They had perished within a few hours of each other. Eustace was not told of this until two days later; he was roiling with fever, his mind adrift in psychotic dreams he was glad to have no memory of. The epidemic had cut through the city like a scythe. Who lived and who died seemed random; a healthy adult was as likely to succumb as an infant or someone in their seventies. The illness came on quickly: fever, chills, a cough from deep in the lungs. Often it would seem to run its course only to come roaring back, overwhelming the victim within minutes. Simon had been three years old—a watchful boy with intelligent eyes and a joyful laugh. Never had Eustace felt a love so deep for anyone, not even for Nina. The two of them joked about it—how, by comparison, their affection for each other seemed minor, though of course that wasn’t quite true. Loving their boy was just another way of loving each other.
He spent a few minutes by the grave. He liked to focus on little things. Meals they’d shared, snippets of conversation, quick touches traded for no reason, just to do it. He hardly ever thought about the insurgency; it seemed to have no bearing anymore, and Nina’s ferocity as a fighter made up but one small part of the woman she was. Her true self was something she had shown only to him.
A feeling of fullness told him it was time to go. So, another year. He touched the stone, letting his hand linger there as he said goodbye, and made way back through the maze of headstones.
“Hey, mister!”
Eustace spun around as a chunk of ice the size of a fist sailed past his head. Three boys, teenagers, stood fifty feet away among the headstones, guffawing like idiots. But when they got a look at him, the laughter abruptly ceased.
“Shit! It’s the sheriff!”
They dashed away before Eustace could say a word. It was too bad, really; there was something he wanted to tell them. It’s okay, he would have said. I don’t mind. He would have been about your age.
When he returned to the jail, Fry Robinson, his deputy, was sitting at the desk with his boots up, snoring into his collar. He was just a kid, really, not even twenty-five, with a wide, optimistic face and a soft round jaw he barely had to shave. Not the smartest but not the dumbest either; he’d stayed on with Eustace longer than most men did, which counted for something. Eustace let the door bang behind himself, sending Fry jolting upright.
“Jesus, Gordo. What the hell did you do that for?”
Eustace strapped on his gun. It was mostly for show; he kept it loaded, but the ammunition the redeyes had left behind was nearly gone, and what remained was unreliable. On more than one occasion, the hammer had fallen on a dud.
“Did you feed Rudy yet?”
“I was just about to before you woke me up. Where’d you go? I thought you were still back there.”
“Went to visit Nina and Simon.”
Fry gave him a blank stare; then he understood. “Shit, it’s the twenty-fourth, isn’t it?”
Eustace shrugged. What was there to say?
“I can look after things here if you want,” Fry offered. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?”
“And do what?”
“Sleep or something. Get drunk.”
“Believe me, I’ve thought about it.”
Eustace carried Rudy’s breakfast back to his cell: a couple of stale biscuits and a raw potato cut into slices.
“Rise and shine, partner.”
Rudy lifted his emaciated frame off his bunk. Thieving, fighting, being a general, all-around pain in the ass: the man was in jail so often he actually had a favorite cell. This time the charge was drunk and disorderly. With a lurid snort he excavated a wad of phlegm, hawked it into the bucket that served as a toilet, and shuffled to the bars, beltless pants hoisted in his fist. Maybe I should let him keep his belt next time, Eustace thought. The man might do us all a favor and hang himself. Eustace slid the plate through the slot.
“That’s it? Biscuits and a potato?”
“What do you want? It’s March.”
“The service isn’t what it used to be around this place.”
“So stay out of trouble for once.”
Rudy sat on the bunk and took a bite of one of the biscuits. The man’s teeth were disgusting, brown and wobbly-looking, though Eustace was hardly one to talk. Crumbs spurted from his mouth as he spoke. “When’s Harold coming?”
Harold was the judge. “How should I know?”
“I need a clean bucket, too.”
Eustace was halfway down the hall.
“I’m serious!” Rudy yelled. “It stinks in here!”
Eustace returned to the front and sat behind his desk. Fry was wiping down his revolver, something he did about ten times a day. The thing was like his pet. “What’s his problem?”
“Didn’t care much for the cuisine.”
Fry frowned with contempt. “He should be grateful. I didn’t get much more than that myself.” He stopped and sniffed the air. “Jesus, what’s that smell?”
“Hey, assholes,” Rudy yelled from the back, “got a present for you!”
Rudy was standing in his cell holding the now-empty bucket with a triumphant look on his face. Shit and piss were running down the hallway in a brown river.
“This is what I think of your fucking potato.”
“Goddamnit,” Fry yelled, “you’re cleaning this up!”
Eustace turned to his deputy. “Hand me the key.”
Fry unhooked the ring from his belt and passed it to Eustace. “I mean it, Rudy.” He jabbed a finger in the air. “You’re in a heap of trouble, my friend.”
Eustace unlocked the door, stepped into the cell, closed the door behind himself, reached with the keys back through the bars, and locked the door again. Then he deposited the ring deep in his pocket.
“What the hell is this?” Rudy asked.
“Gordon?” Fry looked at him cautiously. “What are you doing?”