Killing Down the Roman Line (12 page)

“I know. I looked,” Corrigan said. “But there’s proof somewhere. You’re just not looking hard enough.”

Kate studied the man, looking for the con, the ‘
tell’
every huckster made. “What if there was an inquest into what happened back then?”

“That would be a good start.”

“Nothing grand.” She raised a hand in caution. “Not a trial, just a public inquiry into the Corrigan tragedy. And in return, you’ll end this ‘tour’ of yours.”

Corrigan raised his glass, waiting for his guests to raise theirs. “I’ll drink to that.”

Kate clinked her glass to his and Corrigan looked to Jim. Jim balked, reluctant to agree to anything with his new neighbour.

“Jim?” Kate prompted him out of his rudeness.

Clink.

11

THE TOWN COUNCIL sat Tuesday mornings in the old building it shared with the library and the municipal county office. A clock tower topped the limestone edifice but the clock had stopped working the summer of 1916. Local folklore held that the cessation of the timepiece was in mourning for the large number of local boys shipped to the battlefields of Europe and slaughtered wholesale at the Somme.

The restoration and repair of the old town clock was one of the items on the agenda for today’s council meeting. Kate had initiated the project with the help of Mrs. Cogburn, the librarian, and Ford Toohey of the Knights of Columbus. Fundraising plans withered and died when the estimate for restoration came in at $78,000.

Kate would bring it up in council this morning, if only to keep the idea alive. But her main focus was the Pennyluck Heritage Festival. There were still a million things to do and she needed to pry a little more money out of the council to ensure it all came about. She still couldn’t understand how the town fought her for every penny. Every small town from here to the coast had some celebration, a big weekend carnival that drove tourism and boosted local pride. These festivals cost money to put on but they paid huge dividends in the people who visited and spent their money in town. How the council failed to see that was beyond her.

There were seven members of the town council, including herself. The sitting six had held their seats for at least a dozen years. All men, all over the age of fifty. The old boys didn’t like change and didn’t cotton to terms like ‘innovation’ or ‘rebranding’. They liked their town as it was. Why fix what wasn’t broke?

The faces of the councilmen were already stones of puffy suffrage and Kate knew she was in for a tough morning. Councilman Gene Ripley, who ran the oldest funeral parlour in Pennyluck, shot down any mention of the clock restoration and Joe Keefe suggested they move on. Kate let it go, focusing on the need for further funding of the festival. Pat McGrath, of McGrath’s Lumber & Hardware, interrupted her pitch, pointing out that they had already allocated ten thousand over and above her written budget.

“Putting on a festival of this size isn’t an exact science, Pat.” Kate kept her tone pleasant, knowing the old boys could be easily ruffled. “This is our first heritage festival. Problems arise, challenges we didn’t foresee.”

“I thought you were the expert on this shindig.” McGrath pointed a stubby finger in her direction. “You sold us on this idea claiming you could handle it. And now you’re telling us you need more cash?”

“There’s a lot of people coming. We’ll need more staff for the events and I’m pretty sure we’ll need a second police officer for traffic and security.”

“Do you have any idea how much it costs to pay a cop for his weekend?” Councilman Ripley sputtered. “It’s time and a half. I’m sorry, our pockets are empty.”

“That isn’t true,” Kate countered. “There’s a contingency fund at the bank that, according to Mr. Carswell, hasn’t been utilized in years.”

“That’s for contingencies.” Ripley’s condescension dripped all over his face. “Flash floods and acts of God. Emergencies.”

“Then it should have been folded into the existing emergency fund a long time ago. But it wasn’t, and this is a new contingency.”

Ripley clucked his teeth. The other five shook their heads, killing the idea with silent consensus.

Reeve Thompson tapped his gavel and grumbled. “Done. Any new order of business?”

Kate’s list of new business included a proposal for a skate park to be built on the empty lot in the old rail yards and obtaining fibre optic cable for the library computer system. These she set aside and cut to the last item on her list, scribbled down in pen as an addendum.

“I want to propose an inquest into the deaths of the Corrigan family in eighteen ninety-eight.”

It was like God had hit the pause button, the men frozen and the air still. The dropped faces soured and composed slowly with clearing throats and tisking teeth.

“Next.” Thompson banged the gavel, aborting the matter.

Kate’s brow arced. She’d never seen anything dismissed so quickly. “Hold on a minute. I’m sure you’ve heard this man’s claims. And the little sideshow he’s putting on at the old Corrigan property. I believe it should be looked into.”

“The man’s a fraud,” McGrath said, paging through the agenda. “We’ll not entertain his ridiculous claims.”

“We don’t know that. Which is why an inquest is in order. A proper search of the archives into the deaths of the Corrigan family.”

Thompson wouldn’t budge. “Absolutely not. And there’ll be no more mention of that name within these chambers.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s ancient history,” said McGrath. “You give in to this guy and you open the door to every other con-man with a grievance. Before you know it, we’ll have the Indians down here making claims about ancestral land rights. Forget it.”

The gavel rang again and the meeting adjourned.

~

“You sure you want to do this?”

Travis kicked a pebble into the ditch. “Yeah.”

Jim walked his son down the driveway to the Corrigan house. “You add this to your chores, you won’t have a lot of free time. You know that, right?”

“I know.”

Jim plucked a handful of thistle from the path, watching his boy amble along in that jangleybone way of his, like it would kill him to stand up straight. Or give more than one-word answers. Lately the boy had regressed to simple grunts and impatient sighs. Jim let it go.

Coming onto the yard, they saw more rotted timber piled onto the ashes of the bonfire. Splintered framing and chunks of desiccated plaster and lathe. Jim gauged the fire pit to be too close to the house, too close to that tinderbox veranda. If Corrigan wasn’t careful, he’d burn the place down. Which, on second thought, might not be such a terrible thing.

“There he is.” Travis pointed.

Corrigan came around the side of the house, dragging a splintered mess of cabinet through the raspberry bushes. He tossed the mess into the fire pit and waved, a warm smile beaming through the sweat of his brow. “Hello there, son. Ready to work?”

“Yes sir.”

Jim titled his head at the boy.
Sir? Where did that come from?

“Thanks for coming.” Corrigan wiped his hand on his shirt before shaking Jim’s hand. Then to Travis. “Did you bring some gloves? Proper workboots?”

“Check.” Travis plucked the gloves from his back pocket and raised a foot. The steel toe of his boot shone through the worn out leather.

“Excellent.” He led Travis inside, a hand guiding the boy’s slender shoulder. “Come on then. I’ll show you where you can start smashing things.”

Jim followed them into the dark interior. More of the old plaster had been pulled down, revealing soot-stained beams and studs, the bones of the old house. Out to the kitchen where Corrigan handed the boy a crowbar and nodded at the 40’s era cabinetry.

“Hack away, Travis.” Corrigan opened one of the lower cupboards. A few dusty plates and an ancient spraycan of wasp-killer. “Anything that will burn, you can drag out to the firepit. Anything that won’t can be tossed into that trailer bin out back. And be sure to take a break if you get too hot. This old bastard kitchen gets right fucking toasty when the sun hits it.”

Jim winced at the language but Travis didn’t seem to notice. He attacked the old cabinetry with a glee for destruction inherent in all boys, making a godawful racket with the prybar.

“Atta boy.” Corrigan cheered him on and then flipped open an ice cooler on the floor. He scrounged up two tall cans of lager, handed one to his guest.

“I’m okay,” Jim begged off. It was barely noon.

“Too late.” Corrigan popped them both and shoved one at him. “I’m glad you came. I thought maybe you’d changed your mind about letting the boy work here.”

“I told him he could.” Jim shouted over the din. “Hate to go back on my word.”

“Take a walk with me.” Corrigan waved him toward the back door. “Something I want to show you.”

They walked into the punishing sun and Corrigan led the way to the chestnut trees shading the old stone fence. Boots trampled the growth underfoot, Jim spotting shoots of barley, potatoes and corn. Remnants of previous seasons, all fighting for sunlight.

“Look at all this stuff,” Corrigan scooped handfuls of buds, popping them free. “Planted ages ago and growing wild. What is this?”

“Barley. Feed corn.” Jim nodded further downfield. “All kinds of stuff over the years. What do you plan to do with all this acreage?”

“Don’t know yet. I’m no farmer, I’ll tell you that much.”

“I noticed you still got your sign up. You gonna take it down?”

“We’ll see how Kate makes out with her promise first.” Corrigan smeared a forearm over his brow. “Do you know her well? Is she trustworthy?”

“She says she’s gonna do something, she’ll do it.”

“That was a pretty good turnout we had for the tour, yeah?” He clinked his can against Jim’s. “Cheers.”

“I guess. I mean, if you’re goal was to piss off everyone in town.”

“Family history, Jim. I wanted to share it with everyone.”

Jim squared him with a look. “Bullshit. You wanted to shock everyone.”

“I admit I had fun. Did you see their faces?” Corrigan’s grin melted off as he cast his gaze over the field. “But it’s not just family history, you understand. It’s their history too.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Jim gauged the man’s mood, looking for a moment to talk some reason into him. “How do you know that story of yours is true?”

“I told you. It’s an eye witness account.”

“By a little boy hiding under a bed. What if he was wrong?”

“He wasn’t wrong. My grandfather knew every one of the men who murdered his family. They all went to the same church, for Christ’s sakes.” He slugged on the can. “I know it’s ugly, Jim, but the truth often is.”

Jim leaned against the stone fence and said nothing. Corrigan looked up at the blue sky and pointed to birds circling the field, dark slices gliding around and around. “I keep seeing these birds up there, circling around the farm. What are they?”

“Turkey vultures. They’ll go round and round for hours looking for something dead. Or about to die.”

“The way they glide like that, without flapping a wing. They’re beautiful.”

“Not up close they’re not.” He watched Corrigan watching the vultures. “You know, the people here… these are good people. They haven’t done anything wrong. They don’t deserve to be called murderers.”

“You think I was too harsh?”

Jim caught a note of remorse in the man’s voice. “It was a long time ago. Things were different back then. People were different.”

“That’s bullshit, Jimmy. People are no better then their savage forefathers. They just think they are.”

“It was a hundred years ago. What does it matter now?”

Corrigan wiped the foam from his lips. “The dead have their claims on the living. Whether we see it or not, we’re beholden to them.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means every sin has to accounted for somewhere. Even by those who didn’t pull the trigger.”

“You know these people won’t just stand around while you sling mud at them.” Jim gave up trying to hide his frustration. “I mean, you’re not exactly making friends, are you?”

“You’re a friend. Aren’t you?”

Jim dialled it back. “Sure but… Jesus.”

“You think I should just let it be.”

“Maybe, just maybe the story you heard was wrong. No one was ever charged for those crimes. In a small town like this.” Jim shrugged. “Maybe it really was a mob of lunatics.”

“Come on, Jim. That’s the bullshit they troweled on to hide their mess.”

The man wasn’t going to budge and Jim was out of arguments so they stood in the chestnut shade and watched the vultures drift in lazy arcs.

“So what’d you want to show me?”

“Over here.” Corrigan crushed his can and pitched it onto Jim’s side of the fence and marched on. Jim looked at the litter in dismay and followed. Twenty paces in, Corrigan pointed south, where the land rolled gently down to the creek at the lower forty. “See down there at the bottom. The old fence.”

Jim froze. Corrigan’s finger wagged down to the berm of fieldstones piled up and the breech in the old perimeter. The spot he had ploughed through with the blade of his tractor.

Shit.

“This old fence borders our property, yeah? See the mess? Someone’s knocked it down. Looks like they dragged a plough through and started tilling.”

Corrigan rolled his eyes up to meet Jim’s. The man already knew the answer, that much was clear, and now he simply wanted to watch Jim sweat. He got his wish. Jim could feel it rivulet down the small of his back.

Time to come clean. “I did it.”

“You?” Corrigan’s surprise was soap-opera fake. It vanished and his tone dropped to a gravelcrunch. “Why?”

Jim stepped back, expecting a blow. “All this land has been neglected for so long. Gone to seed. I just—” He killed off his words. It was grovelling and it stung and he despised himself for it. “I needed the land.”

“You’re squatting on my property,” Corrigan said.

Jim shifted his weight square to both feet and his hand balled instinctively into a fist. The other man fixed him with venom roiling his pupils. A donnybrook about to blow the martins from the tree branches above them.