Sir, I know this is going to sound like a lie, and I don’t mean for it to, but I don’t know how else to tell what happened. For just a tick, everything froze still, like we was all in a photograph portrait. There was Charlie standing square off on the sidewalk with that A.H. Fox planted against his shoulder. He was leaning forward on one foot, leaning in like he knew how that thing was going to kick when he fired both barrels. There’s a little drop of sweat shining on his left temple and his newsboy was pushed back on his head. Seemed like a whole minute I watched that bead of sweat move down his temple, but that couldn’t have been, could it? Bill Hanks, he’s standing on one step with his left foot and his right foot ain’t reached that next step down yet, like he’s frozen in mid-air, like that shoe ain’t never going to touch that granite. As it turns out, it never did. Bill, his eyes are locked on the end of that scatter-gun. He sees it now, the last thing he’ll ever see, not talking anymore, not hearing what that other feller started to say. And right then, like I said, everything is locked still. Seems like there’s nothing else in the world ‘cept Charlie fixing to pull both them triggers and Bill looking into them barrels like tunnels and me just watching the two of them.
Well then, everything started up extra fast. Charlie pulled them triggers and everything goes from frozen in time to happening all at once. Bill’s right foot never did reach that granite step. They’s a roar like the gates of hell opening up, all noise and smoke and fire. Them two loads of buckshot caught Bill right in the center of his chest and threw him back up the stairs. Old Bill lands in a heap two stairs up from where them other fellas was. The smoke from the end of that shotgun is rolling up the stairs while the recoil is rocking Charlie back on his heel. Nobody seemed to have noticed Charlie before, nobody but me and him and Bill Hanks. Now everyone sees Charlie, all the Sunday folks on their way to services, the two fellas splattered with Bill Hanks’ blood, everyone except Bill Hanks hisself. He don’t see nothing and never will again. He’s a’laying on that granite like a big ole rag doll, blood already started to run down over them stone stairs. I never reckoned there was that much blood in a man, but there it was, sunlight shining down into it. The women on their way to church were screaming at all that blood while their menfolk stepped in front of them or tried to turn them back.
Like I said, everything is happening at once. Charlie, he starts clawing at that shotgun, breaking it down and trying to fish them two hot shells out of the breach. I believe he was trying to reload that thing, but he never got it done. While he’s scrabbling at them shells, he’s screaming at the folks round about. I killed him, says he, I killed him and I’m crazy. I’ll kill anyone who talks to me like that. I’ll kill the rest of you if you try to stop me. Charlie weren’t quiet no more, he was ranting like a lunatic, swinging around in a circle right there on the sidewalk, like he was trying to talk to each and every one of them people backpedaling away from him and all that blood. He was spinning around to face them folks, trying to yell at them and reload that shotgun at the same time. ‘Course, you know what happened then. Them two fellas on the stairs ran down on Charlie when he turned away. A couple of them churchmen, they saw that and jumped on Charlie from the front. That shotgun goes clattering to the sidewalk and some other fella grabs it up. Charlie, he’s not shouting anymore. It was like someone hit him with a sap, even though I never saw those men do nothing more than grab him. Once they laid hands on him, he just slumped like a sack of corn, like all the life was gone out of him.
No Sir, after that I didn’t see Charlie no more, not really. Those men marched him off towards the jail at the same time the officer on duty was marching down. They met right there in the middle of Main Street. There was some sort of palaver and then they all headed off back towards the jailhouse, that man toting the shotgun walking behind them. I could see Charlie’s legs stumbling along in the middle to them others as they sort of half-carried and half-dragged him off. No Sir, I hadn’t taken a single step. It was like I was rooted to that spot on the sidewalk. Never moved the whole time. Hell, I hadn’t even lit my cigarette. It was just dangling there in my hand.
After those fellas drug Charlie off, folks just started doing things. One of the clerks from the hotel came out and covered up Bill Hanks, covered him up with one of those fancy afghans what are draped over the davenports in the lobby. There he was, the shape of him, under that afghan, his blood still running out from underneath. Now some folks on the sidewalk, the menfolk, they started moving their women away from that mess. Other folks pressed in for a closer look. Me, I just stood there planted, like I said. Odd thing was, when them folks pushing forward got a good look, they started pushing back again real quick-like, bumping into other folks pressing forward. It looked like cows milling about in a pen when something’s troubling them, like when cows get all wide-eyed and scared at some new thing they don’t know. You’ve seen that, haven’t you Sir?
It was Mr. James come out and put people to doing things, taking charge of everyone. Yes Sir, Mr. James runs the hotel, him being the day manager. He set to telling people what to do. First, he tells them folks to back away onto the sidewalk and make some room. With that big black frock coat and them old fashioned side whiskers, Mr. James cuts a pretty big picture at the top of them stairs, standing over Bill Hanks’ body. He’s got a voice like a preacher and he’s used to telling folks what to do, so they generally do it. This weren’t no different, even if there was a dead man at his feet. Mr. James says you folks move on back now and they move on back. Mr. James turns to one of the hotel clerks and tells him to go telephone the county sheriff and that fella disappears back into the lobby. Then he kneels down, slow as a deacon, and lifts the corner of that afghan. He must be looking at Bill Hanks’ face, but I can’t see it from where I am. Mr. James, he gives that big head of his one shake, just one, then real slowly he lets that afghan rest back down.
The next thing I heard was that big ole voice saying did anyone see this happen and then some of them church-goers was pointing at me. There, him, that young fella saw it all. Mr. James was looking down on me like a preacher from the pulpit, standing there at the top of them granite steps. Is that true son, he says, did you see all of this happen? I just nod my head and say Yessir. You had better stay here son, says he. I believe the sheriff will want to speak to you. He should be here directly. Yessir I say again, and I’m still rooted to that same spot. Mr. James sets a couple of the bellhops to guarding the body, them standing there in their bellhop jackets in the Sunday morning light. Folks are milling about on the sidewalk, not knowing what to do. Those two bellhops are trying to look serious, but they’re just scared kids that never seen a body before, much less a bloody corpse like that. I can see the town constable making his way back towards the hotel from the jail, working at straightening his uniform jacket while he’s marching down the middle of Main Street. Them two fellas what were on the steps are walking quick behind him, all three of them making a beeline for the hotel. I guess them other fellas stayed to guard poor Charlie.
No Sir, there’s not much more to tell about that part of it. The constable looks things over and then walks up the edge of the stairs real careful, so as not to step in any of Bill’s blood. He commences to talking with Mr. James, their heads all leaned in close together so no one can hear them. The constable, he nods his head at something Mr. James says, then straightens up and turns to face the rest of us gathered in a little knot. You men take that young fellow around back and wait with him in Mr. James’ office, says he. Next thing I know, one of them fellas has me by the elbow, guiding me around to the back door of the hotel and inside. Lots of other things happened, of course, but I was inside waiting with them fellas. They never said a word, either one of them. And now here I am Sir, talking to you.
Quinn closed the laptop and slipped it into a messenger bag. He sat upright on the couch, sipping at the last of his coffee without noticing it had gone cold. What the hell was this story Susan had sent him? Was this Charlie Boyd some long los
t skeleton from the family closet? Today may be a lot more interesting than you had planned, he thought. He checked his phone for the time, heaving himself upright from the couch. Okay, out into the big wet world we go.
Chapter 3
Susan
Susan’s driveway was wider than the street Quinn lived on. Through the rain-streaked windshield, Quinn eyed the flagstone walkway climbing through sculpted Japanese maples. Was there some law or covenant that mandated at least two Japanese maples for each West Hills home? Quinn sighed and grabbed his grubby messenger bag off the passenger seat. On the drive over, he had felt ready to tackle anything. Now the rain beat a tattoo on the roof of his car and he was seriously considering a retreat back to Portland. Quinn ran a hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. No good writer retreats. You better get in there Bub, you gotta job to do. He pushed open the car door and felt the rain splatter in.
“This is just so exciting!”
Quinn looked across the table at his sister, her little-kid grin beaming back at him. He wondered if she had ever had a bad day in her life. Yeah, you know about the bad days, but they just wash right off of you don’t they Sis? The same history, the same hurts, and yet she almost glowed with light. How could anyone be that happy? It wasn’t natural.
“Do I get a byline, or whatever it’s called? What magazine is this for? I can’t wait to show you all of the new information I’ve found. It’s pretty amazing.” If she wasn’t actually bouncing in her chair, Quinn imagined that she was.
Through the huge window, Quinn could see the fir and hemlock clinging to the west slope of the suburban hills. A steady rain washed the landscape, spilling over the split level homes sandwiched along curving lanes and cul-de-sacs. The suburbs made Quinn uneasy, especially up here in the hills. An urban being through and through, the predictable pattern of the city calmed him, the regular streets and avenues making sense of his world. Leaving the grid of Portland made him nervous, particularly any route that took him through the US 26 tunnel under the hills. The Other Side, that’s how he thought of it. Yet here he was, being assaulted by Susan’s perfect teeth and a table full of little snack plates right out of some foodie magazine.
“Easy Sis, okay? No byline because that’s what newspaper writers get and this is for a magazine. I can’t tell you what magazine it’s for until the article is accepted, but it’s a famous one that you know. And before we get into specific stuff, I want to ask you about the general process, how you started doing this, what you hope to get out of it, that sort of thing.”
“Sure Big Brother, you’re the writer. Here, try one of these figs with goat cheese, they’re to die for.” Susan pushed a small fiestaware plate towards him. Black wrinkled pods oozed whitish goo onto the purple ceramic. Quinn popped one of the things into his mouth to be polite. He was surprised at how good they were. He grabbed another one off the plate, stuffing it in his mouth. Okay, let’s focus on what we need to do here.
“Told you they were good. So what do you want to know about the genealogy work?”
“Right. Do you mind if I tape this?” Without waiting for an answer, Quinn placed a small MP3 recorder on the table and pressed a tiny button. “Genealogy interview number one. Okay, ready to go. What got you started on this research kick? And what were you hoping to get out of it?”
Susan leaned back with her coffee cup, sipping from it as the steam rose around her perfectly coiffed hair. She settled the cup on the table and a more serious look passed over her face.
“It really started with Grandpa Boyd, I guess. You remember when I got shipped off to live with them for awhile, one of the times when things got really sticky? Well, I spent most of that summer with Grandma and Grandpa out in Bend. It was fun being out there, even though I missed all of my friends. I was thirteen, so I should have spent the summer hanging out with my girlfriends, but that didn’t happen. Instead, I was puttering around that old house with Grandma and Grandpa, helping them out with stuff, working in the garden, getting lots of sun. That part was nice. And I met a few girls over there to hang out with, so it wasn’t too bad. Gramps was pretty understanding about all of the stuff that was going on. He and Grandma pretended that this was just a great summer holiday instead of a way to keep me out of all that mess at home. I mean, they knew about it all, or most of it I guess. But they pretended that everything was just hunky-dory, you know? It was weird in one way and really comforting in another. Like they were my little island of normal.”
“Yeah, an island of normal. It was good that you could have that. I remember that year. That was a bad one.” Quinn felt the twinge of anger and tried to push it away. Ghost fingers traced their way across the nape of his neck. He shook them off like an imagined spider. “So, Grandpa Boyd?”
“The old man loved to tell stories about the family. You remember how in our house no one ever said anything about the past, like it was a locked door? Grandpa was exactly the opposite. We would sit out on the porch in the evening, the three of us, and he would tell all these stories about the family history. Fascinating stuff. The old folks back in Ireland, the potato famine and how that caused the great migration of the Irish, all sorts of stuff. I guess that’s when I got hooked, but I never was able to do anything with it. Mention any of that around the house and the door slammed shut, remember?”
“All too well Susan, all too well.” The sound of shouting and slamming doors resonated in some far corner of Quinn’s brain.
“Well, water underneath the bridge, right? But twenty years later, hey, I got my chance. A friend of mine at yoga class told me about tracing her family history. I was really interested in it and I guess she was flattered by all of my questions. We started meeting up for coffee and she showed me the different internet sites for research, helped me set up a basic family tree. In a few weeks I was off and running. It was easy at first. There are census reports online, other people tracing the same family tree, lots of folks sharing hints and messaging each other. Brian got a little sick of it, said I was being obsessive. But the thing is, knowing a little about your roots makes you want to know more. I mean, this story is not just numbers and dates and random people. These are our blood kin. I started setting out a research schedule during the daytime, when Brian was at the bank and the kids were at school. I worked two hours a day and I was making serious progress. I found out that a lot of the stories that Grandpa Boyd told me were true. I also found out that he covered up some things and was just flat wrong about other stuff.”
“Like what? Can you give me an example?”
“Sure. The census reports and birth records don’t lie, but people do. One thing I found out is that our great-grandmother, Grandpa Boyd’s mom, was older than her husband. It was a much bigger deal back then, so she lied about her age, not by much, but enough to make herself one year younger than her husband. I don’t think her husband ever knew about it.”
“So you became a bit of a historical detective, is that it?”
“Exactly. Little bits of information like that are the jewels that keep the research interesting. Everyone wants to find family ties to a president, or royalty, stuff like that. I get that, but what really makes it interesting for me is finding the dirt.”
“Wow, I am so busted.” Quinn leaned back in his chair, shaking his head.
“What do you mean?” Susan searched her brother’s face while his guard was down. It was so rare to see him, much rarer to see him open up. For the briefest of moments, she could see past the tattoo sleeves on his arms, his rumpled black hoodie, the mop of sandy hair that defied any attempt at control. Tribal armor to protect him from the world and from the past. There was a shining glimpse of her hero, the Big Brother who protected her. Then Quinn was speaking again.
“Well, I have to admit that I’m struggling with this assignment. I figured I would just have to write about a bunch of people combing their family history for the good stuff, you know? Like you said, presidents and royalty. I built up a preconceived notion which is
something a good writer can never do. So you busted me. Mea Culpa. That stuff you sent me about that kid, Charlie Boyd, that was amazing. And we are related to this guy?”
Susan beamed a smile at him. “Well, I guess that means I have an opportunity to keep you honest. Lucky me. And we are most certainly related to our good Charlie Boyd. Speaking of keeping you honest, when are you going to bring Sonya over here for dinner? You know I’d love nothing more than some girl time with that catch of yours. She really is too good for you, you know that, right?” There was a gleam in Susan’s eye, a gleam that translated for Quinn into ‘Join Us, Join Us.’
“Yeah, and where would that leave me? Talking stocks with Brian?” Despite himself, Quinn grimaced at the thought.
“Look, I know Brian is not exactly your cup of tea, but we’re family, right? Think about it. It’s an open invitation.”
“Okay, thanks. Back to the research. I’m interested in this angle about finding the dirt, as you call it. What else have you found out about this? Anything shocking? More stuff like this Charlie character?”
“As a matter of fact Big Brother, I’ve found some serious dirt, but one story at a time.” Susan popped open her laptop and began tapping at the keyboard. Her French-polish nails made distinct clicking noises as she worked. She pushed her chair next to Quinn’s and slid the laptop in front of him. “Here it is. Take a look at this.”
“Hmmm. What am I looking at here? Charles Boyd. I take it these are the particulars about him?” Quinn glanced from the screen to Susan, waiting for guidance.
“Exactly. This is the full bio on Charles Boyd, everything I have been able to find out about him. And see up here above his data? Those are his parents, along with a snapshot view of where he fits in the immediate family tree. Watch this.” Susan tapped the mouse pad and the screen changed to a grid of squares and arrows. “There, see that? That’s the larger section of the family tree that Charlie Boyd fits into. Cool, huh?”
Blood Rust Chains Page 2
