Lord of Order by Brett Riley (the reading list book TXT) 📕

and walked into the dim living room, unbuckling the gun belt and tossing it on the couch, weapons and all. Since assuming his post, he had never taken off his guns unless he was going to bed or taking a bath, and even then, he kept them nearby. Now, that seemed as pointless as everything else. Screams echoed in his mind. How many emaciated wrecks like Kouf and Potrello were scattered about the city?

Boudreaux passed through the kitchen, shedding clothes, first his hat and shirt, then his boots and socks and pants. Naked, he entered his back yard, his stark white torso and legs juxtaposed with the deep tan of his face and hands. A child’s half-finished finger painting.

He walked to the middle of the yard and fell to his knees, craned his head back, and howled.

Lights flickered in nearby houses. Faces appeared in windows and just as quickly vanished, the lights extinguished. Crickets chirped. Mosquitoes buzzed. Summer heat lay on him like a damp quilt.

What did I do to deserve this? he cried, tears on his cheeks. Where are You? When no one answered, he said, Then kill me. If I’m so worthless in Your sight, just strike me down and be done with it. Don’t let em use me like this.

Again, no answer, save for the buzzing insects.

Boudreaux’s chin dropped to his chest. He stayed on his knees, sobbing, for some time. When he finally stood, nothing had changed. Ephemeral grief, invisible pain, a wind made of razors. The night sounds seemed like a curtain that parted as he walked and closed behind him again, unaffected. As if he had never been there at all.

Gordon Boudreaux walked inside. Lantern light flickered in his bedroom window most of the night.

That same evening, Jack Hobbes found Clemens and a dozen Crusaders on his porch. The guards sipped from their canteens and looked at Hobbes as if he were a skunk that had just sprayed their mothers. Clemens had been squatting on his heels. Seeing Hobbes ride up, he straightened to his full height and spat.

Hobbes’s hands twitched. Might be worth dyin just to see the hole between his eyes.

Instead, he dismounted. A guard with a handlebar mustache and a black wart on his neck stepped off the porch and came down the walk. Hobbes handed the reins to the man, whom he did not recognize. Take him to the livery, Hobbes said. He needs a rubdown and a feed bucket.

I don’t take orders from you, the man said.

Better make it there unharmed too. Otherwise, I’ll find you. Same goes for the saddle and bags.

The Crusader tensed. Hobbes stroked the handles of his pistols with his fingers and smiled.

Do it, Clemens barked, irritable. I have places to be.

The guard cleared his throat and snatched the reins without looking at Hobbes and led the horse away.

Reckon I can kiss the ammo in them bags goodbye.

The other Crusaders stepped into the yard and surrounded him, hands on their sidearms. Hobbes scoffed. Nobody better not shoot, or you’ll kill each other.

Clemens met him in the middle, expressionless but for his eyes, which sparkled with madness. Jack Hobbes, for suspicion of treason against Lord Matthew Rook and the Bright Crusade, you’re under arrest.

Hobbes looked at the sky as if checking for rain. His fingers stroked his grips again. Got proof of this here treason?

Clemens stepped closer, practically daring Hobbes to make a move. You’re a long-time associate of the cowardly traitor, Gabriel Troy.

Hobbes locked eyes with the deputy envoy. If Gabe Troy was a traitor, so’s your mother.

Clemens looked as if he wanted to eat Hobbes’s kidneys in a pie, but he made no move. Troy’s gone, he said. Your friends Ford, Long, and Boudreaux have proven their loyalty—to the Crusade. You haven’t.

Sure their mommas would be right proud, except they’re dead. Supposed to take me to the towers?

If it were up to me, we’d nail you to your roof and let your brain cook like bacon. But Mister Royster wants you confined to your house until further notice.

Ain’t that lovely.

Sweat fell into Clemens’s eyes. He wiped it away as if he wanted to kill it too. Hand over your weapons and go inside, or we’ll cut you to pieces.

Hobbes looked at each guard as he spoke. Don’t know when the Crusade started eatin its own. Wonder what happens when somebody decides y’all ain’t loyal enough?

The guards said nothing, though he fancied one or two might have glanced away.

You have ten seconds to surrender those guns, Clemens said. Starting now.

Hobbes stroked the grips one more time, slowly, his index fingers easing toward the trigger guards. Clemens’s jaw tightened.

Then Hobbes unbuckled his gun belt and held it out to the deputy envoy. Here, boy. Try not to scuff em.

Clemens took the weapons. Too bad. I was hoping you’d fight.

Hobbes tipped his hat. Sure you did. Maybe one day we can see how tough you are without all this backup. He walked toward the house, shouldering Clemens hard as he passed. The guards followed him, breaking into groups and surrounding the house. At the door, Hobbes glanced back over his shoulder. This ain’t over.

Yes, Clemens said. It is. For you, and for all Troublers.

The two remaining guards positioned themselves on either side of the door and waited, watching, their bodies humming with tension, perhaps fear.

Across the street, Mordecai Jones and Tommy Gautreaux observed the proceedings. Gautreaux’s white shirt clung to his corpulent body like skin. He spat black tobacco juice and nodded. Jones touched a finger to his hat brim.

Hobbes tilted his chin upward an inch.

Jones and Gautreaux walked away. Clemens turned, but there was nothing to see except the sweaty backs of two men who might have been anybody.

Hobbes opened his door and went inside.

Ernie Tetweiller sat on his couch, windows closed, curtains pulled, doors locked. A lit lantern sat next to him on an end table; in his lap, a bottle of moonshine confiscated from a Troubler nest no more than