Tim McGregor - Killing Down the Roman Line

“Are you sure?”

Kate eased off the picnic table and brushed the flaking paint chips from her pants. “Make the offer to Corrigan. I’ll shift around some budgets so we can use the slush fund for a deposit. If Corrigan bites, then we’ll be rid of him.”

Jim got to his feet. “Done.”

“Just make sure he understands the conditions of the offer. You buy only if he leaves town for good.”

He picked up her bag and held it out for her. The damn phone just kept chirping. “If this blows up in our faces, just how much trouble are we gonna be in?”

“I don’t want to even think about it.”

Another tentacle of crepe paper tore away from the bandstand and tumbled crazily across the grass.

THE WINDOWS WERE gone dark in the old house as the pickup trundled up the rutted track. Jim wheeled up before the house and studied the landscape. Dusk, the sunlight burning off behind the treeline. No movement in the windows of the house, no truck parked in the grass. Jim had stewed his guts all afternoon about what he was going to say to Corrigan, rehearsing in his head how the conversation would play out. And now this, the son of a bitch wasn’t even home.

Maybe he’d wait for him to get back, just set there on the veranda like a tax collector waiting on the man. He sure as hell didn’t want to stew over this till tomorrow. He went up the broken steps, banged on the door.

“Will?”

No answer. The door rattled and creaked open. He pushed it back all the way then stepped over the doorsill. “Corrigan, you home? It’s Jim.”

Nothing. Jim ventured in, looking the room over. The walls stripped to the post and beam, the rack of stag antlers over the limestone fireplace. A gun lay on the mantel, the double-barrelled Winchester Corrigan had fired to kick off his first tour. Broken at the hinge, the twin bores empty.

Pushed into a corner, a fragile looking stool under a rolltop desk. Lousy with papers and documents. Pens, a compass and a pearl handled jackknife. Jim sifted through the paperwork, glancing over his shoulder to ensure the room was empty.

A big square of onionskin paper settled atop the mess, showing a finely hewed tree with names and dates spotting the branches. A family tree tracing the Corrigan clan back to the 1850’s, the trail ending with their Irish homeland of Tipperary. James Corrigan, the patriarch. The same man who wound up in prison five years after coming to Canada for killing a man at a drunken logging bee.

Jim pushed it aside and leafed through more pages. He lifted loose a page of names, listed in no particular order. Every name was someone he knew. McGrath, Farrell, Keefe, Berryhill, Puddycombe.

He blinked at the last name on the list. Hawkshaw .

“Looking for something?”

Jim flinched and dropped the paper, spun around. Corrigan stood at the top of the stairs.

“Hey,” Jim said, easing the rattle from his nerves. “I called out. Didn’t see you.”

Corrigan stomped down the stairs. “So you thought, ‘what the hell I’ll just snoop around’.”

Busted. “Sorry.”

“Look at your face. Gave you a good spook, didn’t I?” Corrigan went to the sideboard, took up the bottle standing there. “Want a drink?”

“No thanks.”

“Don’t be a pilgrim,” he said but Jim waved off the drink. Corrigan looked him up and down, scrutinizing him. Jim tried for nonchalance. Missed by a country mile. Corrigan’s mouth tilting up into that grin again. “What’s on your mind?”

“Business.”

An eyebrow went up. “What kind of business?”

“Land,” Jim said. “I want to buy your farm.”

A flash of genuine surprise sparked Corrigan’s eyes. “Did some dipshit realtor plant their sign in my lawn?” He leaned toward the front window, then back to Jim. “It’s not for sale.”

“Everything’s for sale. I’ll give you twenty percent above what it was listed for.”

“Twenty percent? My lucky day!” Corrigan mocked up a look of shock. “Why would I want to sell, Jimmy? I love it here.”

“Knock it off.” Jim shrugged off the man’s antics. “You said yourself you wanted restitution. Well, here it is.”

“I see. So the township has acknowledged its collective guilt and sent you as envoy? Is that it?”

The mockery needled under Jim’s skin like a bur. Play it cool. “No. I just want to keep the peace. You don’t fit in here, we both know that. I want your land. The math is easy.”

Corrigan’s grin fell away. He was about to speak but Jim raised a hand for him to wait. “There’s one condition. You have to move out of Pennyluck. For good.”

The man tilted his head like a dog at a puzzling sound. “Well, that is a generous offer.”

“So? Do we have a deal?”

The man teetered on his heels for a moment, then stepped forward and extended his hand to shake. Smiling.

Surprised, to say the least. Jim returned the smile and shook Corrigan’s hand. Easy peasy. “Good.”

Corrigan’s grip crushed his fingers, trying to snap bone. “You trying to fuck me, Jim?” He yanked Jim closer. “Who put you up to this? That bitch Kate?”

Jim snapped his hand away. “What? No. I just want to buy your land.” He flexed his crushed fingers. The man was stronger than he looked. “You’ve made a lot of enemies. Best thing for everyone is if you moved on. Before someone gets hurt.” He rued that last bit. It rang too much like a threat, a gut reaction to having his hand crushed.

Something shifted in Corrigan, his face dropping to a glower. “You want to get rid of me, is that it? Just like you got rid of my family?”

Jim backed off. What the hell is he talking about? “I didn’t do anything to your family.”

Corrigan turned his back on him, poured another drink. “You’re a terrible liar. “

Jim waited, unsure of how to play it now. This wasn’t how he’d rehearsed it in his head.

Corrigan took his drink to the fireplace, looking down into the cold hearth. An elbow on the mantel, fingers inches from the shotgun. “You can’t buy me out. You’re up to your eyeballs in debt.”

Jim looked like he’d been bucketed with cold water. Pleased, Corrigan went on. “I’ve done a little snooping of my own. I know you tried to buy this property in the past but couldn’t meet the ticket. And yet voila, here you are offering more than that if I agree to pack up and piss off.”

Jim scrambled his brains for something to say. Anything.

“I’ve been thinking about the future too, Jimmy.” Corrigan drummed his fingers on the mantel. “I think what this place needs is more land, more acreage. Your land, in fact.”

It sounded like a bad joke. Jim didn’t laugh. “I’m not for sale.”

“Everything is for sale, Jimbo. Your words.” A finger extended from the hand clutching the tumbler, aimed square at Jim. “And you will be for sale too when I get through suing you.”

This time Jim did laugh. “Suing me? For what?”

“Trespassing for one. Theft of property, squatting. Whatever else I can think of.” He drained his glass, set it on the mantel. “Do you have any idea how crippling lawsuits can be? Even in this backwater. You’ll be drowning in debt inside of six months. And that, Mr. Hawkshaw, is when I’ll snatch your farm out from under you.”

Jim wanted to hurl something at him. A chair or a grenade. “You’re crazy.”

Corrigan stepped toward him, his voice notching up decibels. “I’ll make an offer to the bank for your farm. Assume its debt. Pay the back taxes, talk to your creditors. Do you think they’ll say no to me?”

Ice crawled his marrow. Jim stepped back until his heel thumped the baseboard.

Corrigan kept coming. “I will own your land outright. But don’t worry. I’ll need someone to work the acreage. You’re gonna work for me, Jimbo.”