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 something in his hand.
Nothing but a blur to her unfocused retinas. “Can you help me to my car?”
“You okay?” He stopped, looked her over.
“Whatever it is will have to wait till tomorrow. Sorry” She gripped the lip of the bench, tried to stand. “Forget my car. Just drive me home. I’m so tired I feel drunk.”
Kate faltered, he caught her arm. Settled her back onto the pew. “Easy.”
He sat next to her and Kate closed her eyes. Her arm wrapped around his elbow and held on, like they were at the movies. Something slapped onto her lap, exploding her peace. An old leather folio, its cover cracked and flaking. Yellowed paper slipping from the seams.
“Read it.”
Pushing it away. “Tomorrow.”
“Corrigan was right all along,” he said. “That’s the proof. Signed confessions from the men who committed the murders.”
“What are you talking about?” She blinked, trying to focus on the thing in her lap.
He opened the bundle, flipping through the loose pages. Stopping at one, he ran his finger down a list of names. “They did it. Our ancestors killed those people. Just like Corrigan said” His finger tapped the paper. “Yours too. Look.”
Her eyes took forever to F-stop the cursive script and decipher what it said. Patrick Ferguson Farrell. A heartbeat and then another and then it exploded in her brain.
“Where did you get this?”
He told her. About Gallagher and the hole in the wall. The secret hidden in the archives and the ugly thing that now sat in her lap. Kate pushed it away onto the bench.
“All this time.” He leaned back against the pew. “What are we going to do?”
Kate rubbed her eyes then shook her head.
He mistook it for a shrug. “We have to tell him. We have to tell everyone.”
“No.”
“We can’t keep this a secret anymore. You have to make it public.”
She straightened her back. “And tell people what? That their ancestors were murderers?”
“Jesus, Kate. You want to stay mum about this because someone’s feelings are gonna get hurt?”
“It’s more than that now.” Kate pointed at the door, as if Corrigan was right outside. “The man’s made claims against a dozen people in town. Their businesses, property.” Shaking her head again. “No. It was a different time back then, different world. You go back far enough, everyone has a guilty past. What good will this do now?”
It took a moment to register. “You have to make this public. People are ready to lynch this guy. Come clean with this and he’ll be satisfied. Yes, it will be a shock but everyone will deal with it. End this stupid feud now.” He tapped the folio between them. “Do the right thing.”
“Don’t get righteous with me, Jim,” she said. “It’s bigger than simply right or wrong, for God sakes. People’s livelihoods are at stake. This,” she nodded to the cracked folio, “this will tear the town apart. It’s a bomb.”
“I don’t believe this.”
“We have to think it through. That’s all I’m saying.” Her vision swam. “And I’m too tired to think anymore.”
“Do the right thing. Or I’ll do it for you.”
He turned and walked out the door, leaving the folio behind.