The Good Thief (21 page)

“Don’t do that!” Ren said.

“She’s sick.”

“I know,” Ren said. “Help me.”

Together they got Mrs. Sands back on the bed and rolled her into a blanket. Ren had seen other children at Saint Anthony’s come down with this kind of fever before. When they coughed blood, Brother Joseph would move them into a separate room. If the brothers waited too long to send for a doctor, another plot would soon be made in the field next to the chapel.

Dolly carried Mrs. Sands downstairs while Ren unscrewed the knob from Benjamin’s bedpost. They would need money, he thought, and gathered it all. The horse and wagon were in the stable; it took time before they could get the animal properly rigged and settle Mrs. Sands in the back. Ren listened to her coughs, clasped the reins in his one good hand, and hoped that he would be able to remember the way in the dark.

It was nearly an hour before they reached the bridge. Ren had taken three wrong turns. Dolly could not remember what direction they had started from, and Mrs. Sands had fallen into a troubled and sweaty sleep. The boy could see shapes in the alleyways as they passed, moving figures around a fire, a vagrant propped against a wall, an old woman holding her skirt up to her waist, then dropping it when she saw them pass. He looked straight ahead, as if he noticed none of this, and when he caught a glimpse of the bridge he let out a sigh of relief. There was only one road to the hospital now.

The wagon shifted as it went over the river. Ren looked into the rushing water. He thought of the drowned boy and wondered if his spirit would be able to feel his old clothes passing overhead. Ren held on to the reins tightly, and began to bargain with God. If they crossed safely over the bridge, he would say ten rosaries. If they made it to the hospital, he would say twenty.

Under a streetlight ahead were two men, smoking pipes. One wore a porkpie hat pulled to the side; the other had spats buttoned up to his knees. It was the same two men that Dolly had recognized outside O’Sullivan’s bar. Ren hesitated, but drove the wagon on. As they got closer, the man in the spats took a round, flat disk from underneath his arm and slapped it against his wrist. With a pop, the disk turned into a top hat. The man placed it on his head, then jumped in front of the horse and took hold of the bridle.

“Bit late for catechism, isn’t it, Father?”

The man in the top hat could not have been more than twenty. His face was smooth, his confidence untried. Behind him, the man in the porkpie hat pulled a chain from his pocket and ran it through his fingers.

“I’m a monk,” said Dolly.

“That’s not what I remember,” said the Top Hat. “I remember a purple suit.”

Ren tugged at the reins. The mare shook her head back and forth. Dolly pushed the hood of his robe from his face, then stepped down from the wagon.

“Let go of the horse.”

“All we want is a blessing,” said the Top Hat. “Then maybe we’ll forget we saw you. You’ve got a blessing for us, don’t you, monk?”

Dolly raised his two fingers to start the cross. Behind him, the man in the porkpie hat lifted the chain. It came down hard on the back of Dolly’s neck. Ren cried out, but Dolly didn’t react. He simply turned and took hold of the man’s throat and crushed it. The chain fell. Dolly pushed the man up against the streetlamp and then bashed his skull against it, over and over, until the man’s hat fell onto the sidewalk.

Ren was yanked from his seat. The man in the top hat was shouting in his ear and it was only then that the boy realized there was a knife pressed to the side of his face. Then they were both falling over, and Dolly was on top of them. Everywhere there were elbows and knees scrambling. Ren felt a sting on his cheek. A foot in his stomach. He covered his face with his arms and rolled off the sidewalk and into the gutter. Above him someone shrieked and groaned and then the shuffling stopped and it was quiet. The boy’s fingers touched something soggy. It smelled like rotten fish, and it was. Ren looked around him. He was surrounded by heads and tails, all the leftovers from a day of fishing the river.

Dolly took the boy by the elbow and set him on his feet. The shepherd’s robe was sprinkled with blood. The man in the top hat slumped against the sidewalk; one of his eyes had been put out, and a slick trail of red ran from his lashes to his ear.

The boy was shaking. His legs were wet. He could hear voices, a shout in the alley, coming closer. Dolly was calmly looking out into the night, and the boy knew he could kill a dozen more like this. Ren struggled not to panic. He tried to think of what Benjamin would do.

“Get them in the wagon,” Ren said. “Now.”

Together they loaded the men into the back of the cart, one on either side of Mrs. Sands. All the commotion had stirred her from her fever. She was awake, her face spotted with red, her brow damp with perspiration.

“THEY’RE
ALWAYS
STEALING
MY BACON!” she shouted.

“We know,” said Ren. He pulled the blankets over the bodies.

Mrs. Sands seemed happier with the dead men covered up. She closed her eyes again. “
SERVES
THEM
RIGHT
.”

Ren tucked the comforter up to her chin. He took Dolly’s hand. “Let’s go.”

Dolly’s fingers were slimy; Ren could feel a bit of something left—hair, or skin—in his palm. He didn’t mean it, he thought as they climbed back into the wagon, but in his heart Ren knew that Dolly had meant it, and he would have done it again, and again. After this Ren couldn’t think anymore. Instead he felt the air on his damp skin, the smell of fish in his clothes. The lamppost disappeared behind them, and the boy realized that he was sharing a seat with a murderer. There would be no more bargaining with God. He was into hell now for sure.

Ren hurried the horse along, trying to put as much distance between the wagon and the town as possible. The law would be after them soon, if they weren’t after Dolly already. Ren’s palm began to sweat as he thought of getting caught. Every few minutes he checked to make sure they weren’t being followed. Before long they were beyond the limits, and then in the open countryside. Dolly leaned back in his seat, as if all of this was happening to someone else. The moon came out from behind a cloud, but the man’s face remained dark.

“You killed them, Dolly.”

“It’s their own fault.”

“That doesn’t make it right.” There was a rustling in the woods at the side of the road. Ren turned his head. He felt the trees watching them. The oaks and the elms and the maples towered over the wagon, their branches swaying. Ren felt the words of contrition at the back of his throat, and then they were spilling out: O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee. He glanced over at Dolly, who was looking up at the stars. “You’re going to have to confess too.”

“For what?” Dolly asked.

“For everything.”

“That would take years,” Dolly said. “And that’s with me not remembering half of what I’ve done.”

“If you don’t, you won’t be saved.” Ren glanced over to see if this made an impression. To his surprise, he saw that it did not.

The boy did his best to explain the seven sins, the Second Coming, and the end of the world. He told Dolly about how the dead were going to rise and stand among the living, and how it would be a day of judgment, and Christ would decide who went to heaven and who was cast down to hell forever.

“I’ve already been there,” Dolly said. “And I’ve already come back.”

“But it’s a sin,” Ren said. “And it’s against the law. You’ll go to jail. They’ll hang you. ” He could not understand Dolly’s indifference. A cold breeze blew up, and Ren’s nose began to run.

A cloud passed away from the moon, and Dolly’s face came out of the darkness. He patted Ren on the shoulder. “I told you before. I was made for killing.”

In the back of the wagon the men were silent, as if agreeing with this. Ren was suddenly anxious that they were still alive. He pulled the horse to a stop, then lifted the edge of one of the blankets. The brim of the porkpie hat was pulled rakishly to the side, the back of the man’s skull split open. The other man’s face oozed with blood; they’d left his top hat in the road. Ren waited for a sign, feeling nauseated all the while. Doctor Milton was wrong. Nothing inside their bodies was beautiful.

Ren looked down the road that stretched before them in the dark. Up ahead was a clearing, and through the leaves he could see the turret of the hospital, standing in the distance, like a giant waiting to be fed. The boy took a deep breath, then covered the hat boys again, released the brake, and set the horse moving. Father John had always told him that the Day of Judgment would come in their lifetime. But when Ren glanced behind, no one was following them, and no judgment seemed at hand.

S
ister Agnes was waiting at the gate as if she expected them, her arms full of bedpans. She was knocking the containers one by one against the wall of the building and kicking dirt over the waste with her foot. She looked tired, as though she’d never stopped working.

The wagon drew close and Ren realized that Sister Agnes stood between them and the basement. He began to waver, then decided to do what Benjamin would have done. He smiled, and waved, then handed the reins over to Dolly. He pulled the brake. “Our landlady is sick.”

Sister Agnes put the bedpans down and opened the gates. “If it’s contagious you’ll have to leave.” She dried her hands on her gray pinafore, walked to the back of the cart before Ren could stop her, and parted the blankets.

Ren expected her to scream. Or burst into tears. But after a cursory glance at the dead men, Sister Agnes simply pushed them aside and began taking Mrs. Sands’s temperature.

“Fever,” said Sister Agnes. She lifted Mrs. Sands’s eyelids. “Dilation.” She felt her neck. “Swelling.” She opened Mrs. Sands’s mouth, peering through the lips. “Infection.” All this time Mrs. Sands tried to swat her away, but Sister Agnes dodged her easily. Then she took Mrs. Sands by the wrists, put her ear to the landlady’s chest, and held it there for a moment.

“Is she going to be all right?”

“Quiet!”

“MURDERERS!” Mrs. Sands shouted.

Ren felt the color drain from his face. But the nun ignored Mrs. Sands completely. She continued listening for another minute, then stood and began readjusting the blanket. “Your landlady has influenza.”

“Is that bad?”

“It can be. It’s brought on by damp weather. And it’s contagious. She’ll spread the disease to the other patients in the ward. We can’t take her here.” She tucked the blanket around the body of Mrs. Sands with a practiced efficiency. “Unless you have the funds for a private room.”

Ren dug into his pockets and turned out the money from the bedpost. Sister Agnes gathered the bills from his hand, and Ren began to worry whether it would be enough. The nun counted silently, then turned her black eyes on Dolly, still sitting on the driver’s seat. He was staring ahead, his shoulders hunched. He had not acknowledged her, or Ren, or anything for the last three miles on the road.

“Brother.”

Dolly looked down at Sister Agnes.

“Are you from Saint Anthony’s?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Ren, “he is.”

Dolly made the sign of the cross, and Sister Agnes observed him carefully.

“Where did these men come from?”

It was phrased as an accusation, and Dolly’s face dimmed. Ren could tell that he was sizing her up, calculating the risk. The boy rushed forward.

“We found them in the road.”

Ren could see Sister Agnes’s doubts rising as she got a closer look at Dolly’s costume. Then her mouth closed tight as if she had confirmed her suspicions. She tucked her hands into her sleeves and nodded at the back of the wagon.

“You can put the others through the depository. The doctor is on his morning rounds, but I’m certain you’ll receive the proper compensation.”

She stood by as Dolly and Ren wrapped the bodies in blankets and carried them over to the basement door. There was a swinging section in the lower half, just like the gate at Saint Anthony’s. Ren lifted the handle and peered inside. A long metal chute was attached to receive the deliveries. One by one Dolly pushed the bodies through, and Ren could hear them sliding down into the darkness.

The morning was just beginning to leak its color across the sky as Sister Agnes showed them upstairs to the private ward. Dolly took each step carefully, carrying Mrs. Sands in his arms. Ren followed behind. He could hear the people from the public wards, turning in their beds, their whispers echoing throughout the hall.

On the second floor Sister Agnes took a key from the ring on her waist. She unlocked a passageway that led to a long corridor lined with rooms. Stationed outside of every other doorway was a Sister of Charity. Most of the nuns were doing needlework, but Ren could see that one or two were dozing instead. Sister Agnes prodded these women as she passed, and they slipped further into their chairs before snapping awake.

“Each sister is assigned two patients to care for. They are available day and night, and are responsible for bringing meals and cleaning linens. If your landlady needs anything, she may ring the bell and Sister Josephine will answer.” An old, freckled nun leaned against the wall outside the empty room, her habit tilted precariously to one side, her mouth open.