by Brett Riley
Tetweiller set a water dish on the floor. Bandit lapped at it. The girl took her glass and drank.
You need a bath, Tetweiller said. You look like you been buried alive and dug up with a broke shovel.
McClure smiled. Ford winked at her. Ain’t had time to bathe, she said. Been keepin watch since Loyola. Lotta crazy talk among the Troublers.
Ford’s smile faded. Long glanced at Tetweiller. What kind of talk? Tetweiller asked.
Talk like this, the girl said. She took a folded piece of paper from her shirt pocket and tossed it onto the table. Tetweiller picked it up. A splotch of wax caked the top and bottom of the page. Two red fingerprints stained the front of the page, a similar thumbprint on the back.
That’s blood, Ford said.
McClure shrugged. Fella didn’t wanna give it to me. I persuaded him.
Tetweiller examined the seal and then showed it to Ford and Long. Long’s eyes widened.
Rook, Ford said.
Tetweiller opened the paper and read. His throat went dry. Left the goddam flask in the den. Not even Lynn Stransky’s damnable cackle had brought their situation home like this.
It’s to Dwyer, he said.
Dwyer. Seen him when he rode in, McClure said. Prettiest man I ever laid eyes on. I could eat them arms for breakfast.
You’re too young to talk like that, Tetweiller said.
If you ain’t too old, I ain’t too young.
How about we quit sinnin like devils and read the letter, said Long.
So Tetweiller read.
To the Right Honorable Herald Jevan Dwyer:
Greetings, and safe riding.
Know you this: our reports indicate Gabriel Troy maintains strong loyalties to the citizens of New Orleans—much stronger than his dedication to the Bright Crusade. His most trusted subordinates—Deputy Lords John Hobbes and Gordon Boudreaux, Retired Lord of Order Ernest Tetweiller, Chief Hunter and Gatherer Santonio Ford, and Chief Weaponsmith LaShanda Long—may have been similarly corrupted. Other highly placed sympathizers might exist. Troy seeks regular council from Sarah Gonzales, a Papist nun.
We do not know the extent to which Lord Troy and his subordinates would betray the Crusade. Perhaps our concerns are misplaced and Lord Troy will remember his first duty is to God. However, should he or any member of his staff attempt to hinder the Crusade’s plans, deal with them using all necessary force. When my envoys arrive, share these orders with them. Under their command, New Orleans will be transformed and purged. Once they have read this document, destroy it. Share its contents with no one else.
Soon we will all be together in a new, purer world.
Love and Grace,
Matthew Rook
The word purged suppurated in Tetweiller’s mind, a leper’s sore.
He threw the paper on the table. Ford picked it up and read it again. Then he handed it to Long. Tetweiller got up and poured himself a glass of whiskey. He intended to drink until he passed out. It might be the last chance he ever had.
The girl finished her water and regarded the grown-ups around the table. Sounds like a fight’s comin. What’s our play?
The adults looked at each other. At first no one said anything. The silence weighed on them like the heat, oppressive and thick.
Long dropped the paper on the table and said, I’ll keep Gabriel’s secret, Ernie—for now. And I’ll help you because these orders don’t sound godly to me. But this is our church. We gotta check our hearts and our consciences every single day. And if I think for one second we’re wrong, I’ll turn myself in and drag you to them towers myself. Or put a bullet in you.
Fair enough, Tetweiller said. Ford looks like he’s gonna puke. I reckon that’s a natural reaction to learnin everything you ever worked for is diseased.
Finally, though, Ford nodded and said, Yeah.
Tetweiller shook the hunter’s hand, thinking, Not exactly what I was hopin for, but better than I feared. He turned to McClure and said, Tote that letter south. Look in every armory until you find Gabe. Then get him alone and give it to him.
McClure finished her glass of water and set it on the table. She seemed as calm as ever.
What are we supposed to do? Long asked. I don’t know if I found my rope or lost my cow.
Here we go. Well, Tetweiller said, Gabe’s got some ideas about that. We’re gonna need information and warm bodies. Ladies and gents, how would you like to commit a jailbreak?
Again, no one said anything. On the floor, Bandit the Rottweiler had fallen asleep, as if nothing was wrong in the world.
7
Several days later, just after dark, Troy and his deputies sat in the lord’s office with Dwyer, going over fudged inventory numbers. Troy, Hobbes, and Boudreaux had gone back to every armory several times, ostensibly to double-check their figures, and had stolen weapons and ammo each time—explosives and handguns, edged weapons and shells—adjusting the reports and burning the originals. LaShanda Long had made that sure some supplies, including rifles and shotguns and longswords, never reached the armories in the first place. No guard would challenge or search the lord of order or his sworn representatives. Now Troy watched Dwyer for any sign of suspicion.
The herald played with his string as he listened, fashioning diamond shapes and hearts and cat’s cradles. He seemed preoccupied. Any day now, outriders from cities like Atlanta would arrive and absorb the massed Troublers and guards from south Louisiana principalities like Baton Rouge and Lafayette.
Without Stransky or someone like her, all those Troublers would never work with a lord of order if it came to open rebellion. And so, somewhere out there, Tetweiller, Long, and Ford would be moving on the Temple, even as Dwyer sat there with that silly yarn of his. The plan was dangerous, especially for Jack Hobbes and Santonio Ford, and if Dwyer suspected a conspiracy for even a moment, they would have to kill him.
The river’s black water blended with the overcast sky. Only the Mississippi’s undulations proved anything existed farther than ten feet away. Tetweiller wore dark clothing and two of his spare guns. In his right hand, he held a crude full-head mask with eyeholes, like those the Troublers sometimes used on their raids. Normally, he would have shot anyone carrying one. Now he had to wear it. Shit. How did we not notice things had gotten this bad in Washington? Rook must have been goin insane for years, but we all yes sir-ed right along. Now we’re starin mass murder in the face. Crusaders had been taught from birth to think of the Purge as a sacrosanct ur-moment all citizens should honor, but Tetweiller had never been comfortable with slaughter on that level, no matter who wielded the weapon. It was much easier to glorify death if you had not tromped through the bone and gristle of it most of your life.
Light footfalls on the broken concrete behind him, the click of claws. You ain’t comin, child, he said without turning. Ain’t no way to disguise you, unless you can climb stairs on stilts.
McClure and Bandit appeared beside him. The dog sat near the girl’s feet and bit at fleas on his hind legs. She knelt and scratched between his ears. Don’t aim to come, the kid said. Just watch.
Then why bring that cannon under your shirt?
The girl’s expression was inscrutable. She patted the lump beneath her left arm. Figure if one of you gets hit, I can cover.
If we get killed, we get killed. But Gabe will need you. You can go places we can’t.
McClure said nothing. In the end, she would do what she wanted. The dog blended with the night. Somewhere nearby, a fish broke water with a flat clapping sound. The evening’s warmth curled around them like a snug blanket.
Hard to breathe already, and we still gotta put them goddam masks on.
Long arrived dressed in black, her leather jerkin buttoned over a long-sleeved shirt. She wore wool pants, gloves, hair pinned tight against her skull. She carried a shotgun and a satchel, likely full of ammo and explosives
paraphernalia. Protocol stated that all nearby guards and patrols, plus an official representative of the lord’s office, had to investigate any attack within the Temple’s general vicinity. That would leave a skeleton crew on high alert within the Temple proper, plus Jerold Babb, who would be in Troy’s office or his home in the presbytère. Once Long’s diversion began, the trick would be to get inside the Temple before the crew locked the place up like the fortress it was. Tetweiller and Ford would have only seconds. It was a risky plan, but better than assaulting a fully guarded Temple.
Ford emerged from the shadows wearing tight, dark clothing. His dreadlocks had been tucked into his shirt. He had been assigned the most difficult tasks of the evening—dealing with the guards and Jack Hobbes. Tetweiller could not read his face in the gloom.
They stood in a circle, four people and one dog. Tetweiller silently prayed for everyone’s safety. The others were likely doing the same, except for the girl, who never prayed, and the dog, who was eating something she had given him.
Tetweiller took a deep breath. His heart was pounding, his mouth dry. It’s about that time. If you want out, nobody will think less of you. What we’re about to do can’t be undone.
Long slung the satchel over her shoulder. Just remember what I said.
Tetweiller turned to the child. Go with LaShanda. Stay outta sight and follow her lead. Don’t get shot. Don’t even get seen.
They said their goodbyes, and Long and the girl walked away, the dog following. Ford wore his guns slung low on his hips. A mask was tucked into his waistband. He and Tetweiller stood at the river’s edge and waited.
Later, on the shadowed steps of the Riverwalk across from the square, they pulled on their masks. The streetlamps near the closed gates spotlighted the two stationary guards. Others would be patrolling the perimeter in small groups, three clusters per street. To stay alert, they changed locations every hour. Because of the speed with which the Temple staff were likely to respond to the attack, Ford and Tetweiller needed to breach the square’s perimeter before Long’s diversion began; the trick would be to move during the rotation, hoping distance and dark and the laxity borne from years of unbroken security would prevent the guards on the front door from spotting them. Perhaps the Jesus statue would obscure some of what would happen. Still, even if the guards did not see and Dwyer did not pick the wrong moment to look out Troy’s window, Tetweiller and Ford would have only seconds to get inside once everything started.
Soon, down the street and near the fence line, the perimeter patrol moved west, heading for St. Peter Street. The easternmost group filed past the gates, passing under the lamps, nodding to the guards, fading into darkness. When the last of them vanished, the footsteps of the St. Ann guards heading toward their Decatur shift were already audible.
Ford elbowed Tetweiller in the ribs. They stood, raised their pistols, and dashed across the street.
By the time the streetlamps revealed them, it was too late. The gate guards started to raise their rifles, but Tetweiller, his voice an octave lower than normal, growled, Put em down and keep your mouths shut, or you’ll get to see what your guts look like.
The guards glanced at each other, looked for the foot patrols, saw no one close. They lowered their guns.
Tetweiller stepped up to the guard on the left, cocked his pistol, and put it to the boy’s temple. The kid, no older than twenty-five, glared at him. Ford drew his knife and held it to the other guard’s throat.
Troubler scum, Tetweiller’s guard spat.
Yeah, yeah, Tetweiller said. Open the gate. Be quick about it.
Sure. You devils ain’t never assaulted this place and lived to tell about it. It’s okay with me if you go get killed.
The kid unlocked the gate and pushed it open. Ford and Tetweiller shoved the guards inside and shut the gate behind them. Ford reached through the bars and rewrapped the chains through them. Then he threaded the padlock back through the chains and clicked it shut.
When he was done, Tetweiller turned to the guards and said, On your knees.
The kid spat. His companion stared straight ahead, expressionless. Neither knelt.
Good for you, boys, thought Ford. Sorry about this. He stepped behind them and kicked them in the backs of their knees. They fell, and before they could speak, he bashed them in the head with his big hunting knife’s handle. They slumped, one on top of the other. Ford and Tetweiller each grabbed a guard under the arms and dragged them into the bushes near the gate. They bound and hid the guards and then crept through the foliage until they were as close to the Temple as they could get.
Long, McClure, and Bandit skirted the streetlamps on Decatur until they reached the building nearest a lot where fishermen brought their daily hauls for cleaning and distribution. In the evenings, the lot was empty, so there would be no collateral damage except for some wooden stalls. The building itself had once served as a tavern. Now, Ford’s workers used the old tankards to make and cask wine for the Lord’s Supper. After hours, no one guarded it, for it had never been considered a strategic point, one reason Ford and Long had picked it. Folks could always crush grapes somewhere else.
McClure patted Bandit on the head and whispered something in his ear. The dog walked a block back the way they had come and lay down with his snout on his paws. The girl joined Long, who stood in the old brewery’s doorway.
He minds you better than most kids mind their parents, Long whispered.
He’s a good boy. What if somebody found your stash?
Pray they didn’t.
Long pulled out her lock picks and opened the front doors in less than a minute. Then she and McClure circled to the back door.
Four casks stood underneath the tarp, where she and Ford had left them last night. Always thinking of what might happen if Troublers caught her unprepared anywhere in the city, Long had been stockpiling materials in hidden caches ever since she learned to make her first pipe bomb. These casks would not even put a dent in her personal stores, but rolling them through back alleys and from building to building, two at a time, while avoiding the roaming guards had been quite the chore. She and Ford had been up most of the night, and she had muddled through her daily tasks, telling her workers she might be coming down with a cold, her arms and legs aching.
She had no idea what story Ford had concocted or whether he had bothered. Few people questioned Santonio Ford. Only thirty years old and already the chief hunter, he could have been a deputy lord if he had wanted it. But Ford’s first impulse had always been mercy. He would spend his days hunting human beings only when the Crusade required it.
I would have been a good deputy lord too, but God had other plans.
No one else had demonstrated her flair for weaponry and ammunition. And so the last primary law enforcement opening had gone to Gordy Boudreaux, who, except for his occasional naivety, made just as good a deputy as anyone would have been, and better than most. His heart was as gentle as Ford’s, but he could harden it when he had to. Yet most times McClure seemed more world-wise than him. How would he survive in a cabal?
She and McClure started rolling and heaving the casks inside. As they wrestled the first one over the threshold, McClure asked, How unstable is this shit?
Long panted. It’s dynamite, but it’s new. We should be good. And if we ain’t, we won’t find out till St. Peter tells us.
So we’re only half crazy.
Once they had gotten the casks inside, they rolled them into the four corners of the wine-making room, the old tankards looming above them. Long dug the fuses out of her satchel and moved from barrel to barrel, working by feel, prying off the tops with a small hatchet, attaching the fuses to a stick, running them to the center of the room, plaiting them into one.
When she was done, she said, We’re late, so I can’t run these outside. I want you gone before I light em. Meet me at the checkpoint. Don’t dawdle, you hear?
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br /> That goes double for you, McClure said. Then she was gone.
I hope three-minute fuses do the trick. If they burned too slowly, Tetweiller and Ford would pay the price. If they burned too fast, nobody would ever find a trace of her.
She pulled a match out of her bag and lit it. Then she held its burning end to the four braided fuses in her hand. They caught, the fiery ends racing away. She dashed through the darkened building, praying she would not run face-first into something, wishing she could have risked a lantern.
The two guards on the Temple doors had not moved. The muted sound of their conversation drifted across the courtyard. Ford leaned in close to Tetweiller and whispered, We can’t sit here all night.
Tetweiller grunted, his bent knees aching. You know LaShanda. She’ll do her part.
Ford was right, though. Long had completed half a dozen practice runs from the Riverwalk to the target, but so much depended on timing her diversion with the guards’ shift change, on her encountering no unexpected obstacles, on the casks still being where she and Ford had left them. If anything went wrong, Ford and Tetweiller would have to abort or shoot their way inside.
