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But all of that was for later, if later ever came. For now, it was only the Ranger and the padre, and their notes, and the storm outside, rumbling and thrashing against the shore.
“What about you?” the Ranger asked the padre. He still pretended not to see the world spiraling into darkness outside those enormous windows. “Why are you here? The nun called for you, I know, but it’s more than that. I bet.”
Juan Rios didn’t see much point in lying. “I killed thirteen men in a church.”
“Bullshit, now.”
“They were bandits. They came to rob, rape, and murder. I stopped them, and I…” he paused, and let the wind shriek through the hesitation. “I told myself that it was right, but it was not. I did not have faith enough. I took…” he chose an English expression, one he’d come to like. “I took matters into my own hands, when I should have left them in God’s.”
“But the broken promise…there must be one in your story someplace. Everybody else has one,” the Ranger said, glancing down at his notebook.
“My promise was to the Mother. I told her I wouldn’t touch the guns again. It was part of my oath, when I took my vows.”
“But you kept the guns anyway? In the church?”
He sighed and leaned back in the chair, rubbing at his eyes. They were tired, and they were straining. He wished he knew how to turn on the lights, in case it would make a difference. The clouds had taken on a bruise-like hue, and everything had grown dim despite the early hour. “I had my reasons, at the time. And what about you? Where’s your broken vow? You said that the Rangers did not send you, that you came by your own choice…but that’s what everyone thinks. I bet.”
“I came because it sounded weird and interesting. This is what I do, I guess—I look into the cases nobody wants to touch, because everybody thinks they’re stupid. But I know they’re not. I know they’re worth investigating, even if there isn’t any good answer to be found…it’s always worth trying. These last few years, I’ve looked into ghosts, curses, and angels alike. Hell, I checked up on a chupacabra, once. You ever hear about those things?”
“Once or twice.”
“Still not sure if it’s real or not, but that rancher outside Oneida didn’t have one. He had a coyote with the worst goddamn mange you ever saw in your life. I did the thing a favor, when I shot it. But since you’re about to ask me why—that is, why I’ve got this interest in the stranger things—the answer is short and sweet: I met a little lady in New Orleans, oh, fifteen years ago now. An old negress, wily as they come, and twice as sharp. She had…power. I don’t know what kind, and I don’t know who it came from—but she had it. I saw it. And in the end, she used it to save that city.”
“She did?”
“This was all back during the occupation, when Texas was there—and when the sap-plague was really getting a foothold this side of the Rockies. Those rotters, they were swarming the river’s edge, taking soldiers and sailors, and anyone else they could catch. But Marie Laveau, she understood them. She controlled them. She knew things ordinary mortals shouldn’t, but she’s gone now.” He pulled out his tobacco pouch, and started to roll up a cigarette. His hands shook, and he flinched when another tree branch dragged itself along the glass behind him. “So I guess it’s always possible that these days, she knows even more about the world’s mysteries than she ever did before.”
“And you broke a vow to her?”
He sniffed, and fiddled with the cigarette. “No, not her; I’m sure I wouldn’t be here today, if I had. But it was Mrs. Laveau who got me bit by the mystery bug…and besides that, she introduced me to another woman…”
“The good kind, or the bad kind?”
“The best kind. Pretty and brilliant. Tough as nails. We were from different places, and different ideas, but we got along anyhow. We worked together, for a while—for as long as I could stay there, and whenever I could make my way back to the delta. Goddamn, but it was never often enough. Say, padre—you ever been
to New Orleans?”
“No. But I hear it’s beautiful.”
“Not half so beautiful as my Josephine. But you want to know what promise I broke, so before you can ask me again, I’ll tell you: I promised to marry her. I meant it when I said it, but I got cold feet. I didn’t leave her at the altar or anything…I just…left. I left by myself, when I was supposed to take her with me. We were going to see Paris, that’s what I told her. That’s what I’d planned…and I couldn’t go through with it. I don’t know what the hell was wrong with me.
“Before too long, I realized what a shit I’d been, so I went running back, hat in hand, hoping she’d forgive me. But while I’d been gone, cholera had come calling—and it’d made a mess of the city. Josephine…she wasn’t even supposed to be there, when it hit. She was supposed to be in Paris by then.” He struck a match and lit the cigarette, then held it like he’d forgotten why he wanted it in the first place.
“Josephine survived rotters and sap-plague, war, submarine fights, spies, and all other manner of things that would fell a lesser lady, and I loved her for it. But in the end, all it took was a batch of bad water to take her away for good.” He changed his mind, and took a deep puff. Held it in. Let it out, in a soft white cloud that spun in the air like cotton. “So there it is. That’s the worst promise I ever broke. And if that’s why I’m here, if this is where I meet some…some justice, or whatever… I’m all right with that. I sure as shit have it coming.”
For a time they sat in silence while the Ranger smoked and the padre sank deep into thought, and the storm smeared itself across the hotel windows, and walls, and landscaping.
The padre hoped he’d buried Constance Fields deep enough that the inevitable flooding didn’t dredge her up. He hoped they would have a chance to bury Sarah, too—and bury her properly, with more than a hedge to mark her passing.
At the thought of Sarah, he likewise thought of Sister Eileen.
He hadn’t seen her since Tim had delivered the doll. Had she stayed? Closed up the room, and returned to her own? “What about Sister Eileen?” he asked aloud. “She’s been here longer than anyone else, except for Sarah and the Alvarez family. She must have been called here too, drawn by some secret of her own. I wonder what it is.”
Ranger Korman asked, “How well do you know her?”
“Barely at all. We exchanged some letters, and then we met for the first time yesterday.” He leaned forward, then stood up and pushed his chair beneath the table. “But there’s something strange about her. Something different, and I don’t know what.”
The Ranger stood up, too. “Neither do I, but I don’t disagree with you—and I’ve only known her an afternoon.” He tucked his cigarette between his lips, and beneath that fluffy white mustache. “Something about her reminds me of the old New Orleans woman, Laveau. Something about the way she carries herself, like she bears more weight than you can see. Do you think she’ll tell us about it? If we ask real nice?”
