16
THE WINDOWS WERE gone dark in the old house as the pickup trundled up the rutted track. Jim wheeled up before the house and studied the landscape. Dusk, the sunlight burning off behind the treeline. No movement in the windows of the house, no truck parked in the grass. Jim had stewed his guts all afternoon about what he was going to say to Corrigan, rehearsing in his head how the conversation would play out. And now this, the son of a bitch wasn’t even home.
Maybe he’d wait for him to get back, just set there on the veranda like a tax collector waiting on the man. He sure as hell didn’t want to stew over this till tomorrow. He went up the broken steps, banged on the door.
“Will?”
No answer. The door rattled and creaked open. He pushed it back all the way then stepped over the doorsill. “Corrigan, you home? It’s Jim.”
Nothing. Jim ventured in, looking the room over. The walls stripped to the post and beam, the rack of stag antlers over the limestone fireplace. A gun lay on the mantel, the double-barrelled Winchester Corrigan had fired to kick off his first tour. Broken at the hinge, the twin bores empty.
Pushed into a corner, a fragile looking stool under a rolltop desk. Lousy with papers and documents. Pens, a compass and a pearl handled jackknife. Jim sifted through the paperwork, glancing over his shoulder to ensure the room was empty.
A big square of onionskin paper settled atop the mess, showing a finely hewed tree with names and dates spotting the branches. A family tree tracing the Corrigan clan back to the 1850’s, the trail ending with their Irish homeland of Tipperary. James Corrigan, the patriarch. The same man who wound up in prison five years after coming to Canada for killing a man at a drunken logging bee.
Jim pushed it aside and leafed through more pages. He lifted loose a page of names, listed in no particular order. Every name was someone he knew. McGrath, Farrell, Keefe, Berryhill, Puddycombe.
He blinked at the last name on the list. Hawkshaw.
“Looking for something?”
Jim flinched and dropped the paper, spun around. Corrigan stood at the top of the stairs.
“Hey,” Jim said, easing the rattle from his nerves. “I called out. Didn’t see you.”
Corrigan stomped down the stairs. “So you thought, ‘what the hell I’ll just snoop around’.”
Busted. “Sorry.”
“Look at your face. Gave you a good spook, didn’t I?” Corrigan went to the sideboard, took up the bottle standing there. “Want a drink?”
“No thanks.”
“Don’t be a pilgrim,” he said but Jim waved off the drink. Corrigan looked him up and down, scrutinizing him. Jim tried for nonchalance. Missed by a country mile. Corrigan’s mouth tilting up into that grin again. “What’s on your mind?”
“Business.”
An eyebrow went up. “What kind of business?”
“Land,” Jim said. “I want to buy your farm.”
A flash of genuine surprise sparked Corrigan’s eyes. “Did some dipshit realtor plant their sign in my lawn?” He leaned toward the front window, then back to Jim. “It’s not for sale.”
“Everything’s for sale. I’ll give you twenty percent above what it was listed for.”
“Twenty percent? My lucky day!” Corrigan mocked up a look of shock. “Why would I want to sell, Jimmy? I love it here.”
“Knock it off.” Jim shrugged off the man’s antics. “You said yourself you wanted restitution. Well, here it is.”
“I see. So the township has acknowledged its collective guilt and sent you as envoy? Is that it?”
The mockery needled under Jim’s skin like a bur. Play it cool. “No. I just want to keep the peace. You don’t fit in here, we both know that. I want your land. The math is easy.”
Corrigan’s grin fell away. He was about to speak but Jim raised a hand for him to wait. “There’s one condition. You have to move out of Pennyluck. For good.”
The man tilted his head like a dog at a puzzling sound. “Well, that is a generous offer.”
“So? Do we have a deal?”
The man teetered on his heels for a moment, then stepped forward and extended his hand to shake. Smiling.
Surprised, to say the least. Jim returned the smile and shook Corrigan’s hand. Easy peasy. “Good.”
Corrigan’s grip crushed his fingers, trying to snap bone. “You trying to fuck me, Jim?” He yanked Jim closer. “Who put you up to this? That bitch Kate?”
Jim snapped his hand away. “What? No. I just want to buy your land.” He flexed his crushed fingers. The man was stronger than he looked. “You’ve made a lot of enemies. Best thing for everyone is if you moved on. Before someone gets hurt.” He rued that last bit. It rang too much like a threat, a gut reaction to having his hand crushed.
Something shifted in Corrigan, his face dropping to a glower. “You want to get rid of me, is that it? Just like you got rid of my family?”
Jim backed off. What the hell is he talking about? “I didn’t do anything to your family.”
Corrigan turned his back on him, poured another drink. “You’re a terrible liar. “
Jim waited, unsure of how to play it now. This wasn’t how he’d rehearsed it in his head.
Corrigan took his drink to the fireplace, looking down into the cold hearth. An elbow on the mantel, fingers inches from the shotgun. “You can’t buy me out. You’re up to your eyeballs in debt.”
Jim looked like he’d been bucketed with cold water. Pleased, Corrigan went on. “I’ve done a little snooping of my own. I know you tried to buy this property in the past but couldn’t meet the ticket. And yet voila, here you are offering more than that if I agree to pack up and piss off.”
Jim scrambled his brains for something to say. Anything.
“I’ve been thinking about the future too, Jimmy.” Corrigan drummed his fingers on the mantel. “I think what this place needs is more land, more acreage. Your land, in fact.”
It sounded like a bad joke. Jim didn’t laugh. “I’m not for sale.”
“Everything is for sale, Jimbo. Your words.” A finger extended from the hand clutching the tumbler, aimed square at Jim. “And you will be for sale too when I get through suing you.”
This time Jim did laugh. “Suing me? For what?”
“Trespassing for one. Theft of property, squatting. Whatever else I can think of.” He drained his glass, set it on the mantel. “Do you have any idea how crippling lawsuits can be? Even in this backwater. You’ll be drowning in debt inside of six months. And that, Mr. Hawkshaw, is when I’ll snatch your farm out from under you.”
Jim wanted to hurl something at him. A chair or a grenade. “You’re crazy.”
Corrigan stepped toward him, his voice notching up decibels. “I’ll make an offer to the bank for your farm. Assume its debt. Pay the back taxes, talk to your creditors. Do you think they’ll say no to me?”
Ice crawled his marrow. Jim stepped back until his heel thumped the baseboard.
Corrigan kept coming. “I will own your land outright. But don’t worry. I’ll need someone to work the acreage. You’re gonna work for me, Jimbo.”
Jim spat on the man’s floor. He thought of his father, spinning crazily in his grave. “Never gonna happen. I know these people, Corrigan. They’d never do that to me.”
“Money brings out the worst in people. Every time. And nothing stands in its way. Loyalty, friendship, blood.” The perverse grin was back, all bitters and sting. “I’ve already spoken to the bank. They were very receptive to the idea.”
The room was doing flip flops. Jim steered for the door before he fell over. “You’re out of your fucking mind. It’ll be a cold day in Hell before you take my land.”
His boots rang off the veranda, pounding down the brittle steps. Corrigan chased him out the door, stood on his porch and hollered after him. “Then put your mittens on Jimmy! Because it’s going to get mighty cold!”
~
Travis woke up with a plan boiling in his head. He also w
oke up tenting the sheets but that was neither unique nor noteworthy. Having gone to bed with a gutful of problems only to have a solution come to him by morning? Well, that was new. He eased out of bed stiffly and slipped a hand down the back of his pajamas. Peeled away the tissue paper he’d packed in. A little dried blood but that was all, the bleeding having finally stopped. It hurt to sit down or even walk. Anything beyond that, playing basketball or riding his bike, was not only out of the question but required artful lying to keep secret the awful truth.
The real problem was the other people who knew. Brant, Wyatt and Emmet knew the truth. Four people, if he counted Mr. Corrigan. Would Brant and his douchesticks brag about beating him up? That he could deal with but the other thing, being raped with a stick? That would scar for life, a mark that would never wash away in a place like this. He’d be branded a fag and that tag would never go away. Not here, not in this town.
The dilemma was whether or not Brant would say anything. He had done the deed. Wouldn’t Brant mark himself as a homo if he bragged about what he’d done? Emmet and Wyatt he didn’t have to worry about. Those dickless shits wouldn’t breathe without Brant’s say so. That left two outcomes. Brant would keep his trap shut out of fear of being labelled a fag too. But if he did try to humiliate him about being raped in the ass with a stick, he could simply turn the tables and publicly accuse Brant of being a fucking homo for doing such a thing in the first place. He could also double-up the scorn by revealing how Brant had gotten his ass kicked by Mr. Corrigan and ran home crying like a motherfucking baby.
Travis got dressed. Slowly, wincing as he bent to slip his pants on. Wadding up more toilet paper and stuffing it down there just in case. There was one other problem and it burned an ulcer into his guts.
Brenna.
If she found out what had happened, she’d never even look at him again much less speak to him. Even she’d think he was a homo.
The plan. The one that had come to him in that foggy space before waking up. A plan that would not only cut short the dilemma but put an end to Brant the ass-raping bastard forever.
He flipped the latches on the old footlocker at the foot of his bed. A scuffed and dented army surplus job his dad had given him for his tenth birthday. The lid threw back and he dug around the comic books and old action figures and stray firecrackers. His fingers wrapped around the prize and dug it loose from where he’d buried it.
The brass was dull and the sockets too big for his fingers but when he clenched his hand, the brass knuckles looked absolutely lethal on his fist.
~
Emma held her fingers under the tap, waiting for the water to run cold before filling the coffee carafe. The coffee was usually brewed when she got up but this morning she found the carafe still in the dishrack from last night’s washing.
Something wasn’t right. She’d woken from a dead sleep, alarmed by a noise. She checked the clock and heard someone retching into the toilet. Thinking it was Travis, she shot out of bed and pushed the bathroom door open to find Jim doubled over the john. She wanted to help but he waved her away. Said he’d eaten something bad and he’d be fine once it was out of his system. Go back to bed.
That in itself should have alarmed her but she was so damn exhausted. They were polar opposites when it came to being ill. Jim moaned and cursed and wanted to be taken care of when puking his guts up. Like a man. Emma was the other way. She hated being sick but worse than that was anyone fussing over when she was ill. Just leave me alone to dryheave in peace. Please.
Overtired from a disrupted sleep, she didn’t think anything of last night’s weirdness until she noticed the absent aroma of fresh brewed joe. Something wasn’t right.
Then the sound of boots clomping the boards outside the backdoor. Jim swung inside and crossed to the sink with barely a nod.
“Good God,” she said. His face as pale as a fish belly, slick with a film of sweat. “Are you all right?”
“Bad night’s sleep, that’s all.” He snatched up the cordless phone from the wall hook, glanced at her. “Sorry about the coffee.”
“You look like hell,” she said. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He dodged her attempt to feel his brow. “Just tired. Gotta make a call.” He waved the phone, like that would dispel anymore questions and spun through into the parlour. Banged off the doorframe like a drunk and tottered away.
She made coffee and heard Travis stomp down the steps. Heels slamming the boards like he was trying to smash them. “Good morning.”
“Yeah.” Travis scrounged up a bowl, the Cap’n Crunch, milk. Slid slowly into his chair like Frankenstein, all stiff-backed. Yet his knee bounced nonstop under the table and his face looked bright. Alert.
“What’s going on, T? You look like you got big news.”
He grunted. Unintelligible through the munching but clearly in the negative.
“You seeing that girl today?” Emma smiled slyly. “What’s her name again, Bree?”
Travis shrugged and munched. Knee still bouncing, keyed up over some damn thing or other.
She set a glass of orange juice next to his bowl. “Fine. Keep your damn secrets.”
Jim stood in the parlour window mashing his thumb into the keys, unable to dial. His hands were shaking. He hadn’t slept, stewing about Corrigan’s threats until he finally tossed it all up. He got the number pads to work and a woman’s voice answered after one ring. He asked to speak to Perry.
Perry Keller, barrister and solicitor, kept offices in Exford. He’d been Jim’s lawyer forever.
“Jim.” Perry’s voice ringing tinny down the line. “How are you, son?”
“Okay. I guess. You got a minute?”
“Always. What’s on your mind?”
Jim kept it brief, updating Perry about Corrigan and the stink he’d caused since appearing in their lives like a festering tumour. Perry had heard about Mr. Corrigan, even seen him on the news but was surprised to learn the extent of the man’s claims. The brief news report made him sound like a crank.
Jim told him everything, giving him a rapidfire confessional. About breeching the old fence and plowing Corrigan’s property, the handshake agreement he’d made with his new neighbour and now Corrigan’s about face and threatened lawsuits. He caught his breath after the spew. “Can he do that? Steal the farm out from under me?”
Perry sighed. “It’s possible. Do you think he’s serious or was it just bluster?”
“Hard to tell. The man’s unpredictable.”
“Jeez,” the lawyer hummed again. “Trespassing, theft, intent to injure. That’s serious stuff. A legal fight like this would get nasty.”
“And expensive,” Jim added.
“That too. Which is clearly part of his strategy. Is this Corrigan a rich fella?”
“He seems to be. Don’t ask me how.” Noise rustled from the kitchen. Jim clocked a glance at the doorway and lowered his voice. “The son of a bitch wants my land.”
“What does Emma have to say about all this?”
“I haven’t told her yet. Not until—”
“Told me what?”
Jim froze. Emma stood in the doorway, dishtowel in hand. “What haven’t you told me?”
“Hang on.” He crooked the phone to his neck. “What is it, honey?”
She gave him an odd look. “Did you eat?”
“No. I’m not hungry. But thanks.”
Emma lingered, an odd look in her eye like she was waiting for more from him. Her expression shifted from concern to suspicion. He said nothing. She retreated back into the kitchen. There’d be hell to pay later.
“You there?” Perry breaking in.
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“Listen, call me if anything happens. This guy sounds like a hothead so it’s probably just bluster. But if you get handed the papers, call.”
Jim thanked him and ended the call. Back into the kitchen. Travis slurping the dregs of the bowl. Emma nodded at the phone in his hand. “Was that Perry?”
<
br /> “Yeah. Uh, he says hello.”
“What did he want?”
The look in her eye meant business and Jim’s guts protested against lying to her but he couldn’t go into it now. “Just some questions I had.”
“Oh?” That awful suspicion flared back into her eyes. “About what?”
More lies, adding to the heap. “Busting the old fence and tilling Corrigan’s property. Wanted to know if I was in any legal jam there.”
“I see.” Her eyes cast away but Jim caught the dismay in them. The catch of a lie. Torture. Lying over an affair would have been easier.
She poured a cup, blew on it. “What did Perry say?”
“He said not to worry about it.”
Her expression softened. His bullshit was close enough to the truth that they could both ease off. Let the lie pass and move on for now. For now.
Travis grabbed the cereal box for a second bowl and Jim saw an opening to change the subject. He snatched the box from his son’s hand. “Put that away. Who wants breakfast in town?”
Emma stopped, the cup halfway to her lips. More weirdness. “What for?”
“Got some business to take care of.” He slid behind her and tapped her ass with a playful slap. “Get your shoes on. I’ll be outside.”
17
EMMA SPOONED SUGAR into her coffee and looked over the faces in the diner. Hitchens and McGrath hunkered down at the counter while John Connelly, Phil Carroll and Pat Ryder sat at a fourtop in the center. A few other faces she knew enough to nod a polite hello to. Tom, slinging hash over the grill.
Travis slumped on the benchseat across the booth from her. Nose buried in a dog-eared graphic novel. He hadn’t said a word since they left the house.
“What’cha reading?”
He held up the book in response. An ominous figure in a skull T-shirt, automatic pistols filling both hands. The Punisher.
“Mmm,” she said. “Is it good?”
Travis shrugged and kept reading. The mysterious bruise on his cheek had lost some of its purpling. He’d been withdrawn and sullen for the last two days, grunting that he was fine when she asked if he was feeling okay. She left it at that, knowing he’d withdraw further if pressed. The teenage years, she told herself. All moodiness and sullen silences.
Killing Down the Roman Line Page 14
