by Brett Riley
On the walk ahead, a mother covered her children’s bodies with her own. A father grabbed a toddler before she could blunder into the mare’s path. When Troy passed, the adults picked up the children and ran for the nearest doorway.
Troy tied the reins around his left hand and turned again, aiming for Ford’s center mass. His finger tightened on the trigger.
Dang it, Santonio, are y’all still with me or not?
Ford veered his horse onto the far sidewalk, scattering citizens. A girl of no more than eight crouched in his path, hands over her head, screaming. The hunter sawed his reins again, and the horse careened back onto the street, missing the girl by inches.
Long fired, the bullet whinging by Troy’s face. He spurred the mare harder and harder, the buildings and citizens no more than a blur. Bullets whizzed by every few seconds as they passed south of Tulane.
I’ll do my part, Ford had said.
So will I, Long had added.
But what had they meant?
Wagons on the road ahead. Troy weaved between them, the drivers shouting in surprise, the harnessed horses nickering. Had his own mount left swatches of hair on the boards, the nail heads?
Santonio and LaShanda can’t fire with all these folks here. But if a wagon drifts at the wrong time, they won’t need to.
Ford and Long were still shouting for him to stop in the name of Royster and Matthew Rook and the Crusade. And if he could hear it, so could all these citizens, who would spread the word, as people do. Perhaps, if this chase accomplished nothing else, it would measure the city’s true temperature.
Troy passed a wagon on his left, avoiding another collision by a hair. Behind him, a crash and a startled cry. He turned. Ford was riding sidesaddle and struggling to throw his leg back over and into the stirrup as the wagon spilled its contents through a hole in its side. Ford’s roan bled from its flanks. The hunter had almost crippled himself, had nearly killed his horse. He regained his saddle and aimed, fired. The round whined past Troy. Ford reloaded.
They approached the Huey P. Long Bridge. The river flowed below it, patrol boats maneuvering around floating bodies as if they were logs. A handful of citizens bathed near the water’s edge, despite the corpses. They heard the shots and looked up as Troy galloped onto the bridge, leading Ford and Long by perhaps forty yards.
Troy reined up, and the horse skidded to a halt, blowing hard, its sides slick with sweat. He leaned over and whispered into her ear. Good luck, girl. This ain’t your fault or your fight.
As Ford and Long reached the foot of the bridge, Troy dismounted, drew, and fired on them. Their animals bucked as his bullets zinged off the pavement. Then they dismounted and pulled their horses to the ground, taking refuge behind them. Whinnying in protest, the animals tried to raise their heads. Long reloaded as Ford talked to his horse, probably trying to calm it, and propped his rifle on the animal’s side.
Give it up, Long shouted. You got nowhere to go.
Troy fired, the round striking the pavement between their horses. Then he swatted the mare’s hindquarters. It charged Ford and Long’s position, and in the moment that it blocked their view, Troy stepped over the side of the bridge and jumped.
He kicked and flailed, unable to stop himself, the river rushing up to meet him, its waters frothing. Wind tore past him and into his nose, inflating his lungs until they felt ready to burst. His stomach rose into his throat. A young guard stood up in his skiff and watched Troy plunge. For a moment, they seemed to lock eyes.
Close your mouth, kid. You could catch a ten-pound bass in there.
Then he hit the water. The impact smashed the sense out of him. Something in his knee popped. Cold water rushed over him. He expelled half his breath in the shock. Bullets cut the water all around him, their sound like someone’s palm striking the surface.
His satchel, still tied to his back, pulled him down and down.
Three hours later, from the foot of the bridge, Ford and Long watched the search parties’ torches sweeping the banks, the nearby streets, the river itself, these latter lights bobbing with the currents. Royster stood nearby, giddy. He even clapped Ford and Long on their backs and congratulated them. Benn sat his horse behind them, directing the searchers. Clemens was out there somewhere, his guns unstrapped, ready to burn Troy down if the lord of order should be found alive. No sign of Tetweiller or Hobbes. Long had barely seen Boudreaux in days, and what she had seen, she had not liked. He had looked gaunt, haunted, older. He still refused to discuss what had happened across the river. Long prayed for him every night and morning.
You think we hit him? Ford said. His expression was blank, but his voice quavered, just a little.
Long watched the search a while longer. I know I grazed him, and I’m pretty sure you did too. But once he hit the water? No way to know.
Royster approached. He put a hand on each of their shoulders. You have done us all a great service, he said. The Crusade thanks you. But now I must leave you. Much is left to do. He turned to the nearest Crusader. Kill that red mare. Then take a detail to Lord Troy’s house and burn it. I want no trace of that traitor to remain by morning.
A Crusader grabbed the mare’s reins. The gathering crowd buzzed. It stretched back two blocks. On the front line, Mordecai Jones stood with his arms folded, his hat tipped back. Long did not like the look in his eyes—baleful, like a hungry wolf’s. Even from a distance, tension radiated off him like heat. Tommy Gautreaux held vigil at Jones’s left, his salt-and-pepper beard hanging halfway down his chest, his prodigious gut puddling over his belt, his thumbs tucked into his pockets. To Gautreaux’s right, Antoine Baptiste sneered, his skin glistening with sweat. His shirt, open at the throat, revealed his thick neck and powerful pectorals. He looked as if he wondered how Long’s bones might taste. On the other side of Jones, tall, beanpole-thin Laura Derosier’s face was expressionless, her straight brown hair blowing in the wind.
Long turned away. Down on the banks, no one hailed them. No shots were fired. No one hallooed. For the moment, Gabriel Troy had disappeared.
Downriver, the lord of order dragged himself out of the water near Evangeline Road. A mounted figure waited on the pitch-black street. If he’s hostile, Troy thought, I reckon I’m done. Something had torn in his right knee, and the scrapes on his scalp and arm oozed. Every muscle ached. He had never been so tired in his life.
The figure trotted forward, face obscured by a bandana and a hat pulled low. Troy bent over, both hands on his good knee, breathing hard. The rider shook his head. Then he pulled off his bandana, revealing a weathered, sun-blasted face, wrinkles like cracked earth, a scruffy white beard.
You look like ten pounds of shit in a five-pound bag, Ernie Tetweiller said.
Troy coughed and sputtered and vomited river water. In the distance, the glow of many torches shimmered faint and ephemeral like a veiled lantern. You got the rest of my stuff? Troy croaked, wiping puke from his mouth with his shirtsleeve.
Right here, the old man said. He squinted at Troy. Sweet Lord above. Did somebody actually shoot you?
Troy winced. A hive of angry bees swarmed in his knee. His lower leg felt cold and numb, yet his scalp and arm were afire. They grazed me a couple times, he said. Plus, I think I ripped up my knee. Maybe worse. Got no idea how I’m gonna make it all the way to the sisters’ on foot.
Tetweiller dismounted and took Troy’s arm, leading him to the horse. Here’s how.
Troy did not protest. Tetweiller was old and limped worse every day, but Troy had seen him walk across the city in July, gunning down Troublers while his left leg pile-drove the ground. He could manage a few miles.
Troy grabbed the pommel. How’d you get this horse around the Troubler line?
Tetweiller got behind Troy and pushed him into the saddle. Stole him from a house down the road a piece. When you get to the sisters’, let him go. He’ll find his way home, i
f some fool guard don’t shoot him.
Together they clopped off, two half-lame men and a stolen horse.
Near the sisters’, Hobbes walked out of a shadowed doorway, holstering his pistols. He saw Troy and grunted. Gonna punch Santonio Ford in the throat.
He helped Troy off the horse. Troy tried not to moan too much. They did the best they could, Troy said through gritted teeth. We were ridin hard over uneven ground.
Hobbes scoffed. Tenderized you like a steak, didn’t they?
They could have shot me in the back. They didn’t.
Hobbes grumbled as he took the reins. Troy limped toward the entrance. When Hobbes started to hitch the horse, Troy said, Ernie stole him. Just turn him loose.
Hobbes led the animal away from the post and slapped it on the hindquarters. The horse whinnied and broke into a trot, heading back the way they had come. Hobbes walked over and draped Troy’s arm around his neck. Together they ascended the steps and opened the doors. Inside, Sister Jewel, Sarah Gonzales’s right hand, scurried up and washed the blood from Troy’s face with a rag, walking backward and never missing a step. She even turned at the altar as if she could see it through the back of her head. Hobbes helped Troy sit while the nun ministrated, keeper of a dim and smoky temple to a God of mystery and ritual, her face lined with care and sun, her age indeterminate, her movements quick and economical, dabbing blood and dirt from flesh as a chick pecks feed from the ground. She stepped out for a moment. When she came back, she carried a basin and bandages, a wet rag draped on her shoulder. Hobbes helped Troy remove his shirt. Sister Jewel cleaned the shoulder wound, a two-inch gouge, dark about the edges with crusted blood. She poulticed and dressed it as well as any physician Troy had ever known. Then she went to work on his head.
Troy looked at Hobbes, who stood by the flickering votives, and raised his eyebrows. Hobbes nodded.
We’ve long suspected the sisters have been patchin up Troublers. Jewel’s good enough to support that theory. Not that it matters anymore.
Sister Jewel knotted the bandage. Skin off them britches, she said.
Groaning and moving as if he were a hundred years old, Troy unbuttoned his pants. Sister Jewel pulled them down, easing them over his knee. It already looked as big as a mushmelon. As she wrapped the knee, the back door opened again. Sister Sarah Gonzales entered, holding folded clothes. Lynn Stransky followed, her hair and clothes freshly washed. She winked at Hobbes, who turned from her, stone-faced.
Troy smiled. She really does get to him. In another world, they might have made a good couple. Who knows? Maybe they still can. The future was unspooling before them like a night highway, twists and turns and precipices and dead ends.
Troy wanted to cover himself, but if Sister Sarah felt uncomfortable, she gave no sign. She handed him the clothes and inspected Sister Jewel’s work.
Stransky peered over Sarah’s shoulder and whistled. Nice legs, she said.
Then she threw her arm around Hobbes, who stiffened and clenched his jaw. Troy could not be sure in the dim light, but he would have sworn Hobbes was blushing. Probably the first time a woman’s touched him that way. If we had all just been born other people or in some other world. That’s all it would have taken—for every single thing in our lives to have been different.
Sorry about all this, he said to Sarah. I know it’s a risk.
She glanced at him and then turned away. We risk ourselves every time we open these doors.
When they were done, Troy pushed himself off the pew, setting his jaw against the stiffness in his violated limbs, and managed to put on the fresh clothes without aid, though he could barely get the pants over his knee.
Thank you, he said. These fit right fine.
Sister Sarah nodded. I had to guess your size.
Troy squeezed her shoulder. Then Sister Sarah put her arms around him. He embraced her. Her heartbeat thumped against his chest, her breath on his neck, the tips of her fingers tracing his ribs. He tried to think of the habit’s coarse fabric rather than the way her breasts pressed against his chest, how her cheek felt on his shoulder.
After a moment, they let go. She stroked his cheek with the back of her hand, her breath quickening. Her eyes fluttered as she blinked away tears. She looked away. Vaya con Dios, Gabriel.
Troy nodded. His throat felt like he had swallowed raw cotton.
Sister Sarah helped Sister Jewel gather their materials and his ruined clothes. Together, without another word, the nuns exited through the back door.
No one spoke for a moment. Then Stransky sighed. You’re both damn fools.
Troy turned back to Hobbes. They’ll be watchin you and Ernie even closer now. Assume somebody’s tailin you every second. Tell Ernie the same.
Hobbes frowned. Ain’t gonna be able to squirrel away a single bullet. Might as well come with you.
Troy shook his head. Conviction’s more dangerous than bullets. Spread the word. Be watchful. And be ready.
One thing we ain’t established. How will we know when to make our move?
It’s best if we don’t get too particular. But believe me—everybody in town will know when it’s time.
Hobbes stuck out his hand. Troy shook it. Stransky hugged Hobbes again. Troy wondered if the deputy would break her jaw. Instead, after a moment’s hesitation, Hobbes hugged her back.
If that don’t beat all. It looked about as natural as a bear riding a horse.
Hobbes caught him looking and pulled away, clearing his throat. Stransky patted the deputy lord’s cheek, grinning.
You better get back before they notice you’re gone, Troy said.
Okay, Hobbes said. He tipped his hat. Ma’am.
Troy watched him go. I hope I see you again this side of heaven, my friend.
Stransky shook her head. Ma’am, he called me. Jesus Christ. She turned to Troy. You ready for this?
Ain’t got no choice.
If you’re playin me, my people will rip you apart.
I’d expect nothin less.
She clapped him on the shoulder—his wounded arm. He winced. Okay, then, she said. Let’s go get ready to pick a fight.
20
Boudreaux tried to ignore the prisoners’ moans, the stink of their fouled garments, the drone of flies buzzing over buckets of human waste. On the table before him lay an emaciated wretch. But for a few scraggly patches, the man’s hair had fallen out. His limbs were pine straw. The roots of his eight or ten remaining teeth showed. The rest lay on an old steel tray flecked with blood and rust. Boudreaux gripped the pliers hard, hoping they would break, but LaShanda Long’s smiths had made them well. Damn her for that. Damn her smiths. Damn me too. Me most of all.
Clemens whispered in Boudreaux’s ear. Don’t stop now. You’re getting to the good part.
This is hell, all right.
On the march, a guard’s canteen had disappeared. It had fallen to Boudreaux and Clemens to interrogate certain prisoners who had been chained in the vicinity. Of course, Clemens had only the guard’s word that the canteen had even existed. Perhaps the man had lost it or even thrown it away so someone would end up in a place such as this, facing someone like Boudreaux. For all anyone knew, the guard held some personal grudge against certain prisoners. Or perhaps he was just sadistic. Yet his word had been enough.
This man was somebody’s precious babe once. And now he’s here. His whole life led him to me, his destiny so certain it might have been prophesied in the Testaments. What kind of plan is that, and what kind of abominable god would conceive it?
The skeleton strapped to the torture table knew nothing about the canteen. That had been clear as soon as they had dragged him in by his wrists and thrown him on the table like a cut of meat. Yet there lay the man’s teeth, and here were the pliers, in Boudreaux’s hand. Because you had to ask. And ask. And ask again, each question punctuated with misery, until
you heard the answer you wanted to hear. That was Boudreaux’s job now.
Once, he would have laughed at the very idea of a Crusader thief. Why steal when everybody had plenty? The notion would have seemed as foreign and exotic as a mountain in the Quarter. But now, after so many trips to this blight of a room, he could believe anything about anyone. Especially himself. He no longer recognized the face in his mirror—the hollow eyes, the gaunt cheeks, the oily and unkempt hair. The things he had done had poisoned his dreams, his faith. No love or charity here. No godliness, unless God’s insane. If this is justice, it’s sick and perverted. So are my friends, who passed me this cup. None of them so sick as me. Boudreaux had fallen to his knees night after night, begging God to give him a sign, to strike him down rather than let him hurt another person. Yet God had been silent, and for the first time in his life, Gordon Boudreaux could not accept the mystery. He had no one to lean on, no one to share his pain with. It seemed to matter little whether the Crusade drowned New Orleans or if Troy succeeded. Everyone was vile. Everything was senseless.
He isn’t going to tell us anything, Clemens said, if you plan to bore him to death.
Boudreaux clenched his teeth and managed not to twist Clemens’s nose off with the pliers like one might yank a bent nail out of a wall. Instead, he grabbed the man’s face and held the pliers an inch from his eyes. What was the prisoner’s name again? It had seemed so important before they—he—began pulling teeth. He searched his memory and finally found it.
Mister Potrello, he said. You can make it stop. Just tell us. Did you steal that canteen, or do you know who did? It’s one or the other, sir. You were chained right there.
The man tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat. He rasped and stared at Boudreaux without really seeing. Gah, he said. Gah. God.
He has no energy. They’ve starved him for weeks. Boudreaux leaned closer, caressing Potrello’s cheek. If you tell me, I’ll see you’re fed and given plenty of water. Come on now.