Only Killers and Thieves(95)

“He came down the house, Billy. Him, not Joseph, and not the bloody Kurrong. He’d found Joseph with them bodies, killed him, took the old five-shot, had it on him when he came. MacIntyre as good as told me. All of it was him.”

Sullivan raised a finger theatrically. “Hold up now, hold up. I seem to remember two boys rode up here a little while back saying it was niggers that had done ’em all in. Said they’d seen it with their own eyes. Swore to it, even. Begging for my help.”

“Them testimonies were false and you know it.”

“Well, then, we’ve all been misled. A dozen myalls, you two told us. Right here in this room. The inspector was a witness. Signed in your own hand.”

The rifle muzzle was sagging. Some weight to keep raised. Tommy hefted it repeatedly and his wounded hand ached. A tremble setting in. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his mind was losing the order of things. All he’d seen so clearly was now mired in fog. He pulled back his shoulders, stiffened, steeled himself again.

“Who was it shot them, you or Locke?”

“Make up your bloody mind, son. Joseph, myalls, me . . . now it’s Locke?”

“Tommy, please,” Billy said quietly. “You ain’t making no sense.”

“Might be he’s got a fever,” Sullivan said. “Could be the rot’s set into that hand. Here, put down the rifle, I’ll send a boy for Weeks.”

“MacIntyre told me . . . told me . . .”

“Ah, that man’s a drunk and a fraud. Doesn’t know what bloody day it is, let alone about anything else.”

“You never sent for Shanklin. Two telegrams went to him, one after the next.”

“Telegrams? What you saying about telegrams? I wasn’t even here, Tommy—I was out there dispersing . . . with you.”

“Weeks sent the second one. On your word. Because Mary saw you. She knew.”

Sullivan laughed and threw up his hands. “The boy’s been drinking himself, I reckon.”

“Why’d you do it? The money? Over a few mangy fucking cows?”

“The why is irrelevant,” Noone said. “Either you want him dead or don’t you.”

“Shut your mouth, Edmund, for Christ’s bloody sake.”

“I’m not the enemy here, John. This was your doing from the start. You underestimated him. He’s the only one capable of seeing through the ruse.”

A silence settled over them. “It’s not true,” Billy said. “It can’t be—”

Sullivan flung back his chair and came lunging for the rifle, and on reflex Tommy fired. Eyes closed as he pulled the trigger, staggering with the kick of it, the report booming around the room, then his eyes were open again and the smoke was swirling and Sullivan was collapsing backward, clutching at his chest. Blood gathered between his fat fingers. Steadily it came. Seeping through the gaps and from underneath his palm, and Sullivan wide-eyed and coughing and gawping around the room. He lifted his hand, peeked under it, the frayed edges of his clothing encircling the ragged wound. He groaned, closed his hand, eyes shifting from Billy to Noone, but neither of them moved from their seats. Billy cupped his mouth and seemed frozen in the pose; Noone met the squatter’s stare with an indulgent smile, a strange kind of reverie broken only by Tommy fumbling in his pocket for another ball.

“Can’t let you do that, Tommy.”

“I got to make sure.”

“That’s not my concern.”

“It ain’t up to you.”

“I’m afraid this time it is.”

Noone opened his longcoat to reveal the ornate silver revolver Tommy had once held. He let the coat fall closed again. Tommy gave up on the ball and Sullivan began grunting horribly, blood and spittle foaming through his teeth, urging Noone to draw.

“You shot him,” Billy mumbled. “Christ, Tommy—what have you done?”

“Ma went to see MacIntyre about the patrols. This bastard killed them for it. That and the money Daddy owed. We told him it was Joseph and he used it for his own ends. He’s always wanted the Kurrong gone.”

Billy stood. He motioned to Sullivan, who was gargling each breath. “But . . . look at the fucking state of him. What are we going to do now?”

“Didn’t you hear what I just said?”

Billy was shaking his head. Eyes damp and fearful. He looked at Tommy again. “You’re a bloody dead man. You’ve just noosed your own neck. Likely mine too.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Noone said, sighing. He clapped his hands on his knees and rose from the chair, scooped the money from the desk and deposited it inside the folds of his coat. “Entertaining as all this is, I’m afraid we must call it a night.”

“You ain’t no different,” Tommy said. “You’re just as bad as him.”

Noone drew his revolver, inspected the cylinder, turning it idly, cartridges in each chamber, a steady clicking sound. “The work we do out here cannot be arbitrary, Tommy. I must have rightful cause. The law demands its justification, and your testimonies were mine. You were my warrant, you and Billy—don’t you see?”

He snapped the cylinder into position and aimed the revolver at Tommy’s head. Sullivan grunted forcefully. The breath wheezing out of him. His shirt soaked in blood.