LITMIR.BIZ

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running towards him with a bucket. Taking his cue from the old man, McCloskey raced to the well and started pumping water into the bucket that hung from the spout. Lesperance arrived, breathless, just in time to exchange his empty one for McCloskey’s overflowing one.

      The old man shuffled over to the cabin and tossed the water through a broken window. Steam, smoke, and sparks billowed out in a thick, noxious mixture. He shouted over the roar of the flames, “Let it burn, Jack.”

      “No,” he replied, “might be kegs under the floor.”

      Or money, McCloskey was thinking. He ran to the cabin and doused a section of shingles curling in the flames. The walls shuddered and the roof collapsed. He jumped back and turned away as a geyser of sparks shot up into the night sky. It got dark quickly after that, quiet too. McCloskey ran inside the house to fetch a lantern.

      The place was a wreck. Chairs were overturned and cabinet drawers were spilled out onto the floor. He found the lantern and then gave a holler up the stairs.

      “Pa? Billy?”

      Nothing. He switched a light that hung outside the kitchen door and stepped back into the yard. His eyes fell on a set of drag marks in the loose dirt and gravel. They appeared to run in the direction of the cabin. He turned to Lesperance.

      “Did you see anyone here tonight?”

      The old man shook his head. “I just got home.”

      McCloskey started fiddling with the lantern. Lesperance approached him tentatively.

      “You back for good, Jack?”

      McCloskey looked at the old man sideways. He was a cagey fellow and McCloskey was never sure how far he could trust him.

      “You know, Jack … it might be dangerous here for you.”

      McCloskey got the lantern going and went over to the cabin. He could see parts of a whisky still poking through the glowing rubble, as well as various tools, jars, and jugs.

      “Hold this.”

      He handed Lesperance the lantern then ran over to the garden and grabbed a shovel. He pulled down what was left of the cabin walls then stepped carefully into the smouldering ruin. He couldn’t remember exactly where the trap door was. He used the shovel to leverage larger pieces of the cabin off the floor then kicked the rubble aside.

      He saw something. Boots, two pair pointing up at different angles.

      “Shine it over here.”

      McCloskey moved faster, trying to gently lift the brittle framework and then … overalls, burned flesh, a lifeless hand, and a face still expressing what must have been the body’s last agonizing moments. McCloskey went numb and the shovel dropped from his hands.

      He became acutely aware of the darkness surrounding him, penetrating everything. It was in his father’s and brother’s dead eyes, the inky blackness of the river, and the farmland that stretched beyond the fading glow of the lantern. His knees felt weak. He was teetering at the edge of an abyss buried deep inside him, the same one he had fallen into after the war.

      And then something snapped and he was like a machine kicked into overdrive.

      “Did you call anyone before you left the house?”

      “No, Jack, no one.”

      McCloskey couldn’t tell if he was lying. “Make the call after I’ve left,” he said. “Tell the police I hit the road while you were walking back to your house. And you have no idea where I could’ve gone to.”

      “It won’t look good, Jack.”

      “I have to get to Clara before anyone else does.”

      He looked down and noticed his torn pants and burnt shoes.

      “Wait here a minute.”

      He ran into the house. Upstairs he found some of his old clothes in a heap. He picked up a brown suit, a shirt, and a pair of heavy shoes. There was some soap and water on a table in his father’s room. He quickly scrubbed the black off his face and hands, dressed, and ran back downstairs.

      Lesperance had his head cocked towards the road. “A motor,” he said.

      “Cops?”

      “I can’t tell.”

      McCloskey ran to his vehicle. “Don’t mention Clara,” he said and started the engine. “Understand me?”

      “Who did this, Jack?”

      McCloskey ignored the old man. He dropped the clutch, shifted into reverse, and did a half-circle around him. Lesperance ran up to McCloskey and grabbed his arm.

      “They were expecting you, you know.”

      The approaching car could be heard clearly now.

      “Tell Clara what you got to tell her then get out of town.”

      McCloskey yanked his arm away, shifted out of reverse, and headed up the path. When he turned onto Front Road he could see the headlights of the other vehicle in his mirror. He kept glancing up until he saw it turn onto the property.

      He couldn’t get away from the image of their faces in the charred rubble. He twisted his hands around the steering wheel until it nearly snapped apart.

      At the highway junction he continued north along the river road. Wanting to avoid the downtown he took the Huron Line to Tecumseh Road, the back door into the Border Cities.

      Several cars were parked outside the Elliott Hotel and a couple of guys were keeping watch by the road. McCloskey turned his face as he drove past.

      Thoughts began to ricochet inside his head. Who was behind this? If he had gotten to Ojibway sooner, could he have saved them? Was Sophie still safely on her way to Montreal? The bell of a locomotive engine got him focused again. He slowed down while crossing the tracks and then kept an eye on the side streets along Tecumseh.

      There was a box of cigars on the seat next to him. He fumbled one out, bit off the end, and spat it onto the road. He found a match in the box as well, struck it on the dashboard, held the flame to the tip of the cigar, and took a few quick drags until it had a nice orange glow. The aroma filled the car. It helped calm his nerves.

      Years ago on summer nights like this, he and his father would sit on the porch after Billy went to bed and just talk. Sometimes all Jack could see was the orange glow of his father’s cigar floating back and forth as he rocked in his chair. The conversation would start with Jack telling his father what trouble he had gotten into that day. Then his father would start with his own stories.

      He wanted to avoid the Avenue so he turned left up McDougall instead, rumbling over the train tracks at Hanna and then gliding passed the rows of idle factories. He slowed at Giles Boulevard, where these factories gave way to little wooden bungalows. He was thinking he shouldn’t leave the car anywhere near Clara’s, so at Erie Street he pulled in behind City Garage. McCloskey hoped Orval wouldn’t sell it or use it for parts before he got back to him.

      Erie was quiet; most of the dwellings above the shops were dark. McCloskey moved swiftly through the shadows. He darted across the Avenue and when he reached Pelissier Street he ducked in the doorway of the building opposite Clara’s apartment.

      On hot, humid nights like this, one could almost hear people sighing in their beds. McCloskey took one last drag on his cigar, walked up to the front door, and found the name on the register. He pushed the buzzer — three times fast then once. The door clicked open.

      He slowly climbed the stairs to the second floor and paused in the dim light of the hall before knocking. He heard the clunk of the deadbolt inside the lock and then the door slowly swung open. When she recognized who it was, she threw her weight behind the door. McCloskey stopped it with his foot.

      “What do you want?” she hissed.

      “It’s about Billy.” He inched closer to the door. “Can I come in?”

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