Act of Evil Read Online Free Page A

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.
    â€œ 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