by Brett Riley
Now that Dwyer had come with his pronouncements and his envelopes, though, Troy had questions.
Rode into New Orleans like he belongs. Marched into the High Temple as if God gave him leave, tried to bully me in my own office. And this envelope. Open it alone and tell no one, Dwyer said. Might as well say, Betray your people. Make em distrust you. Divide and conquer.
Troy dismounted in the street and tied the horse to his fence. At the front door, he nodded to the two guards stationed there.
The big one with the broken nose saluted. Evenin, Lord Troy. Mr. Tetweiller’s in yonder. Said he needed to speak with you, so we let him in.
That’s fine, Silvanus. One of y’all run my mount over to the Cabrini Playground livery. Tell em I’ll need him ready by dawn.
Yes, sir.
Y’all don’t get too hot out here.
We’ll be fine. It’s so cool, you can’t even fry an egg on the walk.
Troy laughed, just to be polite. He opened the front door. I’d like to wring Silvanus Avishay’s neck. My head hurts too bad for palaver. But when Ernie Tetweiller came to talk this late, you would do well to listen.
Normally, Troy navigated the darkness by memory and touch until he found the oil lamp on the foyer’s catch-all table. Then he would light the lantern with the matches he left next to it, toting it through the house as he ate or read or wrote letters until he fell into his feather bed, exhausted. But now the foyer lamp burned. Light spilled from other rooms. He walked into his den, where Ernie Tetweiller sat in his second-best chair, drinking bourbon from a flask and smoking a cigar. Troy took off his hat and dropped it onto an end table and sat.
Them fellas outside see that? he asked.
Tetweiller held up the flask. This? Naw. Want a belt?
You know better than that.
Yeah, well, an old fart like me needs a little help gettin to sleep of a night.
Troy rubbed his temples, squinting his eyes against the pain and Tetweiller’s cigar smoke. I’m about wore out. What do you need?
Tetweiller drank again. You know damn well what I need. I seen that fancy-pants jackass ridin our roads like God put em there just for him. Bad news?
The envelope inside Troy’s shirt felt heavy. He was probably sweating through it and ruining the orders. He pulled out the package and dropped it into his lap. Tetweiller glanced at it but said nothing, sipping his liquor.
Let’s start with Stransky, Troy said. She claims Rook’s plannin a new Purge, and he’s startin it here.
Troy expected the old man to sputter, curse, stomp. Not long before Tetweiller resigned, he had started cracking Troubler skulls before asking them to talk. One day, he came to work drunk. He fell onto Norville Unger’s desk in full view of the Temple staff. Troy and Hobbes had spent a few evenings in sweltering, darkened rooms like this one, speculating on what the Crusade would do with Tetweiller when word reached Washington. In the end, the old man had taken the decision out of their hands. Less than a week after the incident, he called Troy into his office and said it was time he spent his days gardening and reading old outlawed books confiscated from Troublers over the years. He had seemed relieved and happy. Troy believed the prospect of mass slaughter might drive the old man into such a rage he would need to be tackled.
Instead, Tetweiller took another sip and said, Huh.
Apparently that don’t shock you much.
Tetweiller shrugged. Not much surprises me these days. It ain’t like Matthew Rook’s known for his mercy and love.
Troy got up and poured a glass of water. As he sat back down, he said, If a citizen said that to me, they’d be behind bars in about five minutes.
Well, hell. I reckon you better arrest me then. Tetweiller drank, his eyes red and watery. Shadows played across his face, an indigo mask that shifted and pulsed like oil on a river.
Just be careful who you talk to, Troy said.
I ain’t talkin to nobody but you. Want some advice?
Troy had known this was coming as soon as he told Tetweiller about Stransky’s claims. The old man was full of advice, most of it good, some of it foolhardy. Sometimes both at once. Of course, Troy said.
Think real careful about who you trust. You may have to choose between the Crusade and your friends.
Everything I ever done, I done in the Crusade’s name. I can’t just turn my back on it.
Tetweiller struggled out of the chair, wincing and holding his lower back. Troy stood and went to help, but Tetweiller waved him off and stretched. His old joints creaked. Tetweiller was on the north side of seventy and could barely get out of bed on some days, thanks to years of riding a horse over concrete and asphalt. Plus, there was the bum leg some Troubler’s bullet had shattered, and the misery in his spine.
He was so strong when I was a kid. I reckon I’m lookin at my own future, if I live so long.
Finally, Tetweiller straightened. He put his hand on Troy’s shoulder. Ain’t nobody askin you to turn your back on nothin. I’m just tellin you to think for yourself. If Stransky’s blowin smoke up your ass, I’ll tie her noose myself. But if she’s right, it’s a different story.
You sayin you’d rebel?
Despite the booze on his breath, Tetweiller’s eyes looked sober. If they mean to murder God knows how many folks and turn my city to dust, yeah. I’ll stand against em. By myself if I have to.
After they had shaken hands, Tetweiller limped into the night, and Troy closed the door and turned the lock. His throat felt like a dirt road. He carried the lamp into the kitchen and poured a cool glass of water from the icebox. He drank it down and set the glass on the counter, where it would stay for perhaps ten hours until the cleaning crew arrived and washed, dried, and stored it. Most folks had to do their own dishes, but he and his officers never cleaned their own messes—although they were hardly ever home long enough to make any. Did the cleaning crews ever resent the lord’s officers? Was resentment even possible when service had always been the watchword of your life? Troy picked up the lantern and walked down the hall and up the stairs to his bedroom, where he undressed in front of the open window, letting the light breeze play over him. He felt grimy, new sweat layering onto the old, mixing with the day’s dust, forming a thin layer of mud that would stain his white sheets. But what of that? Amie Gerlach, who lived in an apartment barely bigger than Troy’s den, changed his sheets every day. Power, spotlessness, an icebox that was always cold, sinners’ lowered gazes, the big house, the respect of the men and women who followed him into combat, a sense of purpose and direction. The Crusade had given him everything. It had raised him to heights greater than he could ever deserve.
And now it was asking him to lead his people into devastation.
He had left the sealed orders and the lantern on his nightstand before undressing. Now he sat on the bed and took up the envelope and broke the seal. The orders were written in a neat, tight script.
Lord Troy,
I hope this letter finds you well. Please give my regards to your deputies, Jack Hobbes and Gordon Boudreaux, as well as your advisors and lieutenants. I know all their names and their occupations.
To business—by this time, you will have spoken to my herald, Jevan Dwyer, who should have informed you of my decision to use your city as the Crusade’s prison. Know that this decision was not made hastily. I have prayed and wept and sought counsel both heavenly and otherwise. New Orleans’s unique geography makes it one of the best two choices for this undertaking, the other being Manhattan island in New York, which seemed much harder to oversee efficiently. I know this decision has and will cause you personal heartbreak and trauma. Please realize that your sacrifice serves the Crusade and its people.
Prisoners are on the march, along with contingents of armed guards. Know I am also sending my representatives to oversee New Orleans’s transition. You are to extend them every courtesy.
Prior to their arrival, you will complete three tasks. First, you are to inventory the city’s explosive ordnance, including the gunpowder reserved for your peacekeeping ammunition. Prepare a list and be ready to present it to my envoys. Second, you will record the type and location of every seaworthy contrivance—ship, boat, canoe, raft, anything that floats. Third, you are to quash any dissent with all available force. Any Troubler activity should be met with lethal force. Any citizen who protests should be silenced, by whatever means necessary. Make no exceptions.
My prayers will be with you. I look forward to meeting you personally and commending you for the fine work you always do.
Yours,
Matthew Rook
Troy read the letter three times. Then he folded it and slipped it back into its envelope. He opened his closet and knelt in front of his safe, an old-fashioned gray monster with a rotary dial the size of an apple. He had no idea where it came from or which lord had installed it. He had inherited it, along with its combination and the rest of the house, from Ernie Tetweiller. Troy opened the safe, the hinges squeaking. He thrust the envelope inside and then shut the door. He highly doubted anyone would assault the house tonight, but with documents like these, he would take no chances.
He went to the bathroom and stared into the mirror for a long time—his olive complexion, brown eyes, straight dark hair, lines and wrinkles that had appeared in the last few years—and then cleaned his teeth. As usual, someone had filled his tub. The water crews hauled barrels and buckets all over the city every day, leaving every citizen a supply for drinking and bathing and cooking. Fuel crews replenished everyone’s firewood and kindling and dry leaves and coal and whatever else they could find that might burn. But along with their other responsibilities, the cleaning crews lit the stoves and boiled water for the lord and their deputies. Everyone else had to do for themselves. Yet the fresh water in the tub was one privilege Troy truly enjoyed. He liked baths in the dark, even in the summer months, the time when, as children, he and his friends had nothing more pressing to do than skulk through the city and dunk each other in the Mississippi. Now he closed his eyes and sank into the water up to his chin.
Usually the tensions of the day would slip away in his tub, but tonight he found no peace. The talk with Tetweiller had given the water time to cool. And then there were questions. What am I supposed to do now? I gotta tell Jack and Gordy. I know that much. And what of Ford and Long—even McClure? It was their city too. Gotta sleep, or tomorrow will crush me.
Later, in bed, he closed his eyes and tried not to think. A guard’s muffled cough drifted through the night.
The next day, Troy rode Japeth into the Temple’s courtyard, the orders in his pocket. Hobbes and Boudreaux sat their horses near the statue, their guns holstered and tied down. The grooms stood nearby. Go on, fellas, Troy said to them. We got business.
The grooms saluted and walked toward the stables. When they had passed out of earshot, Hobbes turned to Troy. What’s up?
Dwyer’s probably watchin. Let’s ride over to the river.
They ambled across the street, their horses sniffing air filled with the scent of cookfires. Around them, the city awakened. Workers milled along the sidewalks. Some rode horses or drove wagons, hauling hay and wood and cleaning supplies and food. Everyone nodded or waved or genuflected as Troy and the deputies passed. Troy nodded back and spoke to some, saluted others. Soon they reached the Riverwalk and looked out over the water stretching into the distance, light glistening on the surface. Here and there, a fish broke water in pursuit of bugs. A dozen turtles sunned themselves on a half-submerged log. A few citizens carrying fishing poles picked their way down the bank.
Troy pulled out the letter and passed it to Hobbes. Give it to Gordy when you’re done. Don’t make a show of it.
Hobbes took the paper and pressed it against his saddle and read. Then he folded it and handed it to Boudreaux. When he was done, Boudreaux passed it back to Troy, who returned it to his shirt pocket. A breeze rose off the water, cooling the sweat on their foreheads.
Thoughts? Troy asked.
Boudreaux looked sad. I don’t know what I think.
Stinks like rotten fish, Hobbes growled. Askin us to give em our defenses and half our means of travel and feedin ourselves.
Troy spat. We need to think about our next move, but if we don’t make these lists, we’ll be hanged as heretics. So we’re gonna start in the middle of town. You and Gordy go north. I’ll head south. If we ain’t figured out somethin by the time we hit the city limits, we deserve whatever happens to us.
Hang on, Boudreaux said. Are we talkin about buckin orders? Seriously?
Right now we’re tryin to figure out how to take care of this city and follow orders at the same time, Troy said. If you can’t handle that, tell me now.
Boudreaux looked at the ground. I just don’t wanna go to hell.
Nobody’s goin nowhere anytime soon. You two get started. I gotta run by Ernie’s, and then I’ll get goin on my end.
Ernie’s in on this? Boudreaux asked.
Ain’t nothin to be in on, said Hobbes. Not yet.
Boudreaux shook his head and shuddered.
Y’all swing by and talk to Santonio and LaShanda, Troy said. Tell em to be at Ernie’s house at three this afternoon.
Hobbes nodded, and he and Boudreaux spurred their horses and trotted away.
Troy turned Japeth toward Ernie Tetweiller’s place. The day felt hotter already.
6
Troy rode down the Pontchartrain Expressway and through the streets of Metairie. At Tetweiller’s one-story white house on Elgin Street, he hitched Japeth to the post in the front yard. Then he walked up the driveway and knocked on the front door. No one answered, so he knocked harder. Still nothing. He turned the knob. The door was locked.
Back here, Tetweiller called.
In the back yard, the old man sprawled on a blanket in his oak tree’s shade. Landscapers had recently trimmed the grass and the waist-high hedges ringing the house. Nearby lay the old swimming pool, empty and dull gray and cracked. Santonio Ford had offered a dozen times to fill it with soil and plant a small garden, but Tetweiller always refused. He seemed to like the emptiness.
Troy sat, crossed his legs, and wiped his brow with his shirtsleeve.
Tetweiller lay still, eyes closed. Mornin, he said.
Howdy, said Troy. He reached for the ice bucket Tetweiller had set against the tree trunk and removed the bottle of homemade wine chilling there. He shook his head and put the wine back, then selected a sliver of ice and popped it in his mouth. His teeth ached with the cold, but it eased his parched throat.
Tetweiller opened one eye. Help yourself.
I’ll stick with ice. What are you doin out here?
I like to nap in the afternoons.
It’s nine in the mornin.
I ain’t no procrastinator. You think about what I said?
Troy pulled up some grass and let it drift through his fingers. They want a list of all our explosives. And our boats.
Tetweiller sat up and took the bottle from the bucket. He drank long and deep. Holding the bottle in one hand, he drew his knees up and rested his arms on them, grimacing. The two men sat in silence for a while. The temperature was already rising. Birds chirped in the trees. One defecated, the white droppings splattering the ground near Troy’s outstretched hand.
Well, said Tetweiller. You gonna do it?
If we don’t, they’ll execute us right after Stransky.
Givin em somethin and givin em what they asked for ain’t gotta be the same thing.
I’ve been thinkin about that. I got somethin for you to do.
Tetweiller drank again. He grinned at Troy, his eyes already bloodshot. The burst veins on his nose looked like splotches of bad sunburn. A little liquid courage, he said. Tell me.
Troy took
another piece of ice. I’m sendin Santonio and LaShanda over here at three this afternoon. We need a plan—materials, execution, getaway routes, the whole shebang.
Tetweiller raised his gray eyebrows. A plan for what?
For Stransky. We need to bust her out and make it look like the Troublers did it.
Tetweiller looked at Troy for a long time. Damn, he said. You ain’t fuckin around. Jack and Gordy know about this?
Not yet. Gordy’s twitchy. I’m not sure he’d believe me if I told him I’m just keepin our options open while we figure things out.
We just caught that bitch.
She’s got an intelligence network we need to access as long as the Crusade’s playin fast and loose with our people’s lives. They say we’ll be guards, but they got no details, and when the brass keep secrets, it ain’t good for those of us in the trenches. Stransky’s pipeline may be all we got.
Tetweiller drank again and belched. I don’t like it much. But I see your point. Still, if Jack and Gordy ain’t on board, we’ll end up in the towers anyway.
I’ll tell em soon. I just want to give Gordy a day or two.
The old man nodded and held the bottle against his forehead. And what if Santonio and LaShanda get twitchy?
If they got doubts, that’s natural. If they start hollerin for help, follow your conscience. Don’t do nothin just for me.
Tetweiller put the bottle back in the bucket and stretched his legs. Hellfire, he muttered.
Troy hung his head and closed his eyes. Sweat rolled down his neck. He wanted nothing more than to lie on the grass beside Tetweiller and sleep, lose himself in darkness and dreams. But he could not. New Orleans and the Crusade, the dual landmarks by which he navigated this world, seemed to be collapsing toward each other, and he had no idea what to do.
