Act of Evil Read Online Free Page B

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