The Good Thief (26 page)

Tom cursed the twins until they began to help. Brom took turns at the spade with Ichy, while Ren cleared the rocks away. It seemed the work would never end. They drove deeper and deeper, until suddenly there was a thump when their shovel hit wood. Ren crouched near the edge of the hole. He could see the pale pine coffin far below, the end peeking out from the earth like a head from a blanket.

Benjamin came forward with a long-handled spade. He pushed the boys aside, then slid the pole in. It took three tries until the blade connected and they heard the wood break. Then Benjamin pulled the spade out, and Tom brought two chains with large metal hooks attached at the ends. They were meat hooks; Ren recognized them from the butcher shop as they were lowered into the grave.

“Have you got it?” Benjamin said.

“Almost,” said Tom. “Just there. Yes. Got it.”

They hooked the body underneath the arms and pulled it out.

Sarah, wife of Samuel, had been buried in her wedding dress. It was not silk, but a stiff, hard linen, with pink flowers embroidered around the neck and shoulders. There was a line of pearl buttons, from the collar to the waist, and a set of crocheted gloves pulled over the dead woman’s hands.

Ren tried to focus on the dress and not her face, which was terrifying—her skin stiff and cold as wax, the hair like straw. Benjamin removed the meat hooks, replaced them with his hands, and dragged her to a patch of grass, her dress trailing dirt, her small, white leather boots appearing beneath the skirt like two painted branches. Her lips were deep purple, slightly open, and pulled apart.

“Give me the knife,” Benjamin said.

It took a moment before Ren understood. He reached into his pocket, took out the bear knife, and passed it over, full of apprehension. Benjamin slipped the blade beneath the collar of the woman’s wedding dress and cut straight through the row of buttons in one movement. The pearls sprang into the air like rice and scattered across the grass, turning to specks in the moonlight.

Benjamin handed the knife back to Ren. “Get the rest of her clothes off. That dress is worth five dollars, at least.” He left the children and walked over to Tom, and together the men started to unearth the next grave.

Ren turned to his friends, the knife in his hand.

“What are we going to do?” Brom whispered.

“I want to go home,” Ichy cried.

Ren could have kicked him. “We’re not going anywhere.”

He tried to pull the dress down from her shoulders, but her arms would not bend. He threatened Brom and Ichy until they got on their knees and helped, the twins too panicked now to do anything but follow. In the end they rolled her onto her face, severed the back ties, and took the dress from behind, Ren cutting along the seams. Underneath she wore a simple white petticoat and corset. There was a mole on the back of her neck, two brown spots held together that looked like a tiny, tiny mouth.

The boys stood around her, trembling and guilty. Ichy began to pray under his breath, and Brom soon joined him. Our Father, Who Art in Heaven. Ren turned away toward the neighboring grave and saw the naked body of an old man on the ground, his penis like a soft piece of rope, his eyes open and staring.

It took hours to finish. The boys shoveled until their arms ached and their backs were sore and blisters rose on their fingers. Benjamin walked from the graveyard to the road, watching, listening. Each time he came back to the group, he appeared more nervous and pressed everyone to work faster.

When they had loaded the last of the bags into the wagon, Tom covered the bodies with a blanket, then took the flask from his pocket and begin to drink again. The twins scrambled up in the back and collapsed, exhausted, while Benjamin took the driver’s seat.

“What about Dolly?” Ren asked.

Benjamin’s face was set. “Get in.”

The horse shifted. For a few moments the only sound in the dark night was the animal breathing. Then Ren’s feet began to move, one by one, and then they were running from the wagon, over the stile, toward Dolly, and then there were other feet, he could hear them, coming faster, coming after him. Benjamin scooped Ren up into his arms and held him tight.

“He’s no help for us.”

Ren struggled to get away.

“You want to stay with him? You want me to leave you here?”

Ren could just make out Dolly’s profile, a mountain of misplaced earth. He was still underneath the tree, his eyes closed. Ren did not want to leave his friend. But the thought of being abandoned in the churchyard was worse. He stopped fighting, his strength gone. Benjamin loosened his grip and placed him on the ground, then led Ren back to the cart.

“I warned you,” said Benjamin.

Ren watched Dolly’s tree as they pulled away. He imagined his friend calling for him in the gloom, the crosses and headstones standing close and silent. The graveyard faded around the turn in the road, and Ren hid his face in his jacket.

“Come on, now,” said Tom. “None of that. You’ve got your fellows!”

Brom and Ichy were as still as dolls, their eyes on the pile of bodies next to them in the cart. Tom coughed, drew the bottle from underneath his coat, and took a long, slow drink. When he was finished, he smacked his lips.

“Let’s have a song.”

The orphans did not answer.

“Don’t you know any? Didn’t they teach you boys to sing?”

“We know some hymns,” Brom ventured.

“They’re in Latin,” said Ichy.

“Well, that’s not going to raise any spirits. How’s about ‘Hey Nonny No’? Or ‘Bonnie My Bonnie’?”

“We don’t know those songs.”

“Well, it’s time you did.” Tom drank from the bottle. He cleared his throat and began to sing, his voice high and surprisingly pleasant.

“Lavender’s blue, diddle diddle

Lavender’s green,

When I am king, diddle diddle

You shall be queen.

“You know this one,” said Tom. He tossed the bottle to Benjamin.

“A brisk young man, diddle diddle

Met with a maid,

And laid her down, diddle diddle

Under the shade.”

Benjamin took a drink, then threw the bottle back.

“Here,” said Tom, passing it to Brom. “Sing. All you need to know is the ‘diddle diddle’ part.”

Brom tentatively took a sip from the bottle and grimaced. Ichy followed, coughing out what he had taken in, but when the chorus came round, they joined Tom with their small voices.

“For you and I, diddle diddle

Now all are one,

And we will lie, diddle diddle

No more alone.”

Ren watched his friends. The song had made them feel better. But the words echoed over his head like a warning. There was no rustling in the leaves. No wind through the needles. It was as if all the trees had stopped to listen. Ren glanced up at Benjamin on the driver’s seat. His shoulders were slouched and he was not singing. He was looking ahead, to the crossroads.

A sense of uneasiness came over the wagon as they drew closer to the signpost. Ren leaned over the side. He could see shapes farther down the road. Fellow travelers, coming their way. Benjamin cursed and sat up in his seat, and Tom threw another blanket over the bodies.

There were five men on horseback. With the moon behind them they nearly looked like trees themselves, their shadows stretching out before them. The men had hats of different sizes and shapes. A bowler, a straw hat, a watchman’s cap, a top hat, and one with a blood-red band. The figure in the center wore a long black riding coat. The horses seemed restless, as if they’d been waiting for some time, nodding back and forth, tugging at the reins.

“Mister Nab,” said the man in the riding coat.

Benjamin pulled the wagon to a stop. He looked the men over. “I don’t know you,” he said.

The rider pushed back the collar of his coat. It was the man with the red gloves, who had cut off the bartender’s hand at O’Sullivan’s. By his saddle he held the length of a shotgun, but he did not make a move to lift it.

Benjamin smiled. “There must be some kind of misunderstanding here.”

“No misunderstanding.” The man with the red gloves pointed to the wagon, and the Bowler and the Straw Hat moved their horses alongside. The Straw Hat leaned over and used his shotgun to poke at the bags, then pushed a flap of burlap aside and revealed the face of Sarah, wife of Samuel.

“Wait.” Benjamin raised his hands. “These folks, all of them, they’re my kin. The only ones I’ve got left. And they should’ve been buried with my family, not plopped into some beggars’ corner in the country. So I’m bringing them home to bury them proper. It’s as simple as that.”

Ren watched the man in the red gloves shift in his saddle. He was chewing a piece of tobacco and twisting his finger around and around the end of his reins.

“Doesn’t matter to us who they are or how you got them,” the man said. “But you’re not taking them any farther.”

Benjamin shrugged his shoulders and kept his hands lifted. Then he leaned forward suddenly and cracked the whip in his hand, slashing hard. “HA!” And the mare broke through the wall of riders.

“Hang on!” cried Tom.

The wagon bounced along the road, hitting a hole and nearly throwing Ren. He gripped the side as it sped on. They hit another ditch and Brom and Ichy were tossed close to the edge. Ren grabbed Brom by his shirt, his fingers wrenching, the crook of his arm straining against the weight. Tom stretched out a leg and caught Ichy with his foot, just before the boy slid out from the back.

Benjamin was standing now. He snapped the whip again and again. The riders had recovered and were coming up behind. Ren turned and saw them through the dust, spurring on their horses. A tree branch hit Ren in the side of the face, and the sound of the wagon and hoofbeats thundered in his ears. Two of the men were holding pistols. They were beside the wagon now. Pulling ahead, then slipping back when the road narrowed.

Tom reached for one of the bodies. He nodded to Ren and together they dragged it to the edge of the wagon. It was hard to keep hold of the bag. Ren could taste dust at the back of his throat. Tom pushed the body out, and Ren watched it fall in the path of the Watchman. The man’s horse stumbled and the Watchman was thrown to the ground.

They grabbed another and began sliding it toward the back. A shot rang over their heads. Tom ducked and began to kick the body with his feet. It went off the end, but this time as it landed the men spurred their horses and leaped over.

The cart rounded a bend, the wheels clattering, Brom and Ichy slipping across the boards. They hit the side next to Ren and clung to him, their fingernails raking his skin.

Two riders broke from the group and dashed into the woods. In a few moments they appeared ahead on the road, then dropped behind. It was the man with the red gloves and the Straw Hat. They were right next to the driver’s bench, close enough to touch Benjamin if they wanted. They lifted their guns.

“Look out!” Ren screamed.

They shot the horse. One, two holes into the animal’s neck, and then a third through her leg. The mare swerved left and right, stumbled, tried to right herself, then fell. The wagon traveled right over her, the stays hitting the ground and breaking, and Ren watched Benjamin fall and then the wagon was tipping, turning, and it felt like the earth had broken through beneath them and they were dropping into a chasm, and then Ren’s face hit something and there was a heavy weight across his back.

In the silence that followed, Ren felt the trees were coming for him. He could hear them groaning beneath the bark, their branches reaching out. He tried to warn the others, but his throat was closed tight. Then he felt himself being carried, and every movement was another boot crushing down upon him.

“Is he dead?”

More boots. Boots with claws. Ren tried to ask for help. He felt the tiniest slip of air go down. He sucked on it, and then another small breath came, and then another.

They had landed in a bog. The wagon was completely turned over and half submerged, the wheels broken and dripping in the muck. Brom and Ichy were standing to the side. The man with the watchman’s cap was pointing a pistol at them. Tom was underneath the wagon, his cries muffled, the bottom half of his coat just visible. The Bowler and the Straw Hat were digging him out.

The man in the top hat was carrying Ren. The brim was wide, the sides made of satin, and in one corner there was a dark red stain. It was the same hat worn by the man Dolly had killed beneath the streetlight. Ren was sure of it. But the man who had it on now was older, his face grown out with a beard.

“Pilot,” the new Top Hat said. “I’ve found one more.”

The man in the red gloves eyed Ren from where he was standing. “Put him with the rest.”

The horse was still alive. Her nostrils let out sharp bursts of breath. She blinked rapidly, as if a swarm of flies were trying to get in. Ren thought of the farmer kissing her nose and felt a crush of guilt. Pilot reloaded his shotgun. When he was through he snapped it shut, set it against the horse’s head, just beneath the ear, and pulled the trigger. The boom echoed across the marsh.