Ganymede tcc-4
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Josephine held out her hands, offering to help carry something. Agatha jutted her elbow out, pointing crookedly at the parasol, so her friend picked it up and closed it, then held it under her arm. “You give them too much credit. For all we know, they’re the ones who brought the dead. We didn’t have any zombis before they moved in, now, did we?”
“You’ve got me there. Hey, mind your mouth.”
Josephine boosted an eyebrow, but didn’t ask questions. A moment later, she heard the pounding footsteps of someone jogging up behind her. She pivoted on her heel and saw a man in his twenties sporting a brown uniform, homing in on her like a man with a purpose.
She bristled and gritted her teeth, but Agatha put on the sort of smile worn by a woman who earns her living dealing in pleasantries with unpleasant people. The fortune-teller exaggerated her accent when she called out, “Bonsoir, boy — and there’s no need to rush us. We’ll be on our way, you just give us half a minute.”
Huffing and puffing, he drew up to a stop immediately before them and removed his hat. “Not trying to rush you, ladies. I’m—” He threw a fast, sharp look back at the rolling-crawlers, and toward Colonel McCoy. “—I’m looking for Miss Josephine Early, and that’s you, ain’t it, ma’am?”
Cautiously but coldly, she replied, “Yes, that’s me.”
He crushed the brown flop hat in one hand and punched it absently with the other. “Ma’am, I have a message from Fletcher Josty,” he said.
Agatha was puzzled, but Josephine was careful not to reveal any hint of recognition. “I’m sorry, I can’t say that I understand.”
“This ain’t my uniform, ma’am. I took it off a fellow I left back in the Rue Toulouse alley. Fletcher said to give you this.” He reached into his pocket and produced a folded note. “And I’m begging you, read it fast. It’s only a matter of time before some of these boys figure out none of ’em know me.”
Josephine hesitated, but took the note. She recognized Fletcher Josty’s handwriting immediately: Barataria attacked. Rick injured. Holding on at the fort. Her stomach clenched, but she had too many questions to lapse into outright panic.
“Wait, now — wait,” she said, holding out one hand toward the man in the Texas uniform. “Someone’s hit the pirate quarter?”
“That someone over there, on the lead brownie. His first rule of business when he got to town the other day was to plot it out, and yesterday he ordered the raid. Ma’am, we need to get off these streets. Hurry along, will you? I’ll walk back with you to the Garden, all right?”
“All … all right?…,” she said, not moving, not taking her eyes off the note. “I just, I don’t understand.”
Agatha broke in. “You heard him, let’s go. I’ll come with you, we’ll all of us walk.” She put an arm on Josephine’s hand and tugged.
“You’re right. Let’s go. Here, I have an idea.”
With a swift knock of the parasol’s handle, she struck Agatha’s box out of her grasp. It toppled to the ground and landed on a corner, breaking in two. The fortune-teller said, “Hey!” but the pretend-Texian got the idea and said, “I’ve got it, ma’am. Let me help you carry these things.” And in a whisper he added, “It’ll give me an excuse to join you, see?”
Throughout the rest of Jackson Square, the last of the stragglers were being ushered on their way, and the Texian soldiers were assisting where it was necessary or helpful, or where they were impatient to have the streets cleared for the evening hour.
Josephine struggled to keep from shaking as the three of them abandoned the common area. The church doors closed as they walked past, and the darkness had fallen nearly enough to call it night — so that when they ducked into the alley to the right of the church, they were suddenly all but invisible. In those narrow minutes between the sun going down and the gas lamps being struck, they were indistinguishable from the shadows.
The cathedral loomed above them, its iron fencing and thick stone walls blocking them in like a fort. Josephine drew up short in the alley, unwilling to step into the Quarter beyond, not yet. She seized the young man by the shoulder and spoke quickly, quietly.
“Why would McCoy invade the bay? What was my brother doing there, and how did he get hurt? Where is he now?”
As fast as he could, the man rapid-fired his responses. “I don’t know why McCoy took the bay, I only know he gave the order and it happened — but it took ’em all day. Pirates don’t hand over easy, especially not when they’ve been dug in somewhere for so long. Your brother was there hitching a ride on a Cajun rig called the Crawdaddy, doing I’m-not-sure-what. Rick got caught in a firefight and he’s taken two bullets. Neither of them killed him, but he needs a doctor, and that means he’s got to get upriver. Nobody in the city will risk treating him right now, and with the curfew — well, he’s still at Barataria, holed up with Fletcher and one of the Lafitte boys,” he said. “But they’ll move him out one way or the other, come morning. They’ll get him someplace safe.”
“How bad is it? And don’t you lie to me, now.”
“I didn’t see him, I only agreed to run the message from Fletcher. Let’s get back to the Garden Court, and we can talk about it. I’ll tell you everything I know.”
“I have to go to my brother.”
Horrified, Agatha said, “You don’t mean it, Josie! Let the men take care of their own. When he’s out of town and all healed up, you can go meet him. You’ll do nobody any good by throwing yourself in harm’s way. Think what Rick would say if he knew you were coming.”
“He’d tell me to get the hell back into my house and he’d see me on the other side. But he isn’t here, and I never listened to him much, anyway.” Her words cracked around the edges, and she was glad for the darkness. “I’m the elder. It’s his job to listen to me, and mine is to…” She tore the note to tiny pieces and dropped it into a stream of manure and river runoff along the street’s edge. “Mine is to take care of him. Just like I promised Momma I would.”
A rolling-crawler went roaring past the alley, filling the slim space with diesel fumes and a rattling echo that rang around the walls. It dimmed, the brownie moved on, and Josephine continued. “I won’t leave him out there, nursed by pirates who can’t stitch a button. I’m going to him, and I’m going to take him to the bayou myself — so Edison Brewster can run him north and get him the help he needs, if he needs more of it than I can give him.”
“Josie, you’re daft.”
“You know it’s true, both of you,” she appealed to her companions in turn. “If he stays there, under siege on the islands until morning … God knows what’ll become of him. No.” She shook her head, not clearing her thoughts but winding them up. “No, I’m going after him. I’d rather die knowing than sit at home and wonder.”
The young man sighed and caught her arm when she turned to run back the way she’d come. Before she could haul off and hit him, he said, “Fletcher told me you’d say as much. He said you wouldn’t stay put and it was up to me to keep you from coming out there, but he also told me it was a lost cause from the get-go.”
“Do you know where they are? Right now?” Josephine asked. She pried her arm out of his grasp.
“Just like the note said, they’re at the fort — unless somebody’s moved them. I’ll take you there, if you won’t have it any other way. But first, we have to get off the streets. The patrols will catch up to us any minute. Hurry up now, back to the Garden Court,” he begged. “We can leave from there — it isn’t far, is it?”
“Only a few blocks. And you’re right, I have to go home first. Come on, let’s go.”
“Josie?”
“Aggie, you coming, too?”
“No, I’m heading back to my own place like a law-abiding citizen. But I want to say good luck, and I love you.”
Josephine swallowed hard, then kissed Agatha on the cheek. “Don’t say such things. It’s like you don’t think I’ll be back.”
“I hope you’ll be back,” she said. Josephine didn’t
answer.
Instead she fled the alley and rushed back down the warren of narrow blocks overhanging with balconies and lamps, streets wet just like always. Her feet slapped side by side with the young man’s as together they darted through the Quarter. All along the way, doors were being closed and windows were being drawn; shutters were being pulled and lights inside were coming on, same as the lights in the streets — lit one by one as low-ranking Texian enlisted men complained their way up and down the ladders to spark the lights and brighten the gloom.
They slipped inside the Garden Court just ahead of the first patrol of rolling-crawlers, their dastardly engines churning and lumpy wheels rolling up and down over the curbs, splashing through puddles, and spewing ghost-gray clouds with every shove of every cylinder.
Josephine slammed the door shut behind them and nearly locked it, but changed her mind when she realized she was only frightened.
Curfew or no, this was an after-hours business. So long as customers stayed off the streets, no one had gone to the trouble of shutting them down. Business was off by about 30 percent, yes. But it could be worse. It could be off altogether, and locking the front door would be a start in that direction.
The madam’s sudden and dramatic entrance stunned the lobby’s occupants into silence.
Delphine Hoobler and Septima Hare had been talking together on the long dais, but their conversation drew up short and now they stared at their employer. Likewise, Olivia Tillman and her suitor had paused on their way upstairs, and the perennially present Fenn Calais had stopped in his tracks, Ruthie under one arm and Caroline under the other.
“Miss Josephine?” asked the old Texian with the deep pockets and large appetite.
She put one hand on her chest beneath her throat, and did a ladylike show of not gasping for breath. “I beg everyone’s pardon, please,” she said — directing the apology first to the unknown guest and Fenn Calais, then the rest of the ladies. “The curfew, you understand. This gentleman was trying to find his way here, and I only stepped out to lend him a hand. Please, everyone. Carry on, and let’s enjoy the rest of the night.”
But Ruthie slipped out from under Calais’s arm, quickly replaced by Septima — with Fenn’s blessing, or apathy. She came back to Josephine, who dropped herself onto the hard-padded couch beside Delphine. Still waiting for the coast to clear, she gave the men another half minute to retreat and then gave her orders quietly as the women gathered around and the man who’d accompanied her stood stiffly, nervously by the door. He looked out the window, watching through a slit in the curtains.
“I’m leaving tonight,” Josephine said. “For a day or two — that’s all. My brother’s been hurt, and I need to see him.”
“Deaderick?” gasped Ruthie. “What happened?”
“He’s been shot, but he’s alive — and he’s going to be all right, I’m pretty confident of that. I have to go take care of him, though. I have to help Fletcher Josty move him safe back to the bayou. From there, Edison will take him up the river to a doctor, if we can’t find one any closer.”
Olivia’s eyes welled up with tears. This was not an uncommon event, but just this once, Josephine didn’t mind it. The young woman asked, “Is he in town? Why don’t they bring him to town? We’d find a doctor for him here. Maybe Dr. Heuvelman—”
“Miss Tillman,” the madam said with less than her usual measure of patience. Olivia was lovely, kind, and well intentioned, but sometimes painfully slow. “Between the curfew and his face being on wanted posters from Metairie to the Gulf, that’s possibly the worst idea in the world. I’ll go to him and get him moved, and then I’ll be back here by week’s end.”
Ruthie, on the other hand, was much sharper. “He’s not in town and he’s not in the bayou? Where is he?”
“Somewhere else. This fellow here — I’m sorry, darling, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Gifford,” he provided. “I’m Gifford Crooks.” Upon suddenly finding himself the most interesting person in the room, he blushed and kept talking. “I’m with Mr. Pinkerton’s Secret Service — his Saint Louis office, working with the bayou boys as of last week. I’m … new. This is my first job.”
“I’d have never guessed it,” Josephine said dryly.
“He’s a Pink?” Marylin’s face hardened.
“The Union hires them sometimes. They sent Mr. Crooks here to give me the message. “Marylin, I’m leaving you in charge for now. Swap off with Hazel if you need to take a customer, and Ruthie — I know you stay busy, but you’re third in command.”
Ruthie said, “No.”
“Excuse me?”
“No, ma’am. I’m coming with you.”
“You’re doing no such thing. You’re staying here and working. I know you have a soft spot for Rick, but there’s nothing you can do to help except get in the way.”
Ruthie turned to Gifford Crooks and asked, “Did you tell her the same thing, when she told you she was coming along?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You leave him out of this!” Josephine commanded. “You’re not coming, and that’s it.” Ruthie could prove problematic, if they were intercepted and searched.
“I am coming.” Then, in French — because it was easier for her, “You’ll need me, if something goes wrong. You’ll need someone to come back and tell everyone what’s happened.”
“Nothing will go wrong. And any fool can run a message home.”
“Well, I sure as all hell hope nothing goes wrong,” Ruthie blasphemed in her native tongue. She strolled to the hall closet and removed her best navy blue jacket, a jewel-toned silk confection with more pockets than anyone would ever guess. “And I may be a fool of an errand girl, but I will not be left behind. I’ll be back in two shakes. Don’t leave without me, because I do not want to run and catch up.” With that, she climbed the stairs.
Josephine growled, “Fine! Since Ruthie can’t be trusted to stay put on her own, she’s coming with me. If anyone shows up and asks for her by special request, tell him she’s down with a fever and they can come back Friday night. I’ll offer a discount for the wait.”
Marylin listened to every word with great concentration, committing the whole of it to memory. “Ma’am?” she asked when Josephine stopped to take a breath. “You will come back, won’t you?”
“Yes. By tomorrow, or the day after at the latest.”
“But if this is dangerous, and I suppose it must be … what if you don’t?”
Josephine looked around the room, meeting their eyes one by one. In every face, she saw fear. “I will be back, and Rick will be alive. You trust me?”
All the ladies nodded, some more slowly than others. Olivia sniffled and wiped at her nose with the back of her hand, even though she was holding a handkerchief.
“Good. Then keep trusting me, and I’ll be back soon.”
As if she’d been waiting for an entrance cue, Ruthie chose this moment to swan back down the stairs and into the lobby, looking no different at all from when she’d left it — apart from a sturdier pair of boots than strictly matched her dress, and a few inconspicuous lumps here and there in the long silk jacket.
“I am back,” she declared. “I have a gun, and I am ready.”
Josephine stood and went to the hall closet. She retrieved a black hooded cloak that was really too warm for the occasion, but she liked having it all the same. “One moment,” she declared. “I need to gather some things as well. Ruthie, since you’re so damn determined to be useful, see if Mr. Crooks wants anything.”
Ruthie turned the full, blinding force of her charm on Gifford, who appeared embarrassed yet again to have been noticed. Everyone in the room knew by now that he was not terribly accustomed to such houses, and there was literally nothing that anyone could do to put him at ease. This didn’t stop Ruthie from giving it a go, as directed.
On her way upstairs, Josephine heard the woman offering water, whiskey, rum, or coffee, and she heard only mumbles from Gifford in return.
Downstairs she went again. Ruthie was champing at the bit to hit the road — as was Gifford, who couldn’t turn any pinker with a pot of paint. “Ladies,” she said to bid them adieu. “Ruthie, Gifford. When was the last patrol?”
“Right after we got here,” Gifford told her.
“Let’s say five or ten minutes … all right. We’ll go out the back. We’ll have more time if we head toward Rue Barrack.” She tossed her big ring of keys to Marylin and gave Ruthie one last look — on the off chance her resolve was weakening, and maybe she’d change her mind.
No such luck.
“All right, then. Let’s go.”
Out the back door they stepped, into the wet, dark smell of the river that clung to the walls and wafted off the street — held in place by a layer of fog that was forming before their very eyes.
“Ugh,” Ruthie complained. “Just what we need.”
Josephine corrected her, “It is just what we need. It’ll give us cover as we get out of town.”
“Not if it stays like this,” her determined assistant argued. “It is too thin to hide us, and so thick, it could hide … other things.”
“The zombis are down by the river and the Texians are being useful, just this once. Their patrols will keep the Quarter clear, you can count on that. The dead are too dumb to run and hide. They only want to feed.”
Gifford gazed uncertainly at the wisping fog. “The dead? I’ve heard stories, but … they’re not true, are they?”
“They’re true, Mr. Crooks,” Josephine informed him. “The dead Walk, and they are usually hungry. But they’re no threat to us here, or where we’re going.”