Макс Коллинз - Road to Perdition

Michael froze: the man wore one of those stocking masks, a bala-what’s-it, but the boy thought he recognized the figure — wasn’t that... and the man pulled off the mask and confirmed Michael’s suspicion: Connor Looney.

Who seemed to be staring right at Michael!

Michael wanted to run, but his feet wouldn’t respond; and then, suddenly, he realized Uncle Connor couldn’t see him — the man seemed to be trying to compose himself before going outside. Then the boy understood: with the lights on in the house, Connor couldn’t see Michael standing out in the darkness — what Connor was doing was looking at his own reflection!

And now the man was reaching for the doorknob.

Michael plastered himself to the side of the house, so that when the door opened, he’d be tucked behind it.

Which was exactly what happened. Uncle Connor didn’t notice him there, door open wide. The man stood on the porch, on unsteady feet, and fished a hip flask from inside his topcoat. He took a healthy swig.

Then, leaving the door wide open, Connor Looney — who the boy could tell was drunk, like those people at the McGovern wake — tottered off into the night, picking up speed, running, till the blackness swallowed him.

When Uncle Connor had gone, Michael came out from behind the door and just stood there, on the porch, staring at the open doorway for a long, long time.

He knew this had to be bad. The sick feeling in his stomach was only partly all that cake he’d eaten at St. Pete’s. Maybe Uncle Connor had been here to do business with Papa; but Mama had said his father would be late, that he had to go do something for Mr. Looney.

And those noises had sounded like the gunshots at that warehouse, last night .

If something bad had happened in the house, he knew he should help — he should be running in there, at top speed; but he was a kid, and afraid, and perhaps he knew, instinctively, that if something bad had indeed happened, due to that crazy man he’d just seen leave, there would be no help he could give.

But Michael finally went in. The house was strangely still — the ticking of clocks, some dripping of faucets, nothing more. A droning sound turned out to be the phone — it was off the hook, in the hall. He thought about putting the receiver back in place, but didn’t. Nearby the stairs yawned endlessly — and at the top, steam from the bathroom floated like fog, but other smoke was mingled there, too. He’d seen such smoke last night.

Guns had made it.

Trembling, he moved up the stairs. In his mind he was running; but the reality was, he’d never climbed them more slowly. At the top, he turned and headed down the corridor to the bathroom.

He went in.

His instincts had proven right: there was nothing he could have done. His mother and his brother lay sprawled lifelessly, eyes open, but with no more expression than marbles; they’d both been shot in the chest. Pools of blood glistened. The faucet dripped. The mirror was fogged up. They were dead.

He did not go to them. Somewhere inside, a voice was screaming, “ Mother! Mother! ”

But the boy only backed out of the bathroom, a sleepwalker caught in a bad dream, and moved down the hall, and down the stairs. Still in his trance, he found himself in the kitchen. His mother had left his plate on the table, the food spoiled, all nasty and crusty; he had told Mama he’d clean it off later, and she had left it for him, to show him. Teach him a lesson.

Michael cleared the plate off into the trash, then went to the sink to run water on it. Like his mother had requested. Lesson learned.

Then he went to the dining room table and sat there. He folded his hands, like when saying grace. The boy knew not to call the police; it was not what Papa would have wanted. And he was still sitting there when his father flew into the house, through the front door, his big pistol from the war in hand.

O’Sullivan — unable to raise the family on the phone, knowing he could call neither anyone associated with John Looney nor the police — had broken every speed law getting here, hurtling across city streets, passing traffic on the government bridge, earning outraged honks and curses from other drivers, and barely noticing.

He said nothing to his son, who was sitting at the table, dazed.

He took the stairs three at a time, and ran until the terrible sight stopped him at the bathroom doorway. The husband went to his wife, knelt beside her, touched her throat where a pulse should be; then the father did the same for his youngest boy. Finally, he stood, turned off the harsh overhead light, so they could sleep better, and he went out into the hall.

He leaned a hand against the wall, and then slid to the floor and sat there, gun beside him, his head in his hands. He had lost everything. Everything.

“Papa?”

Almost everything.

Michael was at the top of the stairs. “It was Uncle Connor. I think he thought Peter was me. It’s my fault.”

O’Sullivan just stared at the boy; then he got to his feet and joined him. They sat on the top step, their backs to the carnage. “Michael, it’s not your fault.”

“It is!”

“None of that... Were you were here when this happened?”

“I was coming home from the church — I saw him leaving.”

“Did he see you?”

“No. He was drunk.”

O’Sullivan thought about that for a moment, then said, “Son, go to your room and pack your things. We have to leave.”

Michael swallowed. “Okay, Papa.”

The boy went to the bedroom he’d shared with his brother, wondering why Papa didn’t even seem surprised to have found Mama and Peter that way. He packed his clothes, and a few toys and the Big Little Books he hadn’t read yet, thinking Papa didn’t even seem all that sad.

But when he went to his parents’ bedroom, to join his father, the boy changed his mind.

Papa had carried the bodies to the bed, and was tucking Peter in next to Mama right now. He’d put Peter’s teddy bear next to him, and now was smoothing his youngest son’s hair, then kissed his forehead, as he’d done a thousand times.

“Sleep well, son,” Papa said.

Michael wondered if Papa really thought Peter was just “sleeping,” and then his father turned to Michael and said, “Say goodnight to your brother, son.”

The boy set his suitcase down, and went to his father, standing next to him alongside the bed.

“G’night,” Michael said.

“You need to say good-bye to your mother, too, son — before we go.”

Michael looked up at his father. “I don’t want to say good-bye to her, Papa.”

“You need to. Bid them both Godspeed, Michael — there’ll be no wakes, no attending services for us. No graveside good-byes.”

“Why, Papa?”

“Because the men who did this thing will come back for us.”

The boy frowned. “Only one man did this, Papa.”

“Son, if Connor Looney did this, all of them are our enemies.”

“Even... Mr. Looney?”

“Especially him.”

“Then give me a gun! We’ll wait for them — this is our home!”

He put his arm around his son’s shoulder. “We have no home, son. They took that from us... Say good-bye.”

Michael kissed his mother’s forehead, told her he loved her, said good-bye, and quickly his father packed a bag and the two of them were coming out of the front door, suitcases in hand. The boy had seen his father slip the .45 into his topcoat pocket, and his father’s eyes seemed to be looking everywhere.

When Papa closed the front door, it was almost a slam — there was something final about it, the boy thought.

“Son, this terrible night isn’t over,” he said. “There are still things I must do. Can you be brave?”