“Fuck you.”
“I’d have tore his fuckin’ heart out before letting him do what he done,” Wallace said. “You gotta know that.”
The passway had gone very dark. Daniel came close and took hold of Wallace’s ruined leg at the knee. The big man bawled and ground his teeth. Daniel let go. Wallace hunched some and came back winded. Daniel gave him a moment and then he got under Wallace’s arm and hoisted the man up off the fender. Carried him over to the driver’s side door and shoved him into the seat. Wallace took another bump from the canister and tried to catch his breath. Daniel closed the door on him, gauged his path through the blackness between the firs.
“You sure he’s alone?” Daniel said.
“Very much so,” Wallace said.
Tarbell stood pissing in the upstairs toilet with the door wide open. His shotgun lay on the sinkbasin. As he shook his dick he heard the low hum of a car engine. He went down the hall with his weapon and flattened himself against the wallpaper. He looked out long enough to see Clayton’s black Cadillac rolling down the grade. Floodlights showed the grounds but Tarbell couldn’t see clear through the vehicle’s windshield. The car banked right and stopped, the driver side facing the house. The window slid down and there sat Wallace King. He was looking to the windows of the house one by one and when he saw Tarbell he stopped and gazed up at him. Wallace raised a hand and Tarbell nodded.
Tarbell lingered a minute and then walked back down the hall. He passed Clayton’s office on his way downstairs. He went to each of the windows in the front room and moved the drapes an inch. Angled himself to see the entire porch part by part. Nobody was out there. He unlocked and unbolted the security door. Edged it open. He kept the outer cage locked and peered through the steel mesh. Wallace watching him cold across the lot. Tarbell beckoned with the shotgun but Wallace stayed perfectly still. Clayton was not with him. Tarbell panned the grounds and then he shut the door.
He’d got halfway up the stairs when something crashed loud into one of the caged front windows. Windchime tinkling of glass as it fell to the planking. Within seconds the acrid scent of woodsmoke filled the foyer. Tarbell watched dark grey plumes leaking pigtailed from the slatting of the wall, light dancing behind the window-dressing. He made for the weapons room. Heavy footfalls lower on the stairwell as Tarbell reached the landing. He started to raise the scattergun and turn.
Daniel was already on top of him with his fingers around the gunbarrel as he drove Tarbell back toward the wall aside the hallway bathroom. The shotgun hit the plaster and Tarbell couldn’t hold it with one arm and he couldn’t get his finger to the trigger and then the gun was loose. The blonde clawed at Daniel’s eyes and tried to shove him off. Daniel took the smaller man’s head in his left hand and rammed it back against the corner of the bathroom doorframe, let go and drove his left elbow into Tarbell’s eyebrow. Something gave in his face and the man sunk to his haunches. A gash had been hewn into Tarbell’s forehead and it spilled blood and his eyelid worked frantic to clear the pooling red. Daniel picked him up by neck and shirt-collar and carried him into the room. Swung him to the left and then pulled him back and drove Tarbell’s head through the sinkbasin. A half-moon of porcelain broke loose and went with him to the floor.
Daniel hit the downed man again and again and Tarbell did not defend himself even with his good arm. The blonde reached to his hip and then he was sitting up with the buckknife and he dragged the blade deep through the outside of Daniel’s left armpit. Daniel let go and stood up, reeled back stung into the hallway. He stepped on the stock of the shotgun and saw it and picked it up. Looked down at his left arm and tried to work his fingers and elbowjoint.
Tarbell rose full in the doorway with the wet buckknife in his right hand, a chunk of his scalp pushed up like half-laid sod. His orbital bone was fractured and one eyeball sat lower in his face than the other. He came with the knife. Daniel got hold of the shotgun grip in his right hand and he cocked both hammers with his thumb as he raised the weapon up and then he pulled the trigger. Tarbell was not there anymore. Daniel started into the bathroom but he staggered at the threshold. The man was down by the toilet. He’d lost part of his arm and shoulder on the side he was shot.
Daniel leaned heavy against the doorway framing. Drew himself up and went inside. He knelt and reached into the man’s jacket for more shells. Tarbell lay there dying and he spat thick red phlegm at Daniel. He seethed to the end, lonely and hollow soul unready to be sent on. Daniel got up again and broke the shotgun, shook the shellcasings loose and reloaded. He stood over the man and aimed the muzzle at his face. The gun bucked and breathed fire and the head of Tarbell blew apart and painted the room.
Daniel stood over the body until fire climbed to the second floor and licked the windowglass at the other end of the hallway. He let the shotgun drop to the hardwood. By the time he got downstairs the entire front wall of the house curled in flame. Something erupted in a storage closet off the main room and set the floor afire. Daniel covered his mouth and went though a series of corridors that led to the side entryway. He left the house and climbed a rise toward the gravel lot. From across the clearing he could see Wallace slumped over in the front seat of the car, his head turned awkward by the window frame. Daniel turned and walked the other way. Rounded the eastern side of the building and stumbled down the grade toward the shore.
Down and down he went, feet slipping in the grasses. His clothes were soaked through on his left side. Blood pooled warm in his shoe. He’d already gone shades paler and he reached the dock at a stagger. When he got to the end of the dock he lay down, his feet toward the burning house. Fire had taken the back porch. The lake-facing rooms burned behind their burst windows. Smoke poured from the siding and the seams below the roof.
The support beams gave from below the porch and Daniel watched the structure collapse and spill fire out along the hillslope. He had trouble breathing and his heart beat too quick. The lumber below had been soaked through by his blood and now it dropped thick to the cool baywater, dissolved somewhere in the dark. The fire’s reflection played in the lake, spun peculiar colours some feet below the surface. Daniel’s skin hurt from the heat and he reached for water with his good hand, cupped it out and wet his face. Nonetheless, he was shivering as the house sloughed its roof and began to list.
Lying there bloodied, his body wrecked and gone strange with shock, Daniel started to cry. He’d no way to stop it. Daniel sobbed hard enough that he couldn’t see and it took a very long time for him to get his hand up to his face to cover his mouth and stifle the sounds that came out of him. To wipe his eyes clear. He thought that he would die. That he would never see his daughter again. He thought that he would die, but he was not dead yet. Nor was she.
He studied the skies, shifted on the dock and started making feral noises. He rolled back and forth and ground his head against the planking. Bit his teeth together hard. He got up.
FORTY-FIVE
The house burned on while firemen ran hoses to the lake and started pumping water. Constable Smith stood near to the body of Wallace King and watched them douse the flames. Wallace’s shirt was gone. Someone nearly trod in the cordoned off area and the constable took that cop by the collar and shoved him clear. Smith came back and looked at the dead man. He’d known him by sight, known where the man was born, where he lived. Another officer came over to him.
“We got the car,” he said.
“Where?”
“Country Road Six, just outside town.”
“Stay here with Wallace.”
“Sure.”
They found the car in a farmer’s field with mangled fencewire trailing from the undercarriage. Wild brush wound over tortuous in the lines. The tires were torn and flat to the rims. The engine idled yet and thin smoke carried from the tailpipe. A bull roamed beyond, thick-horned and boulder-headed. The animal came up to the car and snorted, watched the constable with black eyes. The constab
le stopped and stared back at the bull, its flicking tail. He drew his pistol and let it hang at his side. The bull sidled on and the constable walked toward the car with his sidearm’s safety off. Three cops followed him.
He passed by the rear, driver-side corner of the car and he couldn’t see anything through the deep-tinted glass. The other cops had their pistols aimed at the vehicle and they were hissing at him to hold up. Constable Smith went calm to the driver door and rapped the muzzle of his sidearm against the window. He reached for the handle and tried it. The door unlatched. The constable hesitated a second and then he pulled the door open.
Daniel sat upright with his chin to his chest, still as could be. One enormous hand hung inside the steering wheel. Scars in the skin. The constable put his fingers to the side of the man’s thick neck. Cold as cellar wood. He held the back of his hand in front of Daniel’s mouth and nose. After awhile he let the hand drop. He knelt to better see the man. The leather upholstery of the seat swamped with blood and Daniel’s left shoulder tied with a tourniquet made from Wallace King’s shirt. Daniel’s own belt fastened around it all. His shoes were thick with beachmud. The constable felt the man’s jeans and the collar of his shirt. All he wore sopping wet except for the tourniquet. The other cops were behind the constable now, holstering their pistols one by one as they took measure of it all.
“He’s long gone,” one cop said.
Constable Smith nodded and got up slow.
“Shot?” asked another.
“No. I don’t think so,” Smith said.
The constable told one of the other cops to call it in and then Smith sent them all down to the road to meet the owner of the farm. The farmer got out of his pickup in his jeans and undershirt and the cops stopped him fifteen feet from the truck before he got close enough to see the damage to his land. They talked him away from the scene. Constable Smith watched the officers go. He had traces of red on his fingers and he wiped them on his pants. The constable leaned his elbows heavy to the roof of the wreck. He stared into the fields, farther yet to the distant town. There were streetlamps gone dark that had been lit when they’d drove out earlier. Somewhere in a valley to the east the sound of heavy engines fired, low growl of truck motors. In the near homes lights had come on here and there. Others still dark throughout. Houses of that town that held sleeping souls and those that slept little or not at all. He could see thin columns of chimney-smoke against the lightening sky.
After a few minutes the constable took his arms off the car. Sunk to one knee again. He looked up at Daniel’s face and exhaled hard. The eyes were closed and he was glad for it. There the constable saw the glint of clean metal and reached up to the dead man’s neck. His fingertips to the cold length of a broken silver chain. In touching it the chain loosed and slid clear off the dead man’s neck but Smith caught it. He took it all up, the links pooling in the ridges of his palm. He stared awhile. Then he pocketed the chain and stood.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This novel wouldn’t ever have been written without the support of my family, in Canada and England, and especially my mother, father, and brother. They are responsible for all of the things that matter in these pages. All well as every other page and line I lay down.
The keen editorial eye of John Metcalf has been on this novel for years now, and he reshaped the book into a much more dynamic and effective work. The single most important thing that happened to me so far in my writing career is Metcalf finding a story of mine in a journal, and calling me up on the phone, and writing to me about it. Without that, and without Metcalf, I might be somewhere, but it sure wouldn’t be somewhere nearly as good. I’ve said it before, but it’s still the truth, that John Metcalf and Biblioasis changed my life. The staff at Biblioasis, including Dan, Chris, Natalie, Meghan, and Casey, and more, have championed my work for awhile now, and they are the real deal when it comes to publishing. Much respect to you all.
Sincere thanks to fellow writers who offered their support to this novel, and for my writing in general. Foremost to John Irving, who has thrown his considerable literary weight behind both of my books, whether in the form of a quote, or an interview, or a kind mention to somebody about the writing. He has also shared some wise words on what I should do with myself as I keep on trying to do this for a living. I am proud to call him a friend. I’ve also been fortunate to have the recent support of Donald Ray Pollock, one of my favourite writers to ever pen a word, as well as Waubgeshig Rice, who kept an eye on the validity of the terrain, and the Jiu-Jitsu. Also, thanks to all of the folks in the literary community at large, in Toronto and elsewhere, who have read and supported my work over the years.
I received funding for this book from the Canada Council for the Arts, the Toronto Arts Council, and the Ontario Arts Council. Without that funding I would be living under a bridge near to the river. Thank you for giving a guy a chance to write some books without having to stop and just lie face-down on the floor while listening to Enya.
Finally, I would like to thank some key readers who helped me get this novel right, including Jenna Illies, Naben Ruthnum, and, to a very significant extent, Kris Bertin. Without the notes I got from them, you’d have a substantially different book, and in writing and revising the work over so many years, I needed their perspective to make sure I’d stayed honest about how good this book was and how good it could eventually be.
Special thanks to Jenna, for putting up with me over so many months. I did not expect you to come into my life, but I am very, very lucky that you did.
In the Cage Page 22