Killing Down the Roman Line (16 page)

Travis had been a passing target since the sixth grade. He got his fair share when the three stooges noticed him, which wasn’t that often. Travis just wasn’t a kid who stood out. That changed when the stranger showed up and cooked up something called a horrorshow, touring people around his creepy old house with tales of murder and revenge. Brant and the two mouth-breathers took notice of Travis then, sometimes going out of their way to find him in the faces flowing through the halls.

In school, you were assured a few jabs or a hard slam up against the lockers. Sometimes just taunting, loud and cruel enough to make every set of eyes turn and stare. Travis knew the latter to be the worst, all those eyes gawking at you. Bitch slaps and nut taps were nothing compared to that. But that was in school, where certain unstated boundaries of scorn and abuse were observed. Outside of school, well, the only principle that held was ‘
just fucking run’
.

Wednesday afternoons, Travis played basketball with his friend Joel instead of taking the bus home. They’d hang out for two hours then he’d meet his mom at the Farmer’s Co-Op. A regular blip in the schedule for both of them. Crossing Oak Street on the way to the Co-Op, he’d spotted Emmet zip by on his bike. Travis cut through the alley behind the butcher’s to stitch across Galway. A silhouette on a BMX appeared at the end of the alley, circling lazily. Brant, heading him off. Travis turned back.

Emmet and Wyatt pedalled up behind him, cutting off his escape.

The trio circled him on their bikes, called him
faggot
and
loser
and
retard
. Travis wasn’t listening, too busy looking for a breech in their line to make a run for it. There were no windows running either side of the alleyway, no chance anyone would see anything.

Brant skidded to a stop and said something about money but Travis ignored it. All three boys stopped and Travis spotted a gap in their line but then something hit him in the back. He sprawled to the ground, palms skinning the pavement. Travis ignored the heat of the pain and shot to his feet but was already surrounded. Yanked into a headlock and pulled down. His backpack stripped off, punches to the stomach. A nut tap for good measure. He felt his pants yanked down, the word
faggot
hollered over and over. Travis panicked.

What the hell were they doing? He struck out with fists, kicking blind. They stomped harder and Travis coiled up.

Faggot! Homo!

Travis peeked through his fingers and saw Brant wielding a grimy stick. Said he was gonna fuck his faggot ass with it. Travis’s eyes pieballed in disbelief.

This can’t be happening.

Stabbed. Sparks of pain. Tears, hot with shame. Every curse word he’d ever heard, flung out in a spew and repeated.

Then the pain stopped. Their voices, loud and belligerent. Fired at someone else.

“The fuck you want?”

Travis’s eyes swam in tears, the alley a blur. He saw Emmet or Wyatt slapped to the ground by a hulking fog. Brant was snatched next and shaken so hard his head flopped like a snapped chicken. The voice booming in rage. “You filthy little cocksucker! Is this the kind of faggotry you little shit-stains go for?”

Mr. Corrigan’s voice.

Loud as thunderclaps and wrathful as God. Now it was Brant’s turn to kiss the pavement and curl up. Mr. Corrigan raised his boot high and stomped the boy’s chest. Brant screamed and screamed until a boot to the guts shut him up.

Emmet and Wyatt were halfway down the alley, leaving Brant puking onto the pavement. Corrigan snatched the boy by the hair and hauled him clear to his knees. The boy blubbering and the man nigh snarling into his face. “You interfere with my friend again and I’ll send you back to your father in a fucking box, boyo.” He flung the boy away like something soiled and the boy limped bandylegged towards the sunlight of the street.

Travis clawed at his pants, hauling them back up. His hand went to the stinging pain in his behind. Fingers came up bloodied. Eyes rolled white.

All she wrote.

A few slaps to the cheek and Travis’s eyes swam open. Why was Mr. Corrigan leaning over him? It all rushed back with the pain searing through his backside, the thrumming ache in his brain.

“You all right, son?”

Shame followed hot on pain’s tail. He lowered his eyes, looking for some dark hole to crawl into. He couldn’t even sit up, the sting was so bad. Hot tears welled up again and he scolded them back.

Corrigan watched the boy stifle back his tears. Man up. “Who were those boys?”

Travis spat onto the grit. “Cocksuckers.”

“Without a doubt.” Corrigan tapped the boy’s knee. “Hold tight.” He plucked a handkerchief from a pocket and folded it into a tight square. “Take this. Stuff it down your skivvies before the blood seeps your jeans.”

Travis froze up. Bad enough he knew, but this? Stuffing his jockeys with paper. Like a woman on the rag.

“Hurry,” said Corrigan. “No one’s looking.”

Travis took the wad and Corrigan turned away, allowing him privacy.

“Are you gonna tell my parents?”

“Why would I do that? Keep an eye on that, yeah? If it doesn’t scab over in a day, go see a doctor.” Corrigan cocked his chin in the direction Brant had fled. “Those boys? Takes a coward to gang up on someone the way they did. Remember that.”

Travis hitched his jeans back up. His face was still flushed but at least the tears had stopped. “What the hell am I gonna tell my parents?”

“The truth. You got jumped by a pack of cocksucking bastards.” Corrigan rose, knees popping against the strain. “Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

“I can’t. I’m supposed to meet my mom at the Co-op.”

“Then I’ll drop you there. Get up.”

Corrigan didn’t help the boy stand, just waited patiently as he limped down the alley to where Corrigan had parked his truck. They rode in silence, Travis wincing at every pothole. Corrigan wheeled up to the double doors of the Co-Op and Travis cracked his door.

“Hold on.” Mr. Corrigan popped the glovebox and fished around the mess inside. He plucked something and held it out to Travis. “Here, take this.”

A thick wedge of tarnished brass, underpinned with four rings. Brass knuckles, heavy and lethal. Travis tried it on, his fingers small in the ring-hollows.

“Holy shit.” It was all he could think to say.

“Tuck it away out of sight but easy to reach when needed. Next time those little pissants hassle you, slip ‘em on. Do some damage.”

The boy was entranced by the brass weapon. Corrigan shooed him out of the truck. “Go on. Get outta here.”

~

Tom Carswell tapped his papers straight on the desk and tried not to look at the clock. Ten past five. The day just refused to end. He peered out his office door to the bank lobby. Cheryl was searching for her keys. Again. The doors should have been locked already.

Like every closing time, Carswell planned an exit that would avoid Cheryl. The woman loved nothing more than to prattle on at day’s end, an endless stream of petty complaints and grating gossip. But the bank was small and there was simply nowhere to hide. Sometimes, when cornered by Cheryl’s nonstop chatter, Carswell fantasized about locking his hands around her throat and squeezing until her eyeballs popped out blue and bloodshot. Ahh.

A shadow blocked the light in his door.

“Mr. Carswell, you’ve been avoiding me.” William Corrigan leaned on the jamb, casting his eyes over the bank manager’s office.

Where the hell did he come from? Why couldn’t that cow ever lock the door on time?
Carswell sat up straight, forced a smile. “I’m sorry, Mr. Corrigan. We’re extremely busy here but I will get back to you in due time.” He made a show of looking at his watch. “Business hours are closed so—”

“Perfect.” Corrigan helped himself to the chair, stretched his legs out. “Then no one will disturb us.”

“Mr. Corrigan, please. I just don’t have the time right now.” Where the hell was the security guard? What did he pay that fat turd for if he let people wander in past hours?

“This shouldn’t take long. If you’ve listened to my messages or read my request, that is.” Corrigan smiled, knowing almost certain the puffy-faced manager hadn’t. “I need the property assessment on my farm. The last two assessments should be enough to work out a current one.” He cast his eyes over the paperwork crowding the desk. “Let’s have a look.”

“There are no previous assessments, Mr. Corrigan. There hasn’t been one in ten years. More.”

“Why the hell not?”

“The land’s been held in trust since the dinosaur era.” Carswell made a show of looking at his watch, hoping the man would get the hint. “Any hope of selling it was abandoned ages ago.”

“Then give me an estimate on what the assessment would be. A ballpark figure.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Yes you can. What about Hawkshaw’s place next door? What’s Jimmy’s figure?”

“I can’t reveal that information.” Carswell sighed.
Would the man ever go away?
He sure as spit couldn’t take a hint. “Not that you want Jim’s assessment.”

“He’s in a bad way, is he? How much is he in the hole?”

“Mr. Corrigan, you know I can’t discuss that either. Now if you’d—”

“Here, I’ve got a killer idea.” Corrigan leaned forward, reaching into a pocket. “Why don’t you call up Jimmy’s info on your screen there and then go grab us a coffee?” He produced a roll, peeled off four bills and squared them up on the desk. Hundreds. The benign face of Robert Borden looking up at the bank manager.

Carswell blinked at the bills like he didn’t know what they were. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am. I could murder a cup of coffee right now.” Corrigan leaned in, a grin creasing his face. “What is it? You and Jimmy good friends?”

“No. Not at all.”

Corrigan laid another bill atop the others and pushed them forward. All in. “Go on, Mr. Carswell. All I need is a peek.”

The clock ticked. Carswell wanted to go home. His eyes went to the lobby. It was empty. He tapped a few strokes on the keyboard and then rose from the chair. “Would you excuse me for a moment?”

He crossed to the lobby to make sure the front door was locked.

15

PUDDYCOMBE SLOTTED HIS Cherokee into the spot behind the pub and scanned the parking lot. Two vehicles left overnight. Ryder’s pickup and Murdy’s Subaru. Both men showing enough sense to leave their vehicles here and catch a ride home. The mess wasn’t too bad either, a few beer bottles and a rock glass perched on the picnic table.

Into the gloom of the bar and the familiar tang of spilled beer and deep fryer. The trays of lime wedges had been left out to spoil. Again. Leaving his keys on the bar, he crossed the room and propped open the front door to air the place out.

The sun was slanting over the storefronts on the north side of Galway Road, steaming off the dew. The strip had been transformed for the festival, turned out in bright colours and fresh flowers. New flowerpots adorned the sidewalks, overflowing with lilies and asters. More wildflowers swayed from hangers, orange milkweed and purple bellflower. Suspended over the street was an enormous banner, crinkling in the breeze as it welcomed all to the Pennyluck Heritage Festival.

Kate’s crews had gone all out for this shindig and he was glad for it. A weekend of tourists strolling downtown and filling up his tables inside, spilling out into the back patio. A much welcome shot in the arm to the slumping summer sales. When Kate had first initiated her plan for the festival, Puddy had lobbied hard to get it approved. Why the town council fought it at first was beyond him. Stupid old farts.

The morning’s mess outside the front door wasn’t too bad. Two pint glasses and a champagne flute left on the window sill. Who the hell was drinking champagne last night?

“Morning.” Jenny Malone, his mail carrier, came speedwalking up behind him, two heavy bags balanced under a harness on her shoulders. He never understood the speedwalking thing, to him it always looked like someone hurrying to find a bathroom.

“Hi Jenny. Running late today?”

“Got held up at Mrs. Ferrera’s.” Her face pink, cheeks blowing. “You know how she likes to chitchat.” She handed over a wad of envelopes and pointed to the new flowerpots. “Don’t you love all those hydrangeas?”

“Why do you bring me this stuff, Jenny? It’s all bad news.”

“Not all of it.” She picked out a sliver of junk mail, held it up. Sweepstakes. “You may already be a winner.” She waved goodbye and speedwalked away, her bum cheeks pistoning up and down.

A flyer was folded over the stack of envelopes. A photocopied handbill, bold print over a photo of a familiar looking house. Puddycombe damn near dropped his coffee as he read the details.

The Corrigan Horrorshow

Historical tours and Attractions

Come celebrate the Heritage Festival of Pennyluck in true historical fashion. Proprietor William Corrigan invites you to a special tour of the ancestral Corrigan home to uncover the bloody secrets behind the 1898 massacre of the Corrigan clan in all its horrific detail. Discover the details behind this heinous act and learn the names of the murderers within your midst.

Learn the true heritage of our bucolic little community!

He balled up the flyer and pitched it into the nearest bin.

~

The paint on the bandstand was still tacky. Situated in the fair grounds off Newcastle Road, the bandstand teetered in its dry rot frame and bent railings. Not a line of timber standing plumb. What it needed was to be bulldozed and built from the ground up but Kate had neither the budget nor the time for that. She stepped back, taking in the glossy white and trim of picnic table red. A fresh coat of paint would have to do. The heritage festival that she had initiated two years ago and steered past one pitfall after another was finally here.

The kickoff event was a marching band, the Black Guard Pipes from nearby Prescott, starting at the war memorial on the eastern entrance to town. The bagpipers would lead the parade over the bridge, down Galway then south onto Newcastle and conclude here at the bandstand in the old fair grounds. It was going to be glorious.