Only Killers and Thieves(93)

“Has she spoke? But she’s alive? You’re sure?”

The dogs barking and lunging when they came back outside: Locke runs them through with his sword. Same quick thrust as he did in the bush, in and then out, flush in the neck, but not before one of them clamps their jaws on his hand.

“Bloody big snake with dog tooth that bugger.”

And how quickly those dogs were cremated, how quickly the bodies were put in the ground. Sullivan reluctant to send for Noone until the house had been cleared, covering his tracks as he went. He’d expected the brothers that night but hadn’t known what they would do, so he’d sent the watchman to meet them just in case. He wasn’t a permanent sentry. He was only there for them.

“The boss says get their guns so I got to get your guns.”

Noone had known. He’d known all along. No footprints, no evidence, neither Mother nor Mary touched. Two horses left behind, the house not ransacked.

“Strange for a man to be ambushed when he was already armed.”

So Sullivan had to pay him. And he’d fixed it so Billy and Tommy would come. Making them complicit in the lie and in the deed, offering them their lives back and drawing them so close they wouldn’t question him again.

“John has his own reasons for making you his boy.”

Joseph, Arthur, the Kurrong: all were innocent. Sullivan had been behind everything, twisting the murder to his own ends. An excuse to clear his station and the surrounding lands, to finish the Kurrong altogether, see the last of them burn. Noone and Locke in his pocket, Tommy and Billy too. All done on their testimony, in their family’s name. MacIntyre had judged it correctly, but he’d judged the wrong side.

“They’ve the Devil in them, Tommy, they’re naught but killers and thieves.”

Tommy stopped in the middle of the road, clutching his stomach, his mouth open in a long and empty howl. He arched his back and gazed pleadingly at the sky, the clouds, at whatever lay above, then trudged up the road to Beau and fell against him, his head on his rib cage, feeling the strength of him, the warmth. He unhitched the reins, dragged himself into the saddle, and circled the horse around. Gaunt faces watching him, in windows, in doorways. As he walked Beau toward the edge of town, he saw a girl step from the shadows in front of Song’s Hardware Store. She stood at the railing and spoke his name, but Tommy did not turn as he passed. He couldn’t bear to look at her. The way she’d said it—innocently, tenderly—it hadn’t sounded like his name at all.

Ahead the sun was falling in the west, and in the low light the earth and sky and all before him was red. He kicked on and rode right into it. Into the redness. Into the sun.





36



From the darkness of the empty hillside a lone horse and rider emerged into the half-light cast by the homestead. Every lantern burning, as they had been long ago, when Tommy first rode up here, Mary slumped in his saddle and strapped to his shirtfront. Now he approached slowly, patiently, walking Beau directly to the staircase, then dismounting and leading him into the shadowy recess beneath the verandah, where he tied him to one of the struts. Whispered to him gently. His hand on his neck, his forehead alongside, as if in prayer to the horse. He backed out of the recess. Made his way up the stairs. Memories of having stood here telling Sullivan his family had been killed, Sullivan nodding sympathetically, then hoisting Mary into his arms. Her little limbs dangling. The bunches in her hair. And Sullivan all the while assuring them that they’d done the right thing bringing her, that Mary would be looked after, that Weeks would take care of her now.

Through the door and into the hall, the house quiet, not even the staff about. He trailed his hand along the green wallpaper, its texture like fur, and fingered the ornate picture frames fringed in golden weave. He paused at the drawing room and listened, then eased open the door. Empty. A low fire burning. The furniture and the ornaments and the strange spectacle of Mrs. Sullivan’s tree. It all seemed ridiculous. Like trappings of a lie. So many lies spoken right here in this room, every word almost—nothing anyone had told him had come close to being true.

In the atrium he cocked an ear and considered the silent house. Filthy and disheveled and dark from the sun, his wild eyes roaming, assessing the terrain. His attention settled on the parlor door. A low hum of voices, a sudden burst of laughter inside. Tommy flinched. Billy was in there, with Sullivan and at least one of Locke or Noone. Tommy’s jaw set. Breathing through his nose. His unfocused gaze slid off the parlor door and fixed itself somewhere on the wall, until the parlor erupted again and his eyes hardened and he set off walking for the stairs.

In Mary’s doorway he stood wondering whether she’d ever been in this room at all. No sign of her remained. The linen clean and white, the furniture neatly arranged, ready for some other guest. Sullivan had carried her up here and laid her down and knew all along it would be her deathbed. Now it was like she’d never lived. For all Mrs. Sullivan’s praying, for all the promises they had made, the only aim had been to keep her from talking until Tommy and Billy were gone.

He backed out of the doorway and went along the corridor, the light from the sconces rippling as he passed. Into his and Billy’s bedroom, their two beds neatly made, the curtains drawn, a square of hall light angled across the floor. At the foot of his bed was a pile of clean clothing, his clothing, the same he had been wearing when they first rode in, and then later, when they’d returned from . . . returned from . . . Timidly he lifted the corner of the shirt. As you would a shroud. His trousers were under there. His old greenhide belt. His father had worn that shirt once, those same trousers, had even cut the belt with his knife. Tommy looked himself over, at Sullivan’s gaudy rags. He stepped into the room, closed the door, began to strip. A difficulty unbuttoning the shirt, a tremor in his hands. Stiffly he dressed, pulling on his moleskins, slipping his bare feet into his boots, cinching his belt tight. Like stepping back into himself, for all that meant. He’d asked the maid to burn these clothes but was grateful that she’d not. They were about the only rightful possessions he owned in this world.