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The soprano had a rare voice, sharp glassy tones that carried through the night air. Valentine was reminded of the teenage thug who loved Beethoven in A Clockwork Orange who described a "so- phisto" woman's singing like a rare bird who'd fluttered into the dive.
A huddled figure caught Valentine's eye. Alessa Duvalier was listening from just outside of the splashy colorful light of the paper lanterns, perched on a wall with her legs drawn up and clasped to her chest.
Valentine slipped across the party, moving in her direction, while the musicians played the refrain, allowing the singer to catch her breath and more listeners to gather. Even Valentine's own battalion broke off from eating.
I leaned my back on a proud young oak,
I thought it was a trusty tree.
But first it bended, and then it broke,
And so my love proved false to me.
He joined her on the limestone wall.
Oh, love is fair and love is fine,
Bright as a rose, when first it's new;
But love grows old, and sometimes cold,
And fades away like the morning dew.
"It'll never work, you know, Val," Duvalier said. "I thought you were smart about this sort of stuff."
She had that pungent, slightly cloying smell of liquor about her.
"Which 'it,' my friend?" Valentine asked.
"If you think I'm making another drunken pass at you, I'm not," she said. "I've sworn off men."
"Switching to women?"
"Ugh."
"You never could hold your liquor. You want some seltzer? The local stuff's pretty good. It'll settle your stomach."
She pinned him with her foot. "I haven't finished with you, Valentine. I figured when you recruited all these Quislings, it was just to have them make corduroy roads or clear brush or what have you. You really want to turn this bunch into a chunk of Southern Command? Quisling scum like that?"
Valentine switched to sign language. They could communicate in sign. They used to do it on their long assignment together as husband and wife on the Gulf Coast when Valentine had been working as a Coastal Marine. He could still use it but had slowed considerably. "Keep it down; some of the scum can hear you."
"I know their kind," she said louder than ever. "They're whipped, so they'll cringe and lick your boots for a while. First chance they get-schwwwwwpt!" She made a throat-cutting gesture with a sauce-smeared finger.
"It's my throat."
"Women fall for crusaders. It's a chance to be part of something big and good. That day out in Nebraska when you convinced me to go help the Eagles . . . I think I fell a little for you that day. A little. Lots of people get twisted by war, turned into something that's all sword and no plowshare. I like how you think of them." She waved her hand, gesturing vaguely to the northeast.
"But sometimes," she said, "you get all messed up about who the victims and the victimsizer . . . victimizers are. These bastards were stealing and busting heads of anyone who objected a couple months ago. Now you have them in Southern Command uniform. You told me once you spent two years hunting down the rapists of some girl you knew, or of the sister of some girl you knew. How many rapists are you feeding tonight?"
"None," Valentine said. He wondered if he should stick close to Duvalier tonight. Some of the men had heard her. While they wouldn't loop a noose around her and beat her up, they were perfectly capable of waiting until she passed out and then playing some sort of physical prank that would just make matters worse, especially if Duvalier woke up while someone was inking her face or filling her shoes with manure. "That's part of the deal I offered. Whatever their old crimes, they get a new identity the day they sign up."
"Like you're baptizing. Maybe the people who deserve a new life are the ones in Evansville, not these bastards."
"Maybe Evansville is happy to have them gone."
She didn't respond for a moment, and then she slumped against him. "Oh, Val, I'm so tired," she said, nuzzling his shoulder. "I'm more tired than I've ever been in my life. I want to sleep forever."
"Were you across the river again?"
