss for words, Hal finally said lamely, “You’re looking good.”
    Vince grinned. “And you, buddy! Big shot actor now, eh?”
    â€œI’ve had some success, I guess.”
    â€œAlways the modest bastard. I’ve seen your stuff, man. You’re not only famous. You’re good.”
    Coming from such an old acquaintance, this made Hal feel inordinately pleased. The meeting wasn’t all that remarkable, since the city was small and he’d once known a lot of people there, but it certainly was a surprise, especially after such an odd day.
    â€œThanks,” Hal said. “So . . . what have you been up to?”
    Vince gave that grin again that Hal so well remembered. “More than you might imagine, my