The Red Line -- Part Three

Some lines shouldn't be so easy to cross.

There’s more to this story. Find it Somewhere in Forge City.

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17 November 1934. 12:25 AM. Liffey Bend, Forge City.

Dr. Callaghan descended the stairs from Limerick Doyle’s private office unsure if he’d done the right thing by spilling his secrets, and equally unsure he would ever feel right about it.

Outside The Clover Tavern, light snow drifted down from an ink black sky, fat flakes briefly aglow as they passed through the cones of light cast down by streetlamps. Callaghan cleared a thin, white veil from the Chevy Master’s hood and headlamps then slipped behind the wheel and listened to the engine idle as he tried to force certainty into the unease that haunted him. He gripped the steering wheel, shut his eyes, and drew in a few deep breaths before he put the car into gear and drove away.

He steered aimlessly through empty streets to clear his head, but at every turn Raymond Clark appeared, smug and self-satisfied. The longer Callaghan brooded on the trap he found himself in, the hotter his anger glowed.

St. Crispin’s limestone spire loomed out of the darkness, thin as a needle, the terne plate on its roof reflecting the silvery moonlight. He had ended up in Harborview, the middle-class neighbourhood where Raymond Clark lived. He squinted through the streaked windshield at passing street signs until he pulled to a stop against the curb diagonally across from a four-storey brick walk-up. Callaghan killed the headlights, then the engine.

A street sign glowing lurid red and black under the neon of a Tamblyn’s pharmacy sign told him he was in the right spot. Anchor and Prescott. He settled back in the driver’s seat. Through the windshield, he fixed his gaze on the top floor of the apartment house and watched it in silence.

He had no idea how much time had passed before a window flared to life. A silhouette appeared and paused, looking out. Callaghan recognized the shape as Raymond Clark.

Callaghan wondered if Clark was the kind of man who would really carry through with blackmail. Anger flared and his cheeks felt hot. He gripped the door handle until it bit into his palm, but he resisted the urge to cross the street, climb the stairs to Clark’s apartment, and beat down the door to thrash the man.

Behind his anger, he sensed something else. Fear.

When the moment came, if he couldn’t talk Clark out of his scheme, could he deliver what he promised Limerick Doyle? He was no stranger to taking such final action. Last time, it was easier. It gave his sister a second chance, and it was just barely a person, so it was hardly murder.

But things were different now. The mayor’s office was the most ambitious goal Callaghan set for himself, and for the first time in his life he stood a better than even chance of failing and he couldn’t stomach it.

That foul taste in his mouth had made it easy to partner with a man like Doyle. He could turn Doyle’s dirty money into the hope and healing that Forge so desperately needed, but it had come with entangling strings and secrets that needed keeping.

Those secrets led to the fear that he was locked on a trajectory he couldn’t change, to the fear that a single murder committed to protect his ambition might metastasize into another to protect his life, and could Callaghan live with what he’d become?

Callaghan recalled the steely glint in Clark’s eyes and saw, if not an equal, at least a kindred spirit. If Callaghan refused to agree to Clark’s demands, he would expose Doyle’s corrupt involvement to Joshua Burback’s Herald Gazette or Turnbull’s Daily Chronicler, either in person or anonymously. Burback and Turnbull would demand proof to back up such scandalous accusations, to shield them from libel, and he would hand over the photos.

Callaghan wasn’t acquainted with Marcus Turnbull, but he knew Joshua Burback. They served on a few municipal boards together. You could set a compass by the man’s morals, and a revelation that Callaghan was in bed with one of Forge’s most notorious criminals would set a bloodhound on his trail, and sell a ton of papers. Callaghan’s face would be all over the evening edition, and no amount of denial or legal action could deflect the tide. His run for the Mayor’s Office would be finished by the end of the week.

A second silhouette joined Clark’s at the window. A woman. Slender. Graceful. Clark turned, slipped his arms around her, leaned down, and kissed her. Money and ambition were powerful motivators, but so was the desire for family. Callaghan recognized what he saw in Raymond Clark because he felt it in himself.

Callaghan shook his head. There was no way Clark would back down, and he was already regretting what had to be done.

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Callaghan pulled the garage door shut behind him. The house was dark and silent, the campaign party long since over and catering crew departed. He hung his overcoat in the hall closet, removed his rubber overshoes then his broughams, and walked like a ghost through the empty house.

The master bedroom was in total darkness but for the sliver of moonlight leaking under the blind. Ivy’s steady breathing was a soft accompaniment to the ticking clock on his nightstand. Callaghan undressed in darkness, dropped his clothes in the hamper, and eased himself gently onto the edge of the bed.

“Thomas?” Ivy’s voice struggled out of sleep.

“Go back to sleep, honey.”

Bed sheets rustled then warm, amber light flooded the room. Ivy sat up in bed.

“It’s almost two in the morning. Where were you?”

“You know where I was.” He stared at the closet door.

The mattress shifted and Ivy rounded the bed in her red silk nightgown, the lamplight tracing highlights along the curves of her full bosom. She stood over him, an expectant look in her eyes.

“What?” Callaghan asked wearily.

“Are you going to take care of things?”

“Tomorrow. I mean, today. I’m not sure which direction things will take, so make sure you’re out of the house.”

She searched his face for resolve as he searched hers for reprieve.

“Remember what we told each other,” she said, “back in that Garland Street flea trap?”

It was their first apartment, where Steel Town blended into The Foundry. He had been a newly minted doctor, and they had come to Forge and changed their names to get away from what had happened in Kingston. $15 a week. It was all they could afford, and that didn’t include hot water. Or the roaches. They’d told each other that they’d get out of that hole together, whatever it took.

Callaghan grasped his wife’s narrow waist and drew her closer. She smelled faintly of her expensive perfume. He kissed her, nuzzled her chest. She stroked his hair and kissed the top of his head.

“Whatever it takes, Thomas,” she said.

Thomas held her closer, but the warmth in her supple body did nothing to ward off the chill that had settled inside him.

---

After a late breakfast, Callaghan excused himself and retreated to his study. He closed and locked the door then settled down behind the desk. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead in his hands for a moment. In a few hours Clark would turn up, and he would reach a crossroads that would change his life forever.

He sat back and surveyed the office. Elegantly appointed, it was the one room in the house that he hadn’t let Ivy decorate. The walnut desk was wide as the deck of a ship. A blotter. A black telephone on the corner. Leather club chairs and a sofa arranged near the bookcase on the wall.

It was his. His private place to think. His sanctuary, and Raymond Clark had violated it. Tonight, one way or the other, things would be set right. Balance would be restored, and he and Ivy could resume their plans. Clark was but a pothole.

He retrieved a small key from his pocket, leaned down, and unlocked the top right desk drawer where he kept his private papers, and the notebook Clark had managed to get access to. There it was, sitting on top of some correspondence from the province’s medical college. He lifted it out and set it on the desk in front of him.

It was a notebook like any other. Red leatherette cover and about 150 lined pages full of important names, dates, telephone numbers, notes to remember, and promises to keep. Callaghan kept the notebook with him at all times. It had been a habit he’d picked up in medical school.

When he had started receiving donations from Doyle’s men, he’d made those notations there, too, afraid to make them in his official ledger for fear of discovery. If anyone happened to innocently glance at an open page of his notebook and see one of them, he could deflect and claim he’d written it down to remember to transfer it to the legitimate ledger.

When he wasn’t carrying the notebook with him, it was locked in his desk at City Hall or here at home. So how had Clark gotten access to it? He couldn’t think of a time when he’d left Clark alone in the house long enough for him to sneak into the office, and even then he’d have to bypass the lock on the drawer. No, Clark had had help. But who? Doyle thought he might know. It was a loose end he would have to follow up on.

Callaghan shuddered at the kinds of people a man like Doyle might know. He put the notebook away, locked the drawer, and concentrated on the problem at hand.

An air lock, the kind he’d described to Limerick Doyle, delivered through a vein would stop a man’s heart and appear as cardiac arrest to any pathologist who didn’t bother to look harder, but delivering the air into a vein was problematic. He needed access to a vein, and Clark wasn’t likely to sit still long enough to be murdered. But there were other ways to take care of business.

He scanned top shelf of his liquor cabinet and his mind started turning over a new idea. His eye fell on a new bottle of Lagavulin. He stood up, crossed the room, and selected the bottle. It had been a gift from a colleague the previous Christmas. A bit strong for his taste, but he’d accepted it graciously. There was enough smoke and peat to mask the taste of just about anything he could add to it.

He replaced the bottle, left his study, and headed across the house for the kitchen. He filled a kettle with water, set it on the burner, and lit the fire then left it to boil.

Upstairs, in his wife’s bathroom, he opened the medicine cabinet and found what he needed. Choral hydrate tablets. He had prescribed them to her as a sleep aid when the stress of the campaign had started keeping her up at night. He opened the bottle and checked the quantity. It was nearly full. He shook out two 500 mg tablets, tipped out one more for good measure, then recapped the bottle and closed the cabinet.

Back in the kitchen, Callaghan rooted through drawers until he found parchment paper, tore off a square, and took a heavy glass from the cupboard. He placed the parchment on a thick wooden cutting board, set the three chloral hydrate tablets on the parchment, folded it over the tablets, then crushed them into a fine powder with the bottom of the glass.

The kettle whistled sharply. He removed it from the heat and turned off the gas.

Carefully, he lifted the parchment and tipped the powder into the glass, took a spoon from the cutlery drawer, then retrieved the kettle and poured a splash of hot water into the glass. The powder swirled and made the water momentarily foggy but quickly dissolved as he stirred it.

He rinsed the spoon well, dried it, and replaced it in the drawer. He balled the parchment, tossed it in the trash, and returned to the glass. The water was still swirling. He picked it up, held it to the light from the window. It was crystal clear with no trace of grit or residue, exactly what was needed to doctor a drink, and make Clark a little more compliant.

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17 November 1934. 8:22 PM. Stonegate, Forge City.

“I’m sorry I’m late, Dr. Callaghan. Judith wasn’t feeling well and I had to run to the pharmacy to pick up a few things for her.”

Raymond tossed his overcoat carelessly across the arm of one of Callaghan’s club chairs.

“Quite all right, Raymond. A good woman is hard to find and if you take care of her, she’ll take care of you. Drink?”

“Have you had time to think over the arrangement I proposed yesterday?”

“I have. I offered you a drink, Raymond.”

Clark waved impatiently.

“Sure,” he said. Was that a hint of anxiety at the edge of Raymond’s voice? Callaghan smiled tight, humourless. “What determination have you made?”

Callaghan set two glasses on the cabinet’s bar, poured the whisky, and handed one to Clark then waved him over to one of the club chairs.

“Where are we at in the polls?” Callaghan asked, easing himself into his chair after a sip of the Lagavulin.

Clark sniffed the drink, took a sip, and made a face.

“Strong stuff,” he said.

“And good. It takes a long time and a lot of craftsmanship to produce what you’re holding in your hand. You were just starting high school when they filled the cask and laid that spirit to sleep.”

Clark lifted it to his lips and took a sip, then a larger one.

“So, what have you decided, Doctor?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“The polls are virtually unchanged. You’re running a dead heat with Kerr and half a point behind Strickland.”

Callaghan sipped his drink and nodded.

“I’ve thought about your proposal,” Callaghan said, forcing himself to remain calm. “Let’s call it what it is: your threat of blackmail. The way I see it, right now all you have are some pictures. You don’t have any real proof that the donations came from criminal sources. What you have is rumour and innuendo. I could refuse your offer, let you go public, and deny everything.”

Clark’s cheeks flushed and his face darkened. He started to speak, but Callaghan raised his hand to silence him.

“I’ve built a lot of good will over the last couple years in Council,” he said. “In a race this tight, with so much at stake, rumour and innuendo are enough to ruin any chance of victory. I have plans for this city, Clark. Big plans. I thought you believed in them.”

“I do. But also, I believe in getting paid and putting myself first.”

“There it is.”

“What?”

“I’ve built up a good life in this town, Clark. I’ve done what it took to get where I am, and I can see that you believe in the same things. You won’t stop until you get what you think you deserve. You won’t let anyone stand in your way.”

“No. So stop dancing around the question, Doctor: Are we going to be partners, or will I have to take my rumour and innuendo to someone who has the resources to dig up the real dirt?”

Callaghan considered his words. He had to be careful.

“Politics runs on loyalty,” he said. “I always reward loyalty. If I agree to this partnership, you will remain loyal, won’t you?”

Clark settled back in his seat and swallowed the Lagavulin in his glass.

“Of course, Doctor,” he said. “I can be loyal, provided we can come to an agreement.”

Callaghan swallowed the rest of his drink, took Clark’s glass and returned to the cabinet. He set the glasses down and half-turned left to face Clark, slipping his right hand into his trouser pocket.

“You asked for a lot. Here’s what I can offer you. I will appoint you as my executive assistant and you will accept whatever salary council approves. The campaign donations you had your eye on are virtually spent, so there’s nothing there for you, but the Red Line is far from complete and there are other projects in the pipeline. The connections I have now will remain in place when I’m mayor and I can see to it that you get a piece of whatever kickbacks I negotiate with Doyle.”

Callaghan slid his hand out of his pocket as he turned back to the liquor cabinet. He twisted off the cap of the small glass vial he’d palmed.

“Is that a satisfactory arrangement?” he asked, his back to Clark.

There was a moment of silence. Callaghan’s heart thumped.

“I think I can live with that,” Clark said.

Callaghan tipped the chloral hydrate dope into Clark’s glass, capped the vial, and pocketed it. He poured more whisky and handed Clark his glass.

“Then everything you deserve is on its way,” he said. “There’s plenty of money to go around for those who work for it.” He toasted Clark. “Let’s seal the deal.”

Raymond smiled, clinked his glass against Callaghan’s, then tipped the glass to his lips and swallowed the entire drink.

They talked for another twenty minutes or so before Clark decided it was time to leave. He tried to stand but barely lifted off the seat. He set the glass on the edge of the side table between them and it tipped to the floor.

“I’m sorry, Doctor. I…” He braced himself to stand up, but his hand slid right off the arm, and he collapsed back into the chair.

“That whisky hit me harder than I expected,” he said. “I think I should head home.”

Callaghan set his glass down. “I’ll call you a cab, son,” he said, pushing himself to his feet. “You’re in no condition to drive.”

“Doctor, I feel…I don’t feel right.”

Callaghan lifted Clark to his feet.

“You just need a rest, Raymond,” he said. “Here. Let me help you to the sofa.”

Callaghan draped one of Clark’s arms over his shoulders and helped him stand. He walked Clark over to the leather sofa in front of the bookcase and laid him down, arranging a pillow under his head.

“I don’t know what…what’s wrong with me…” Clark said.

Callaghan returned to his desk, opened one of the bottom drawers and pulled out a leather case.

“You just can’t hold your liquor, Raymond,” he said, unzipping the case. He opened it on his desk. “Nothing to be ashamed of.”

Clark gazed over at the desk. “What’s that?”

“Nothing.” Callaghan lifted the telephone receiver off the cradle but held by his side. “Just relax. Take a nap. You’ll feel right in half an hour. Meanwhile, I’ll book a cab for you.”

“Okay…”

Callaghan raised the handset to his ear.

“Operator. Hello? Hello. Is someone there? This is the Operator.”

“Green and Yellow Taxi, please.” Callaghan didn’t take his eyes off Clark.

“One moment.”

The line clicked twice then rang.

“Green and Yellow Cabs,” said a man’s brusque voice. “What’s the pickup location?”

Callaghan gave him the address, still watching Clark closely. His chest rose and fell slowly. “I need a cab here in about half an hour. One passenger.”

“Where to?”

“Harbourview. Anchor and Prescott.”

“Got it. Anchor and Prescott. Thirty minutes.”

Callaghan hung up. He sat down at his desk and looked at the leather case open on his desk. It contained a length of rubber tube and a syringe. He picked up the syringe and uncapped it then pulled back the plunger. Clark was sleeping soundly on the sofa.

“You goddamned fool,” he said, breath low.

Callaghan took the rubber tube, syringe, and stethoscope to the sofa, set them on the end table and dragged the club chair over. He sat down and draped the stethoscope around his neck then gently took hold of Clark’s arm. He stirred, moaned softly, but offered no resistance. Carefully, he unbuttoned Clark’s sleeve and rolled it up past his elbow then laid it in his lap.

He deftly wrapped the length of rubber tube around Clark’s bicep and formed a tourniquet, watching the vein engorge. He picked up the syringe, lowered the needle to the vein and hesitated half a second before sliding it in.

Clark stirred but remained heavily sedated. Callaghan pushed the plunger, injecting 20 CCs of air into the vein. He collapsed the vein ahead of the puncture with his index and middle fingers and with his ring finger and thumb he held the needle hub and twisted the syringe free with his dominant hand and pulled the plunger back then twisted it back into the needle and pushed again. Callaghan ignored the hammering inside his chest, repeating this over and over, patiently counting off the measure of air he was pumping into Clark’s system.

Clark roused on the last injection.

“What?” he lifted his head, tried to focus his eyes.

“Lie back.”

“Doctor…I don’t…I can’t…”

“Lie back. This will only take a second.”

Callaghan pushed the final 20 CCs of air into Clark’s vein, then removed the syringe and needle and started counting. Clark tried to sit up, but Callaghan pushed him firmly back onto the sofa.

“What the hell…?”

“Just relax, Raymond. It will all be over soon.”

“What are you…”

Clark stiffened, clawed at Callaghan’s arm, and tried to draw a breath, then fell back against the sofa. Callaghan calmly watched Clark’s face, listened to his strained breathing. He fitted the stethoscope into his ears and held the chestpiece over Clark’s heart. It was thumping erratically, desperate to pump air the accumulating in the chambers, which it couldn’t do effectively.

Clark went limp and his heart thumped once, twice more then fell silent. Callaghan listened with eyes shut, hearing only the clock on his desk snap off each second. Callaghan listened for another minute, then opened his eyes. Clark lay on his sofa, eyes open and staring at the ceiling.

“You God damned fool,” Callaghan said. “You made me do this. You had to know there was no way I was going to let you control me. A man can’t serve two masters.”

He shoved himself to his feet, draped the stethoscope over his neck, and returned to the desk. He raised the telephone handset to his ear and waited.

“Operator.”

“Green and Yellow Taxi.”

“One moment, please.”

The line clicked twice and the dispatcher’s voice answered the call.

“Green and Yellow Cabs. Pick up location?”

“I called a few minutes ago about a to Anchor and Prescott. I need to cancel that ride.”

The dispatcher said nothing for a moment, and the line filled with background chatter of cabbies waiting for orders.

“Got it. You sure you want to cancel?”

“Yes. My guest has found another way home.”

“You got it.”

The line clicked and went dead. Callaghan replaced the handset on the cradle, then lowered his head into his hands.

“Whatever it takes,” he whispered to himself, and drew in a shaky breath.

“Darling, you won’t believe who I bumped into down at the markets this afternoon!”

The bottom fell out of Callaghan’s stomach as Ivy traipsed into the study.

“Ivy!” he snapped. “I told you to stay the hell out of the house.”

“You invited him over for eight. It’s past nine. What happened?” She glared at Callaghan. “Couldn’t work up the nerve to do it?”

Callaghan bit back a surge of anger as he rummaged in Raymond’s pocket. She caught sight of Raymond’s limp legs and followed them up to his slack mouth and half-closed eyes. Her breath caught in her throat, horror frozen in her blue eyes.

“What’s the matter, darling?” he asked. “Did something about whatever it takes turn your stomach?”

He held Raymond’s car keys out to Ivy. She recoiled as if he were holding a roach.

“What do you want me to do with those?”

“You’re part of this now, darling,” he said. “Someone has to dispose of his car.”

Ivy hesitated. Callaghan jangled them at her.

“Take them!” She shook her head. “Do you want to go back to Garland Street?”

She walked on wooden legs and snatched the keys from him. “Now what?”

“Go upstairs and pack a bag for the weekend then take Clark’s car from the garage and drive down to Burgess Wrecking and Scrap. It’s one of Doyle’s businesses. Park it outside the gate. Make up a story for the attendant. Your car broke down or something and you need a taxi.”

“Okay. Where will I go?”

“Get a room at the Sebastian Hotel and stay there until I come for you.”

Ivy’s eyes lingered on Raymond’s still body.

“What are you going to do with that?”

“I’m going to call Doyle’s trashmen.”

She crossed the room toward Callaghan on awkward legs, as if shoved from behind. She kissed him mechanically.

“I’m sorry I messed up,” she said. “I’ll do what you tell me to do.”

Callaghan caressed her cheek, gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“Get going. We have an election to win.”

Ivy disappeared through the door, leaving Callaghan alone with Raymond.

Callaghan crossed to the desk and picked up the phone one last time. His fingers hovered for a second, then dialed a number from memory. On the third ring, a quiet voice answered.

“It’s Dr. Callaghan. Tell Doyle I need him to send some trashmen over. There’s a mess that needs cleaning.”

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Kevin Coleman writes crime fiction from the cold edges of Canada. He tells stories about schemers caught in the long shadow of consequence.

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© 2025 Kevin M. Coleman

Disclaimer
This article is an original work by Kevin M. Coleman. All rights are reserved. No part of this article may be copied, stored, or reproduced in any form — including but not limited to use in training artificial intelligence or machine learning systems — without the author’s express written permission.