Hitchens winked. “I think they tried. On the sly like. Guess it didn’t work.”
“Fuck the town,” Berryhill said. “We need to do what we planned. Only thing that’s gonna work.”
“That’ll have to wait.” Puddycombe set pints down, poured more. “Until the festival’s over. Too many people around.”
“Why? So you can sell more to these stupid rubes?”
“Would you hush your gob?”
“He’s got a point,” Hitchens said.
“That prick ain’t waiting.” Pretzel crumbs flew from Bill’s maw. “He’s doing more of his bullshit tours this weekend. Haven’t you seen the flyers?”
“Leave it. We’ll deal with it Monday.”
Bill dismissed them both as pussies and took his pitcher out to the patio. Combat Kyle sat at a picnic table, blowing smoke out his nose and playing with his Zippo. Flicking it open and snapping his fingers to light it, all in one smooth motion. Something he’d seen Steven Seagal do once in a movie.
“Pour.” Bill set the pitcher down and helped himself to the cigarette pack on the table. Kyle refilled their glasses and took up the Zippo again. Bill watched his mute friend snap the old lighter and stare at the flame like some bewitched Neanderthal.
“Fucking firebug.”
Kate steered for home, her eyes flitting between the street ahead of her and the phone in her hand. Scrolling through her contact list for Hugo’s number. His report about Corrigan’s past, added to his crashing her party, had her worried.
Maybe Hugo could help. Effectiveness and discretion were his calling cards. Especially in tricky spots. He could come up here, deal with Corrigan as only Hugo could, and she’d be free of his nonsense.
She hit dial and then panicked and killed the call. Dropping the phone onto the passenger seat. She didn’t need Hugo to come out here to solve her problems for her.
She pulled to the curb and looked out over the street, decorated as it was with flowers and sparkling lights. She’d worked so hard to put all of this together and now this cretin was trying to drag it all down into the gutter. What galled the most was how he’d planned to co-opt her festival to promote his gruesome little sideshow.
Corrigan didn’t care about the new bylaw nor the hefty fines he would incur by going ahead with his tour. Maybe she could shut him down some other way, if only for this weekend. She scrolled through the names on her phone and called Joe Keefe. His crew was doing road work just south of town.
Keefe answered on the third ring. “Kate? What can I do you for?”
“Joe, where’s your crew working tomorrow?”
“The Orange Line. Just a half day, though. The boys are looking forward to the festival.”
“I see. Listen, how hard would it be to move your crew to another location? There’s another road that needs work immediately.”
“That’s news to me. What road?”
“The Roman Line,” she said. “Starting at Clapton Road, then moving west about two, three miles.”
“You mean right near what his name’s place?”
“That stretch of road is terrible, don’t you think?”
Keefe was silent for a moment, then he laughed. “I’d say you’re dead right. In fact, we might have to close off that whole stretch all weekend.”
“Better safe than sorry. You’ll get on that?”
“Right away.”
Driving west on the old Roman Line, the only streetlights are posted at the crossroads. A black pickup truck barrelled under the last one, leaving a mushroom cloud of dust under the amber glow. The unpaved surface turned to washboard in spots, hard-packed ripples that will shake a vehicle apart if taken too fast. The black pickup trundled slow over the ripples, picked up speed coming uphill from a low valley. Cresting the rise, the headlights winked out and the pickup ran sleek and invisible in the night.
The truck hewed to the shoulder and stopped. The interior dome light was switched off before opening the doors. Two figures slid out of the cab; one tall and thick, the other short and slight. A nocturnal Laurel and Hardy, up to no bloody good. The tall one reached into the box and came away with a red gas can. The lid was spun off, the spout fixed and reattached. The two figures climbed down the ditch and pitched drunkenly up the other bank.
Fifteen paces through the brittle stalks of mown hay to a wooden signboard hung on a frame of two-by-fours. The hated name painted in simple black against a white background. Further south, at the end of the rutted driveway, stood the haunted house.
The can tilted up and gasoline splashed over the wooden beams. The click-clack of a Zippo and a little flame. Laurel and Hardy giggled and shushed each other to be quiet. Fire leapt from the wick and chased around the base of the sign. The arsons howled and ran headlong back to the ditch, falling and clawing back up to the road.
The pickup spun back the way it came, tires skirting the opposite ditch. The engine gunned and the headlights popped back on. Red taillights fading away.
Inside of a heartbeat, the signboard was a bonfire, all Halloween orange against the black night. The paint blistered in the flames, warping and withering the neatly stencilled name.
The house at the end of the driveway remained dark, the windows reflecting the roiling bonfire in the distance. The only other light was a pinprick of orange glowing from the end of a cigar. Over the pop and snap of the fire, was a rhythmic tack of a rocking chair creaking the floorboards.
William Corrigan rocked slow on his veranda and watched the fire burn. No rush for the hose, no call to the firehouse. He puffed on his cigar and rocked and rocked.
19
“HAVE YOU LOST your mind?”
“Maybe.” Jim wiped the sweat from the back of his neck. The breeze from the window did little but blow the humid air around the kitchen.
Emma tilted against the counter, arms folded. Pure murder in her eyes. He couldn’t blame her. Recounting it from the start, putting the details in order, it sounded moronic. A blockheaded ploy to buy Corrigan off with money he didn’t have and Corrigan’s retaliation with a lawsuit. The bastard’s plan to steal their home out from under them. He wouldn’t blame her if she reached for the cast iron pan and brained him with it. Of course that implied that he actually had brains. His current conduct seemed to preclude that assumption.
“Why?” Sputtering, anger tripping up her words. “What in God’s name were you thinking?”
Jim had no answer for her, nothing that seemed sensible. “I was looking for a solution. The guy needs to go.”
“Why is that your responsibility? Let Kate handle it. Or the police.”
“They can’t do anything, honey. He’s too crafty. But if he doesn’t go away, this is going to spin out of control and someone’s gonna get hurt.”
“People aren’t that stupid. Even in this town, they’re not that go after the guy.” Emma opened the fridge and scanned its interior. Closed it without taking anything. “Even if it did come to that, all the more reason to stay out of it. It’s not your responsibility to keep the peace.”
“Then who, Emm? If the cops and the town can’t do anything, who’s left?”
“It doesn’t have to be you!” Her fists tight at her sides. “Who do you think you are?”
Too hot to think straight anymore. Emma turned to the window and pushed the old pane up higher. All it did was let more humid air billow in. Her reflection stretched in the glass, distorting her face like a funhouse mirror.
An orange glow rippled between her funhouse eyes, like a flame burning up in her head. She pressed her hand against the glass to block the kitchen light and peered through the glass.
“Something’s on fire.”
Jim stood behind her and caught sight of the glow. Out the front door to the yard, where he could see better. Across the field was a bonfire waffling flames into the sky. Even from this distance, he could tell it was Corrigan’s sign that was burning.