Killing Down the Roman Line (18 page)

Travis woke up with a plan boiling in his head. He also woke 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?”

“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.

“You seem awfully quiet these days.” She couldn’t help herself. It was like trying to keep your hands in your pockets while someone drowned.

“I’m fine.” His first words since they’d sat down.

“Anything you want to talk about?” She knew it was the wrong approach as soon as she said it. Travis didn’t respond to direct questions like that. Did anybody?

Travis grumbled and put his book down. “Where’s Dad?”

Where indeed? Father and son were both acting strange today. “He said he had errands to run. He’ll catch up.”

“Isn’t he eating with us?”

“I don’t know. Your father keeps his own council these days.” More bite to her tone than she’d meant.

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing.” Her turn to go silent, look for a way to shift topics. “I was thinking, if you wanted to invite your friend over, maybe she could come for dinner on Sunday.”

“What friend?”

“Brenna.”

Crash. The boy tensed up like he’d been stung. Another misfire. Keep it up, she told herself, and the boy will never speak again.

He went back to his book. The clatter of dishware clanged from the counter. She watched Hitchens push off his stool, clap McGrath on the back and pass by their booth.

“Morning Doug.” Emma smiled up at him, eager for some other conversation to dig her out of the hole with her son. “Did Jim talk to you about that tractor?”

He nodded but didn’t smile or even slow his pace. Kept walking right out the door. Emma stared after him, startled by his rudeness. There was no way he hadn’t seen her.

Even Travis, normally clueless to social graces, raised his eyebrows in surprise. “What’s his problem?”

“Lord knows.” She left it at that, unwilling to speculate.

Then it happened again. McGrath laid two bills on the countertop and lumbered past their table. Emma said hello but all she got back was a brisk nod. No smile, no warmth. Downright frosty to tell the truth.

Travis harrumphed. “Did you piss somebody off?”

“Language please.”

Edie brought their plates and fled before any chitchat could occur. Emma unrolled her cutlery from the napkin and nodded at his eggs. “Eat your breakfast.”

~

Tom Carswell sat behind his computer screen, fantasizing about killing his teller again. He couldn’t close his office door, couldn’t shut out Cheryl’s grating voice as she prattled away to Mrs. Kolchack about her suffering feet and poor son who couldn’t find a job. He pictured a garrotte in his hands, a lethal length of wire that would silence her voice forever.

“Sir, can I help you?” Cheryl’s voice changed pitch. Alarm. “Sir, you can’t go back there.”

“Where is he?” A man’s voice.

Carswell ducked. It had to be Corrigan, barging back in to harangue him some more. With nowhere to run, he froze as the figure darkened his office door.

Jim Hawkshaw. Thank God.

“Jimmy. Jesus, I thought—”

Jim tilted over the desk, knocking over a tray of pens. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”

“Easy.” Carswell leaned back. Another rube gone hot under the collar. “What are you talking about?”

“You told Will Corrigan about my finances? My farm?” Jim took a breath, trying to keep composed. “That’s private info, fer chrissakes! What the hell kinda bank are you running?”

“Uh, we’re a credit union, Jim. Not a bank.”

Jim knuckled the desk. “Why did you tell that man my business?”

Carswell raised both palms, all innocent. “Mr. Corrigan said the two of you were going into business together. You leasing his land at a criminal rate. He asked about your credit rating. Your ability to pay your debts.”

“And you blabbed it all to him?” Capillaries popping Jim’s eyes. “He wants to swindle my farm out from under me, you idiot!”

Carswell simply smiled. Insults and slurs didn’t faze him anymore. Not after all the bad news he’d doled out in his time. “Here I thought you two were all chummy.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“You chose sides,” Carswell said. “His. Now if you’ll excuse me.”