Only Killers and Thieves(97)

Both nodded, their eyes still downturned. Noone took Tommy’s rifle from him and inspected the weapon disdainfully, like he knew not what it was. He gestured to the entrance hallway, the front door. Tommy turned to Billy but Billy’s eyes were on the floorboards and he wouldn’t look up, scowling like he was still trying to fathom what had just occurred. Tommy pitied him. His brother was a fool. He’d taken Sullivan at his word despite knowing his word was false. Greed and pride had got him, had been in him his whole life. Now he stared dumbly at the floor and Tommy knew he was only thinking about himself, about how he’d get by once Sullivan died. Not their own family or the Kurrong or all else they had done. He probably blamed Tommy for ruining things; despite everything, he still wouldn’t consider it justified.

Billy came at him and Tommy flinched, then stood stiffly in his brother’s embrace. Billy’s arms were wrapped around him, his cheek against Tommy’s cheek, holding him so tightly he couldn’t fill a breath. Slowly Tommy melted. His hands crept up Billy’s back. He stretched onto his toes to match his brother’s height and was struck by the thickness of him, like holding Father in his arms, must have been years since the two of them had hugged. He felt his eyes filling. Billy whispered in Tommy’s ear but his mouth was too close to make out what he said. The meaning was clear enough. He was saying a final good-bye. Tommy turned his head onto Billy’s shoulder, then Billy gave him a sudden squeeze, loosened his grip, pressed his lips against Tommy’s cheek, kissed him roughly, and was gone. He didn’t look back once. Took two stairs with each stride, then ran around the landing and along to their bedroom. Tommy stood there sniffing, watching his brother go, crying in front of Noone but he cared little for what Noone thought of him now. Tommy hated him. The man had ruined his life. It crossed his mind that he should try and kill him also, but just the idea of it seemed impossible: Noone would never die.

The parlor door clicked open. Tommy sniffed and dragged a hand over his face, then turned to see Mrs. Sullivan emerge from the room. She closed the door softly and walked to the staircase, paused, and looked at them, her face untroubled, calm.

“He’ll be found in the morning, I expect. I’m going to bed now. Good night.”

Noone inclined his head. “Good night, Mrs. Sullivan.”

“Not anymore,” she said, her mouth ticking briefly in a smile. She climbed the first few stairs, then paused. “Mr. Noone, since you’re still here—I wonder if perhaps you’d attend to the formalities. The official explanations, a plausible chain of events, whatever you feel is best.”

“We were just discussing that very thing. It is already in hand.”

“You’ll be rewarded for your troubles, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Suicide, I was thinking.”

“No, suicide is messy, and a dishonorable way to go. You wouldn’t welcome the taint. I think the best thing for all of us would be to find the man responsible for John’s murder, attempt to arrest him, then kill him when he resists.”

Tommy looked at him, aghast. Mrs. Sullivan said, “You have someone in mind?”

Noone surveyed the atrium, the staircase, the entire house.

“Tell me, Mrs. Sullivan, where does Raymond Locke sleep these days?”





37



They came down the steps together, Noone’s longcoat flaring, Tommy struggling to keep pace at his side. Neither spoke. Tommy felt utterly defeated by the man. At the bottom of the stairs he ducked under the recess, then emerged with Beau and found Noone waiting. “Walk with me to the camp,” Noone said.

“No.”

“Indulge me. It’s a fine night for taking the air. After all that excitement I’d say we would both benefit. And I’m not really asking, Tommy.”

Tommy took a breath, led Beau onto the track, and they set off down the hill. An easy pace, a gentle stroll. After a short distance Noone seemed to remember that he was carrying Tommy’s rifle; he tossed it into the darkness and it was lost among the scrub.

“Quite the scalp you’ve just taken,” Noone said. “Shooting John Sullivan is not the same as shooting most other men.”

“He’s not so different.”

“You don’t think so? When word gets out there will be no little uproar.”

“That’s only ’cause people don’t know what he is.”

“People know exactly what he is,” Noone said, laughing. “Why do you think he’s so revered?”

“Well, you never seemed too bothered by him. Didn’t even care he was dead.”

“Oh, there are plenty more John Sullivans on the frontier, Tommy. And this one had run his course. With the Kurrong finished he’d have been no use to me, but what’s worse is I think the fool had a notion the two of us were friends. I’d have been obliged to him socially, called upon for petty favors. No—you have done me a service. I’m thankful the man’s gone.”

They walked in silence awhile. Out of the glow cast by the house and into the dark no-man’s-land between there and the workers’ camp. Barely the light to see by, to pick out their next step, blindly crunching gravel underfoot. Noone a dark and formless shadow at Tommy’s side, such that his voice came from the darkness, as if the darkness itself spoke.