Killing Down the Roman Line Page 20

  It was decided that we should disguise our faces and Michael Keefe reached into the woodstove and scooped out the cinders. We blacked our faces with soot until only our eyes shone. A frightening sight we were, like dark wraiths, and I shudder to recall it now. With our masks in place, I led the men across the snow to the house of our enemies that night, February 4, year of Our Lord 1898.

  We surrounded the house and hailed the Corrigans. I stove the door in and James Corrigan charged at me with an old army pistol. I shot him in the chest with my rifle and he fled out the back where Tom Berryhill skewered him with a pitchfork.

  I shot and killed Michael Corrigan in the parlour room. I killed Mary Corrigan in the kitchen by dashing her skull with her own shillelagh.

  Thomas and John Corrigan were killed by the other men in our group. Bridgette Corrigan was attacked and defiled in one of the upstairs rooms but I had no part in that business so help me God.

  When the awful business was done, we dragged the bodies into the barn and I scattered lamp oil through the hay and set it ablaze with a match.

  In our madness, none of us thought to look for the youngest member of the family, the cub Robert.

  When the deed was done, each man swore themselves to secrecy and we dispersed to our homes. Few of the men kept their tongues, blathering it all to their wives and when the women learn of a secret they none can keep it, even when it means condemning their own husbands.

  To these crimes I confess with an open heart and may the Lord have mercy on my soul;

  Robertson James Hawkshaw

  The Hawkshaw farm,

  Lot 12, the Roman Line

  Pennyluck, Ontario

  23

  “TRAVIS!”

  The barn was dark and humid. Emma stepped through the bay doors and into the pitch, calling out to her son. It shouldn’t be this dark in here. She’d told both Jim and Travis a hundred times to leave one light on for the horse. A hundred times they’d forgotten.

  “Travis? Come on out, honey!”

  She patted the beam until she found the switch and the bulb glowed through a gauze of cobwebs. The stalls, tack room and bay were empty. She crossed to the ladder and hollered up the monk hole to the hayloft. Again, no answer. Emma cursed and went up. The smell of old hay was ripe, the air even hotter. She walked to the open loft door at the far side but there was no Travis, no sign he had even come up here.

  Back down the ladder. The horse woke and swung its head over the stall door. She stroked Smokey’s jowl and spoke softly into her ear. Summer nights, she’d leave the horses in the paddock but the weather report had called for thunderstorms so had brought the animal inside. She whispered goodnight and stepped away. The goat stood with one hoof in its trough, watching her with marbled alien eyes.

  The storage shed was empty, as was the old Chevy rotting on cinderblocks behind it. The door groaned in rusty protest as she pulled it open. Travis used to play in this old hulk. Judging by how badly the door was seized, he hadn’t been in here in a long time.

  Where else would he be? His bicycle was still in the back of the truck when Jim stormed off. Travis would be stuck here unless he decided to walk the six miles back into town. Unlikely, the way Travis shambled and dawdled like an old lady. So where was he? Unless he ran due south and clear into the field, there was simply nowhere else to go. The creek maybe.

  Panicking, she called out again. Screaming his name into the night, to the stars overhead. The wind blew the clover stalks over her shins, the air damp and heavy. She could feel the downpour building, ready to burst. And Travis out there somewhere, caught in it.

  Images flicked through her mind’s eye like a snapping Viewmaster reel, all of them horrid. Travis lying in a ditch, broken and bleeding from being hit by a car. Lost in the dark down near the creek. Fallen in, flailing in the cold water and carried off in the current. She told herself to stop it but her brain wouldn’t shut down.

  A dull patter rose all around her, the dusty driveway darkening in dots of rain. She held out a palm to feel the rain coming down on the heat. Feel it specking her face. With a rising roar it deluged down, forcing her back into the barn. She stood dripping under the eaves and watched the wall of rain pummel everything in sight.

  She needed to call Jim, get him back here to help look for their son. Emma took a breath and darted into the rain for the house. Instantly drenched, the cool rain soaking clean through her shirt, shoes.

  Out there in the drizzling dark, a twinkle of light snagged her eye. She stopped, shielded her eyes against the rain and tried to pinpoint it. Was it Travis out there in the dark? Did he have a flashlight? Stepping back two paces, she retraced her steps until the distant sparkle appeared and held true.

  A pinprick of light in the window of the old Corrigan place.

  ~

  To the revellers in the fair grounds, the rain gave no warning. No patter of scattered drops allowing the unwary to scamper for shelter. It came down in a solid sheet and steamed up from the ground on the first strike. The rabble squealed and ran for the tents, the nearest tree. A riot of honking from the parking lot as every car pulled out at the same time.

  The crowd inside the beer garden had thinned but the downpour drove them back under the tent. The collective body heat and wet hair sweltered the tent into a sauna. To hell with it they said and all went to the bar. The staccato of raindrops on the canvass overhead drowned out all but the hoarsest of voices.

  Bill Berryhill leaned his elbows on a picnic table and watched the rain come down. Felt it well up in the grass under his boots. The whole beer garden would be a mud pit within minutes, everyone churning the wet grass underfoot.

  A hip jostled his back as the tent crowded up and Berryhill turned and shoved the offending asshole away. No one said anything. Bill marked his territory with a clear warning to stay the hell away from him. The look in his eyes was pure murder, settled there since his truck was torched. Without wheels, he’d been forced to either borrow the rustbucket pickup from work or, worse, have Combat Kyle ferry him around. Kyle drove a Corolla, his mother’s car, and it stank of old peppermints and menthols. Dead embarrassing.

  Bill despised Kyle and when the little man returned to the table with four plastic cups, Bill looked at him with contempt. He took a sip and spat. “This piss has gone warm.”

  Kyle swilled his back and nodded in agreement. Bill could have told Kyle that he was a weasel-faced motherfucking faggot and Kyle would have nodded sagely. Six more cups of the warm swill and Bill would do exactly that.

  “Fucking insurance.” Bill gulped down half the cup. “Said they aren’t doing anything until they get the police report about the fire. You believe that shit? You know how long that’s gonna take?”

  Kyle stuck a cigarette between his lips and lit up. He said nothing, staring at the birthday candle flame on the lighter.

  Bill spit into the grass. “I can’t let that piece of shit get away with this. Fucking payback time, man.”

  Kyle perked up at the prospect of something fun. Petty violence and mindless destruction, these were Combat Kyle’s two passions. His skill set.

  “Thing is, it’s gotta be the appropriate response. The message has gotta be clear, the damage painful. This guy’s gotta learn not to fuck with me.”

  Kyle sat up even straighter. If he had a tail, it would have wagged. Eyes alight, Kyle puckered his lips and spoke. “T-t-t-t-t…”

  Bill cocked back his thumb and pointed a finger at him. “Bingo. Torch the fucker’s truck back. Exactly what I was thinking.” Bill downed half of his fresh cup and flung the dregs into the grass. “Let’s get the fuck outta here.”

  ~

  Kate sat on a pew bench in the lobby of the town hall, listening to the rain hit the sidewalk. She’d come back to pick up any messages and flipped through the pink memo paper. Most people had her cell number. These messages were from those who didn’t and there were thirty-two of the damn things.

  Up before sunrise to oversee the start
of the day, she’d gone gangbusters without a break. The pipers and the parade and the speeches and the hoe-downs. The 4-H club bake sale, the Knights of Columbus barbecue and vacation giveaway. The messages in her hand blurred into pink squares. Sixteen hours on her feet and the thought of getting up seemed impossible. Maybe she could just stretch out on the pew and sleep here.

  The racket at the door forced her eyes open. The cadence of footfalls on the marble. Quick and urgent. Trouble. Expecting Charles or Melissa, she was surprised to see Jim. More surprised at the colour of his face. Pale, like he’d donated a few pints of blood.

  “Kate.” His voice was agitated and winded, like he’d ran the whole way. “You have to see this.” He held something in his hand.

  Nothing but a blur to her unfocused retinas. “Can you help me to my car?”

  “You okay?” He stopped, looked her over.

  “Whatever it is will have to wait till tomorrow. Sorry” She gripped the lip of the bench, tried to stand. “Forget my car. Just drive me home. I’m so tired I feel drunk.”

  Kate faltered, he caught her arm. Settled her back onto the pew. “Easy.”

  He sat next to her and Kate closed her eyes. Her arm wrapped around his elbow and held on, like they were at the movies. Something slapped onto her lap, exploding her peace. An old leather folio, its cover cracked and flaking. Yellowed paper slipping from the seams.

  “Read it.”

  Pushing it away. “Tomorrow.”

  “Corrigan was right all along,” he said. “That’s the proof. Signed confessions from the men who committed the murders.”

  “What are you talking about?” She blinked, trying to focus on the thing in her lap.

  He opened the bundle, flipping through the loose pages. Stopping at one, he ran his finger down a list of names. “They did it. Our ancestors killed those people. Just like Corrigan said” His finger tapped the paper. “Yours too. Look.”

  Her eyes took forever to F-stop the cursive script and decipher what it said. Patrick Ferguson Farrell. A heartbeat and then another and then it exploded in her brain.

  “Where did you get this?”

  He told her. About Gallagher and the hole in the wall. The secret hidden in the archives and the ugly thing that now sat in her lap. Kate pushed it away onto the bench.

  “All this time.” He leaned back against the pew. “What are we going to do?”

  Kate rubbed her eyes then shook her head.

  He mistook it for a shrug. “We have to tell him. We have to tell everyone.”

  “No.”

  “We can’t keep this a secret anymore. You have to make it public.”

  She straightened her back. “And tell people what? That their ancestors were murderers?”

  “Jesus, Kate. You want to stay mum about this because someone’s feelings are gonna get hurt?”

  “It’s more than that now.” Kate pointed at the door, as if Corrigan was right outside. “The man’s made claims against a dozen people in town. Their businesses, property.” Shaking her head again. “No. It was a different time back then, different world. You go back far enough, everyone has a guilty past. What good will this do now?”

  It took a moment to register. “You have to make this public. People are ready to lynch this guy. Come clean with this and he’ll be satisfied. Yes, it will be a shock but everyone will deal with it. End this stupid feud now.” He tapped the folio between them. “Do the right thing.”

  “Don’t get righteous with me, Jim,” she said. “It’s bigger than simply right or wrong, for God sakes. People’s livelihoods are at stake. This,” she nodded to the cracked folio, “this will tear the town apart. It’s a bomb.”

  “I don’t believe this.”

  “We have to think it through. That’s all I’m saying.” Her vision swam. “And I’m too tired to think anymore.”

  “Do the right thing. Or I’ll do it for you.”

  He turned and walked out the door, leaving the folio behind.

  Kate pushed the thing further down the pew. It smelled awful.

  ~

  ASSHOLE. LIAR.

  The words gouged deep into the paint with something big. Bigger than a set of keys at least. A screwdriver maybe. The letters tall and fairly straight. Someone had taken their time to do it right, not some passerby scoring paint. They had smashed out the right tail light and driver’s side window too.

  Corrigan had parked his truck well away from the fair ground parking lot for exactly this reason. Not far enough. Someone had spotted it hiding under the maple tree and came calling. The list of suspects was narrow and he was surprised the vandal could spell. Perhaps he had some help.

  He loaded his treasures into the back. The shattered bone bundled into a gingham cloth and tied off, like some hobo’s lunch. Unlatching a side panel, he reached past the bungee cords and jumper cables and slipped out the black nightstick. A police truncheon, solid and lethal. A Paddy whacker, as they used to call it.

  The party had thinned to all but the most earnest of drinkers but the humidity rolling out from under the beer tent hit like a sauna as Corrigan stepped out of the rain. He ducked under the drooping flap and surveyed the tables. Dripping from the rain, the nightstick slick in his hand. The truncheon was an equalizer, him being alone, and a warning to any resident Paddies looking for a fight. The volume dropped a decibel as eyeball after eyeball swung around to see what the fuss was.

  Perfect, he thought, watching every face turn his way. The guilty paint-gouger would, upon seeing him, turn away quickly. No one did and big Bill Berryhill was nowhere among the picnic tables. The faces regarded him and his fuckstick and then drifted back to their conversations. Only one set of eyes lingered and when Corrigan hawked them out, the eyes turned away. Guilty. If not of trashing his truck then of something else.

  The boozers parted before him. Corrigan ordered and leaned against the makeshift rail beside those guilty eyes now shunning him. The bartender slid his plastic cup across and Corrigan drank but said nothing. He simply stared down at the old reprobate until a bead of sweat ran down Gallagher’s leathery neck.

  “Ye want something?”

  “Yes. The cocksucker who keyed my truck.”

  “Wasn’t me.”

  “I didn’t say it was.” Corrigan sipped, soured at the swill in his cup. “But the guilty man still averts his eyes. So tell me, Mister Gallagher, what are you guilty of?”

  Gallagher laughed. “What am I not guilty of is the short answer. Like all of us. You do what you can to abide the rest.”

  “That’s true. But you’ve yet to look me in the eye. Why is that? Some guilty worm of a secret in your petrified little heart. So what is it? Tell me.”

  “Piss off.”

  Corrigan warmed to the cantankerous lecher and leaned in, elbow to elbow. “You know something and it’s written all over that craggy face of yours. So how about I just stare at you until you fess up.”

  Gallagher shooed him away as if he were a mosquito in his ear. “Do us a favour, mister Corrigan. Fuck off back to whatever rock you crawled out from.”

  “This must be a juicy one.” Corrigan flagged the bartender and twirled a finger over their cheap plastic cups. “Whiskey for my friend here! A tall one.”

  Gallagher watched the bartender pour and slide the cup under his nose. Corrigan bounced the nightstick off his knee. “Bottoms up, granddad. I got all night.”

  The old man shuddered. The devil’s punch under his nose, the fiend at his elbow. He was tired. Too bone weary to endure those eyes glaring at him. Who could? His calcified heart muscle banging against his ribs. One, two, three.

  Martin Gallagher lifted the cup and told the devil what he had done.

  24

  RAIN DRUMMED OVER the metal roof of the pickup. Water sluice down the windshield, blurring the world in shimmery distortion. Jim’s clothes were sopped and the rainwater dripping from his hair rinsed away the grimed sweat of his neck.

  He didn’t see the rain, just
the cramped script of the confessions. The illegible cursive signature of his predecessor. The scrawls of the other confessed men, names he knew by their descendants. Friends and enemies, school chums and hockey mates. His family’s prosperity built on a bonepile of ash and blood. Murder and secrecy. Denial and collusion. All those lessons scolded into him by his parents about right and wrong, respect and worth. The same ones he had drilled into his own son. All of it a joke. A house of bricks built over festering swampland.

  It was like that time he almost drowned. Sixteen years old, swimming the creek with friends on a humid July night. Down past the bend where there were no lights, hurtling themselves off the broken pier into the black water. Hitting the river at an odd angle, Jim had plunged and lost his bearings. Nothing but blackness, no lights to guide him back to the surface. Disoriented, he had swum in the wrong direction. Straight down. Panic ulcering his belly and his eyes screaming for help, Jim swallowed half the river before bursting the surface. Sobs masked under the coughing, the night hiding the shame on his cheeks. The other boys laughed at him. The panic was acute, the terror of not knowing which way to swim. Which way was up.

  He had forgotten that sickening feeling but seeing the awful truth written on the old parchment brought it all back. Was he swimming for the surface or clawing his way to the cold bottom?

  Jim shook his head and pulled away from the curb, driving on autopilot into the rain. All he wanted was to get home and see Emma and Travis. They would orient him, show him which way was up.

  He didn’t see the other vehicle until it hit him.

  The sideview mirror lit white. A sudden flash that something was very wrong. The other vehicle smashed the front end and his head knocked against the window. Jim stomped the brakes and the tires locked on the wet pavement. The nose spun one way, the tail end swinging the other way. The pickup hurtled ass first into the gravel.

  White-knuckled on the steering wheel, Jim gasped for air. What had he done? Driving off into the rain, his mind somewhere else like a fucking idiot. Where was the other vehicle?