Tim McGregor - Killing Down the Roman Line

“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.”

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.”

Jim reeled back. “That’s got nothing to do with this.”