by Brett Riley
So we’re leavin one prison and walkin straight into another one, Stransky said. Great.
If you don’t like it, Tetweiller said, you can go back to the tower.
Stransky threw her head back and cackled, hands on her hips.
Sweet Jesus, I wish I could just shoot her.
Ford got the door open and led them through. They walked down an aisle between five-by-ten cells, most empty except for cots and chamber pots, others peopled by scruffy-looking Troublers sitting among their soiled supper dishes. The prisoners leaped to their feet, hooting and shouting as the masked men led Stransky toward the rear. She waved to them. Don’t worry, y’all. Freedom’s comin. The prisoners hallooed. One of them tried to reach through the bars and punch the guard.
Tomorrow I think I’ll come back and crack that asshole’s skull for him, Tetweiller thought. It’s a bonus that he’ll wonder why I did it for the rest of his life.
Near the back, they had to pass through a final gate. Ford worked the keys again, jamming one into the lock, yanking it out, trying the next one. After ten or twelve tries, the lock turned, and he swung the heavy gate open, the old hinges screaming. Behind them, the prisoners cheered. Stransky’s grin widened.
Watch out the top of your head don’t fall off, Tetweiller said.
She walked through. The rest of them followed. They passed the empty guard posts and sleeping quarters until they reached the doors leading to the street. Ford unlocked them and then tossed Unger’s and Troy’s key rings onto a nearby desk.
Tetweiller turned to the others. Should just be a couple guards out there, he said. Then he looked at their hostage. Let’s hope they like you, boy.
He turned the knob and cracked open the door.
Two guards, just as planned, but the men heard the door creak, turned, and drew their weapons.
They’re well trained, anyhow.
You in there, one shouted. Come on out.
Tetweiller dragged their hostage forward. The man tried to scream something defiant, but the gag rendered it muffled gibberish. Tetweiller opened the door and positioned the guard between him and the men outside. We’re comin, he called. And you’re gonna let us.
The men glanced at each other. For a moment, no one said anything; then something seemed to pass between them. Let him go and surrender, in the name of the Bright Crusade, the spokesman said.
Counteroffer, Tetweiller said, still using his stage voice. Throw them pistols away and let us pass, or your buddy here dies first. If I don’t kill him, you will because he’s walkin point.
The guards looked at each other again. The quiet one started to lower his weapon, but the spokesman cocked his gun. Then come on out and let’s get it done, he said.
Hell.
They had to talk the guard down, or else they would have to kill innocent men right there in the High Temple.
Long and McClure peered through the windows, the weaponsmith’s scope trained on the water haulers. Three fire wagons were parked on Decatur, the horses stamping the pavement as the brigade pumped water onto the brewery. Gordy Boudreaux barked orders from atop one of the wagons. The building looked to be a total loss, but the workers’ efforts, combined with Long’s strategic placing of the explosives, had contained the blaze. The city was safe.
Long leaned over and whispered, You okay? I’m about to melt.
Yeah, McClure whispered back. Then she sat straighter and pointed to the street. That fella’s about to make a move.
Two men conversed near the fire wagons, one of them gesticulating in the direction of the Temple. The second man kept looking back and nodding. Boudreaux was herding a half dozen Crusaders toward the river and did not see them.
Long sighed. I can’t let him leave. Santonio and Ernie need all the time we can give. Plus, if even a single guard outflanks us when we rabbit, somebody’ll die. She nudged McClure and backed away from the window. The girl followed, keeping low.
When they reached the ground floor, they crab-walked to the street-side windows. Long peeked out. The man who had been gesturing toward the Temple had vanished, but his subordinate was unhitching a horse.
Long turned to the girl and whispered, He’s mountin up. Head around back. Stay in the shadows. Fire on anybody that makes a move toward you, but don’t shoot em if you can help it. And if you can’t, then—
Wing em, McClure interrupted. Flesh wounds only. I got it.
Then she was gone. Long rested her rifle’s barrel on the windowsill. Lord, I hate givin up the high ground, but once they spot me, I’ll need that back door close. Outside, the rider hooked his left foot into his stirrup and grabbed his saddle horn.
Long fired, the bullet crashing through the window and striking the pavement near the man’s feet. The horse let out a long, ululating whinny and reared, throwing the Crusader onto the pavement, and then it took off, the staccato clops of its hooves on pavement audible over the firefighters’ shouts. The dazed man sat up. He shook his head, feeling the back of his skull with one hand. Then he looked about, trying to find the source of the shot he must have heard.
If he sees the broken window, he’ll come after me.
But Boudreaux ran over and spoke to the man, pointing in a different direction.
Long backed away. Nobody had spotted McClure. She would have heard gunfire if they had. I hope the kid remembered to bring a mask. She took hers from the satchel and pulled it over her head. Then she slipped out the door.
The fire lit up the night. She watched the brigade work. I don’t know how those folks stand it. It’s hot enough to burn a polar bear’s butt.
She circumnavigated the building until she reached the northeast corner. The man she had fired on had disappeared, but those working the fire wagons shouted to each other and pointed at the building Long had vacated. She ducked back behind the wall. Gordy will have to check this building, or they’ll wonder why he didn’t. Jesus, help me get through this without killin anybody.
She dashed across Decatur and dove behind the Templeside Café. She had eaten there thousands of times. Now she was using it as cover to hide from, perhaps shoot at, her friends and colleagues. She bit her lip.
McClure’s pistol cracked once, twice, three times. Someone yelped and returned fire. Crusaders shouted and scrambled for cover or weapons or both. Some ran, while five others, Boudreaux included, sprinted to the building in which Long and McClure had first hidden. The figures flattened themselves against its wall.
One of them crouched under the window from which Long had fired. She put a slug through the remaining glass over his head. They all hit the ground. More troops would arrive soon, probably armed with something more powerful and accurate than sidearms. McClure was still shooting from somewhere on the river side. Someone cried out.
Two more minutes. Then we can fall back. I hope everybody’s still alive.
Behind the Temple, the guards tensed, preparing to rush.
We gotta move first, Tetweiller thought.
Stransky pinned their hostage to the wall and patted him on the cheek. Then she kissed him full on the mouth. The guard sputtered as Tetweiller drew his other pistol. Ford opened the door and flattened himself to one side as Tetweiller burst out, firing low, striking both guards in the kneecaps. Screaming, the men fell and dropped their weapons. One pistol must have been cocked. It went off as it hit the ground. Tetweiller jerked and dropped his left-hand gun, his upper arm on fire. He bent and tried to pick up the weapon, but his fingers would not close. Stransky darted forward, bumping him aside to grab it. She grinned. Tetweiller could do nothing. If the downed guards saw a masked Troubler and Stransky pointing pistols at each other, it would raise too many questions.
Santonio better put a bullet in her brain if she shoots me.
She cackled at the groaning, writhing guards. You boys take a load off your feet.
Ford dragged the c
aptive guard outside and shoved him to the ground next to his fellows. Let’s get outta here, he said, his voice flat. We got what we came for.
Stransky blew him a kiss. You damn sure did.
Blood had soaked through Tetweiller’s shirtsleeve and dripped from his elbow, but the ex-lord did not complain. Ford led them down Royal, away from the fire. They got as far as St. Phillip before stopping in the mouth of an alley. They stayed put a while, hands on knees, breathing hard. Soon, the slap of boot heels on pavement, the click of too-long toenails. McClure and Bandit ambled down St. Phillip, the girl with her hands in her pockets. When she reached them, she crouched beside Tetweiller. The dog sat at the girl’s heel, looking sleepy.
Stransky watched the child, some emotion playing across her face—anger? I reckon you’re Troy’s ghost, she said.
McClure glanced at her. Hey, Flat Ass.
Stransky laughed. Then she started to walk away.
Ford grabbed her shoulder. Where do you think you’re goin?
She cocked her head and looked at him as if he were a dullard. Back to my people. Or maybe you busted me out just to haul me around like that little girl’s dog?
Who’s little? McClure said.
We’re takin you to a friend of ours. You’ll be safe until we can establish some protocols.
No thanks.
Tetweiller moved behind her and stuck his gun barrel on the base of her skull. He cocked the pistol. We insist, he said. And while we’re at it, give me back the gun I gave you.
Stransky never blinked, but she held the pistol out. Tetweiller holstered it, disregarding the blood dripping onto it.
Ten minutes later, Long sprinted up the street, glancing over her shoulder, satchel bouncing against her ribs. She ducked into the alley and sat, taking out her canteen and gulping water.
You’re gonna cramp up, Ford said.
She capped the canteen and stored it. Then she took a deep breath and stood, stretching her legs, knees popping. We need to go, she said, still panting. You’ll have to circle around to the sisters’. I led as many of em toward the river as I could, but some fanned out near the Temple.
Where’s Gordy? Ford asked.
Leadin a party in the wrong direction.
We gotta get back to our houses before any runners come to fetch us, Tetweiller said. They’ll go to Gabe and Jack first, but when they find out somebody hit the Temple, we’ll be their next stop.
Ford took Stransky’s elbow. She looked perturbed but did not pull away. Y’all go home, he said. If a runner’s waitin, tell em you heard the boom and went out to secure your neighborhood. And if they start firin questions, remind em who’s in charge. Questions?
No one had any.
Camp Street was deserted. Still, Ford and Stransky darted from building to building toward the sisters’, avoiding the cones of light under the streetlamps. Ford hoped Sister Sarah Gonzales would be receptive. If not, he would have to leave Stransky in somebody’s basement or set her loose and hope for the best. Of course, once she was out of his sight, she could waltz off anytime she pleased, but the patrols they had dodged on the way over should have convinced her that trying to navigate the city on her own would be madness.
They crept to the entrance, which would be unlocked, as always, for anyone who needed sanctuary or a place to pray. Stransky followed Ford inside, where the warm night became a steaming tropical misery as they felt their way along the foyer and through the swinging double doors into the sanctuary proper. The darkness was nearly impenetrable. Stransky walked into a pew and grumbled. Ford grinned. He had spent a lot of time hunting in darkness, so his eyes adjusted well, but even so, the room seemed filled with amorphous blobs. He walked with his hands extended until he found the altar. Then he took some matches from his pocket and lit a votive. Its pitiful light made the darkness seem heavier, but now his visibility extended a couple of feet. He picked up the candle as Stransky slipped her hand into his belt just over his buttocks. He stiffened.
She leaned close, her lips at his ear. Don’t flatter yourself. I just don’t feature breakin my hips on these pews.
Keep your hands above the waist.
He edged his way to the door leading to the living quarters beyond the sanctuary and rapped twice, paused a few seconds, then knocked four more times.
Secret knocks and everything, Stransky said. Y’all took to this shit fast.
Someone rustled behind the door. Then it opened inward. Sister Sarah Gonzales stood there, holding a lantern. Ford squinted and shaded his eyes with his hand.
Hello, Santonio, said Sister Sarah. It’s late.
Ford pulled Stransky into the light. Sister Sarah Gonzales, he said, meet Lynn Stransky. She needs sanctuary.
Sister Sarah’s eyes widened. She looked at the Troubler for a long time. If she wants it, she has to ask for it. Does Gabriel know she’s with you?
I’m right here, Stransky offered. You can ask me.
I’m here on Gabe’s orders, Ford said. He’ll explain when he can. Right now, all I got time to say is we busted her outta the tower, and she needs a place to hide.
You busted her out? As in you and Gabriel?
And some others. He’ll explain, but I gotta go. Can she stay?
She’s gotta ask. Those are the rules.
Stransky laughed and opened her mouth, probably to say something that would ruin the whole deal. So Ford took her by the shoulders and squeezed. You saw the patrols. Everybody’s after you. There’s no leverage here.
Stransky pulled free, all her humor gone. She stared a hole in him. Then, her jaw set, she turned to Sister Sarah, who stood her ground. They looked as if they might throw punches.
Ford wanted to slap the Troubler upside her head. Don’t mess this up.
Finally, Stransky said, I hope you don’t expect me to confess and all that bullshit.
Sister Sarah’s gaze was as cold as her voice. You don’t have to convert. But you’ll respect us and our ways. Otherwise, you can take your chances on the street.
The Troubler frowned. Ford inched closer, ready to intervene. It kills Stransky to ask for anything.
But then she shrugged. Fine. I ask sanctuary. Until I can get back to my people.
Sister Sarah nodded, her mouth a thin line. She glanced at Ford and then turned. I’ll fix you a bed, she said. Then she disappeared, taking her lantern. The darkness swooped in and nearly drowned them.
Stransky’s voice floated out of the darkness. So what’s the deal?
Your network tells you what the Crusade’s up to. You tell us. We help you stop em.
That’s puttin a gauze bandage on a broken arm. The Crusade’s gotta die.
All we want is to save New Orleans and our people. You’re askin too much.
No. I’m askin just enough. Your precious Crusade ain’t about God no more, if it ever was. It’s about Matthew Rook tryin to be God. If you don’t see that yet, you will. I guarantee it.
Ford said nothing. There was nothing to say. If Stransky were wrong, it would not matter. They would use her until she had nothing left to give, and then she would hang. And if she were right, then she would find plenty of opportunities to crow about it later.
8
Troy had assumed that, after the returning Temple personnel had carried Hobbes away, Dwyer would snort and bellow and demand action. But he had not.
The masks trouble me, he had said.
No tellin what a Troubler’s thinkin, Troy said. Maybe they heard about you and didn’t cotton to bumpin into you when they ain’t already drawn their guns.
Dwyer thought about that for a minute. Then he nodded. Let me know when you have some idea of who attacked us and where they took the prisoner, he said. He left, threading his string around his fingers as he walked.
The runners Troy had sent for his lieutenants reported rousting Long from bed.
Tetweiller and Ford had returned to their houses to find messengers waiting. Tetweiller claimed he had gone out to secure the neighborhood. Everyone knew Ford often checked his traps in the middle of the night, fished and hunted before dawn, slept little, and answered to no one but Troy.
Jack Hobbes lay in the prison infirmary, pale and wasted.
He had volunteered to be wounded so the breakout would seem real, and as planned, Ford’s bullet had missed his major organs, but he had lost a lot of blood. The doctors transfused him and gave him the most comfortable bed in the prison and ordered him not to leave it for at least a few days. The wound had turned an ugly blue-black, and Hobbes had reported some numbness in his upper arm. Troy could barely look at him. If Jack loses any mobility, I’ll never forgive myself.
Someone rapped on the office door. It’s open, Troy said.
Ford walked in and closed the door behind him. He glanced around. Where’s Dwyer?
He left. Ain’t said boo to a goose. Ford pulled up a chair and sat across from Troy. He looked tired. You get any sleep? Troy asked.
Not much, but I’m used to that. It’s Jack that’s buggin me.
I gave the order. Whatever happens is on me.
Ford did not look convinced. Stransky’s at the sisters’. If she’s got sense enough to stay there, she’ll be fine.
Troy grunted and yawned. He had slept only an hour and dreaded working with Stransky after spending so many years shooting at her. Nothin makes sense anymore. It’s like we’ve built our church on sand.
Dwyer’s gonna be watchin us till things die down, he said. So let’s stay away from the sisters’ until them prisoners get closer. Maybe she’ll know somethin new by then.
All right, Ford said.
Over his shoulder, dawn’s light sparkled on the river. A handful of fishing skiffs cut through the ripples like bullets through flesh.
