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;
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
