Killing Down the Roman Line (28 page)

“My eyes have been opened. I finally see you people for what you are.” He ran the faucet and splashed cold water over his face.

Emma lingered in the doorway. She was used to the man’s ranting but something in his tone made her keep her distance. “How long ago was Travis here?”

“I don’t know.” Corrigan leaned over the sink, keeping his back to her. “Not long.”

“Did he seem upset to you?” Emma bit back the panic in her guts, wanting to scream at the man to pay attention. This was important. She took a breath and said; “Did he say where he was going?”

“I thought you were different, Emma, but no. You’re all the same. Expecting the world to just lie down at your feet.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you.” Her tone was acid. “Don’t you get tired of acting all superior, Will? You should climb down from that high horse of yours. Join the rest of the world.”

“Go home, Mrs. Hawkshaw.” Corrigan turned around and looked at her.” Close the door behind you.”

The light in the kitchen was pale but she saw his face clearly. Two red claw marks scratched down his cheek, angry and livid. “What happened to your face?”

His face darkened but his eyes burned hot. Taking her length from crown to toe. “Tracks of my tears,” he said. “Better go find your boy.”

Emma didn’t move, rigid in the doorframe. She took a step closer. “I need something from you.”

“I can’t help you.”

She swept the damp hair out of her eyes and took another step. “Will, hear me out.”

Saying his name. Something inside him uncoiled, like severing a piano wire.

“Quit the lawsuit. Leave my family out of whatever it is you’re doing. Please.”

His teeth gritted. “I can’t do that.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Whichever one suits you.” He waved a hand, palm up. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t tell me your sorry. You can end this whole thing right now.”

“It’s gone too far for that, Emma. It’s out of my hands.” He watched her eyes sharpen, anger rising fast.

“You just have to have your revenge, don’t you? Or whatever game you’re playing.”

“It’s no game.”

Emma felt the knots loosen. Too much anger for one day, it burns hot for only so long. Other waves roll in to take its heat. Keep it together, just do that. “Be reasonable, Will. Please.”

Another stab at his name. A dog was howling somewhere, low and far away. “Reasonable?” he said. “All right. What would you do to save your family, Emma Hawkshaw?”

She looked at him. A spindle of hope, but wary. “What do you mean?”

“I’ll end this whole thing in return for something from you.”

Warier still. “What do you want?”

“You know what I want.”

A blind woman could have seen what he wanted. But still, just bold like that. She couldn’t believe what he was asking. She scrambled to stall. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m utterly serious. It’s not so much to ask. One small favour and you save your home.”

Dizzy, Emma’s eyes darted around the room for something to anchor herself to. The front door, not ten paces away. She should storm out. Slap his face, like in the movies and march out. But this wasn’t the movies and she didn’t move, didn’t storm out the door like she knew she should.

The floor creaked behind her. Emma bunched her hands into fists, nails digging in but felt nothing. Going numb, disoriented. Removed, as if watching it happen to someone else.

She felt his hands grip her arms and hold her fast, as if she might bolt away. She should run. This is crazy. Run. The hands pulled her into him. Hot breath blowing down the back of her neck.

~

The Dublin had emptied out when Jim entered, patrons drifting away. Puddy stood behind the bar, speaking quietly to Berryhill. Combat Kyle listening in, flicking his Zippo open and shut. One other patron propped up at a table near the window, singing to himself.

Berryhill bristled as Jim came up. He said something to Puddy then slid off his stool, Kyle at his heels. He nodded to Jim as he crossed to the door.

“Thought you went home, Jimmy” Puddycombe said.

Jim chinned in the direction of Berryhill and his toadie. “What was that about?”

“Just talking.”

“The weather?”

“Discussing what needs to be done.”

“About Corrigan.”

“About protecting what’s ours.”

Jim hunkered down on the stool, propped his elbows on the bar. The man near the window sang on, warbling an incoherent mumble. Puddy folded his arms. “Go home, Jimmy. And take him with you,” he said, nodding to the singing drunk.

As if aware they were talking about him, the man shot up, knocking his chair to the floor. He listed badly, bumping tables as he faltered for the door, still clutching his pint glass. They heard it smash to the sidewalk a heartbeat later. Puddy cursed and fetched the broom.

A wailing cry filtered in from the open door and at first, Jim thought it was the singing drunk, hitting a high note, until he realized it was a siren. He and Puddy looked up just in time to see the fire engine streak past the windows, screaming on down the street.

“Jesus, something’s on fire.”

The shrill wailing kept on, not diminishing in volume with distance.

Jim slid off the stool. “It’s close.”

The Pennyluck Fire Department consisted of two trucks. The pumper was an antique from the eighties, a Pierce Arrow six-seater with a leaky tank. The Seagrave was twenty-three years old with an inoperable ladder. The crew were unspooling hose and checking oxygen tanks. Keefe front and center, jamming his legs into overalls and barking orders.

Miro Vukovic was nine years retired from the volunteer department but still came running when the sirens hit. He had swung his Durango crosswise across the street to block traffic coming up Galway Road. He waved back the people crowding up to see, herding them to the far sidewalk. Cursing them blue in Croatian when they didn’t move fast enough.

Jim and Puddycombe came running, lungs burning and knees popping. No fight left in them when Miro stopped both in their tracks.

“Far enough!” Miro’s hands sweeping them back. “Back up!”

Jim wheezed and Puddy bent over at the waist. Eyes like saucers at the blaze before them. Even from this distance the sting of heat burnt their cheeks, like leaning too close to a campfire.

“Is that…”

The town hall was burning up fast, flames wickering out the first floor windows. Greasy black smoke boiling up into the sky. The smell noxious in their nostrils and the heat searing their stubble.

Jim pushed Miro back, hollering at him to get out of the way.

A window on the second floor exploded with a pop and everyone ducked. Glass and embers fell around them.

27

EMMA PUSHED HER mind far away. Somewhere not here, not in this moment. Give the bastard what he wants so he’ll leave your family alone. A simple bargain. An exchange. Just get it over with.

She hadn’t moved, standing in the musty smelling front room. The oak door wide open before her. Just the tattered screendoor, no spring or latch. A simple push would fling it open and she’d be gone.

She could smell his liquor breath, feel him hard up against her. His hands everywhere, squeezing her breasts, twisting her nipples raw. Sliding down the waistline of her jeans. A callused hand pushing between her legs. She was wet and hated herself for it.

Nothing worked. She couldn’t make her mind go away or withdraw into herself or go numb. He was pulling her to the floor. Why did she have to do this? Why is she the one to make a sacrifice? Jim should have fixed this, instead of leaving it to her. She hated him for making her do this.

Her rage burned hot, all of it aimed at him. Her husband. And Travis. Where was he? What was she doing? The thought of it made her sick. A bucket of cold water against her face.

“Stop.”

Corrigan didn’t hear or didn’t care. Pulling at her clothes.

She twisted around, trying to slip free. “Stop. I can’t do this.”

He snatched a handful of hair and snapped her head back. “No more games, Emma.”

“Get off of me!”

She shoved him away. Punched and kicked him. He grabbed at her hair again and she bit his hand. Broke the skin, blood in her mouth. A tiny victory.

His backhand nearly took her head clean off. The floor hard and filthy as she sprawled across it. Pinpricks of light in her vision. Pain, sharp and hot. Was her jaw broken?

The door. Where was the goddamn door?

Emma scrambled for it, wet sneakers kicking out. Nails raking the floorboards it. It wasn’t that far, she could make it.

His bootheel slammed into her back, flattening her. Ribs crushed. An iron grip around her ankle and she was dragged away from the door.

Corrigan nudged his boot under her belly and flipped her onto her back. Planting his feet on both sides of her ribs, leering down at her. Popping the buckle from his belt.

“Chin up, Mrs. Hawkshaw,” he said. “We had a bargain.”

~

The smell of the fire was acrid enough to taste, bitter on the tongue. All Jim could do was watch from the sidewalk. Puddycombe next to him, equally useless. Miro was outnumbered, holding the gawkers back with Croatian oaths and curses. Assaulted with questions he couldn’t answer.

“What the hell happened?”

“How did it start?”

“Was anyone inside?”

“I don’t know!” Miro waved his hat at them, hazing them back like sloe-eyed cattle. “Now move the hell back!”

Jim looked up at the smouldering town hall. The fire crew aiming pressurized water into the windows. He grabbed Miro by the lapel. “Was there anyone inside?”

Miro barked something he didn’t understand and ran to chasten two boys back under the yellow tape.

“Look.” Puddycombe pointed at two crewmen stalking towards the door. Oxygen tanks and axes in hand. “They’re going in.”

The firefighters disappeared into the smoke. Everyone around Jim held their breath and then two more crewmen followed the first two inside. Someone behind Jim incanted a prayer. Nothing happened. No heroes rushing back out with a survivor draped over their shoulder. Just the pop and snap of burning wood.

Puddycombe gripped Jim’s arm, pointed again. The firemen waded out through the smoke with a stretcher in hand. Cheers and applause went up from the crowd until the firefighters turned and everyone saw the gurney. Whatever lay on it didn’t look human. A smoking lump under black canvass. The cheering choked and died.

The woman praying behind Jim turned away. Others drifted off, not wanting to see anymore.

“My God,” said Puddy. The question hanging over the crowd. “Who is that?”

Jim elbowed through the gawkers, lifting the caution tape overhead. Miro stopped him cold. “Stay back, Jim. Please.”

“Who is that?”

“We don’t know! Let the crew do their job.”

Jim swept past Miro and ran for the gurney. The crowd pressed in after him, sensing a breech in the line, sweeping Miro along its current.

Puddycombe slipped through the chaos, scrambling to find Jim. Jim stood fixed, looking down at the stretcher. Wisps of smoke roiled up from the folds of the shroud.

A firefighter knelt over the body. His mask and helmet peeled off, hair plastered up in sweat. He clocked the two gaping onlookers and barked at them to go back.

Jim stammered, spitting it out. “Who is it?”

The crewman said he didn’t know and ordered them back behind the line. Puddy barked something and Jim dove for the stretcher, throwing the sheet back. Smoke uncoiled and stung his eyes. He waved it away.

The body was carbonized, blackened to an obscene husk. The hands were charred claws, locked and soldered into place like petrified wood. The hair cindered, leaving a blackened egg of a skull. The left half of the face was sooty but unmarked, enough to recognize the features.

Jim bent and vomited over the pavement. Coughing and spitting but unable to shed the taste of burnt flesh from his tongue.

“Oh Christ, is that…”

Jim wiped his mouth. “It’s her.”

What was left of Kate Farrell lay rigid in the smoke, the eyes cooked white in their sockets.

~

Constable Ray Bauer folded his arms and told Jim to slow down. “Take your time,” he said in a soft tone. “Just get it out.”

Ray had arrived ten minutes after the ambulance pulled in. Helping poor old Miro crowd control until Jimmy Hawkshaw yanked him aside and blathered all over him. Incoherent and frantic, pointing to the body bag being lifted into the back of the ambulance. Ray put a hand on Jim’s shoulder and told him to catch his breath. Take it slow.

“It’s Kate,” Jim wheezed. “She was alone in the building.”

The fire was out. The firemen leaned against the pumper truck with bottles of water in hand. Guzzling it back to clear their sooty throats or dribbling it over their heads.

“Okay Jim,” Constable Bauer said. “The medical examiner will confirm all that. Can you two wait somewhere? I’ll need statements from both of you but right now I need to clear everyone out.”

Jim glared at him, fed up with the constable’s cool detachment. “You know who did this, don’t you?”

“Put it in your statement, Jim.” Bauer motioned for them to back away. “Give us some room, huh? There’s nothing for you to do here.”

Puddycombe tugged Jim’s arm but Jim stalled. Reluctant to go but unsure of what to do. Constable Bauer pulled rank, hooking his thumbs into his belt and stared at Puddy with a cop’s practiced air of impatience. “Go home,” he said.

Puddy pulled him away and they elbowed through the crowd. Cars abandoned in the street, parked crazily as their owners had rushed in to see what was going on. Galway Road looked like a disaster zone, news footage of some war ravaged city.

“You meant Corrigan, didn’t you?” Puddy pulled him to a stop. “How do you know it was him?”

“Who else would it be?”

“It was a fire.” Puddycombe shrugged. “It could have been an accident.”

“No.” Jim shook his head. “Corrigan figured it out. He went to Kate for the list of names.”

“Names?”

He told the pub owner about the confessions unearthed from the archives. He tallied up the sequence of events after that. Corrigan had tried to euchre him out of the deal, going after the evidence himself. Kate refusing to give it up. The fire was no accident, no stray match.