“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?
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
