They emerged onto a dark street just above the rushing Mississippi. The rain was still falling but had decreased from a downpour to a gentle shower. Jack’s watch was gone, damn it, but he guessed it was three or four in the morning. He peered upstream and down.
There, maybe half a mile upstream, lay Natchez, her smokestacks gently steaming in the lights of the adjacent parking lot. It would be a long walk, and they were wet and exhausted—and, in Jack’s case, naked and barefoot—but they could do it.
Jack put an arm over Timur’s shoulders and they began walking.
Despite the hour, Chief Engineer Cottle was awake when Jack knocked on his door. “Yeah, what—” he said as he opened the door, then stopped dead, dark-circled eyes widening behind his thick glasses.
Jack stood there dripping and naked, with a filthy, flattened, tire-marked paper bag held before his privates. He had left the three jokers hiding beneath a table in the lounge. “I’m afraid I lost my pants,” he said, in as straightforward a manner as he could manage. “Could you let me into my cabin?”
Cottle did, with an admirable lack of questions, and with a sigh of relief Jack put on his work pants—with the heavy ring of keys still attached to the belt. It was a very good thing he had taken only his cabin key with him when he’d left. “Thanks,” he said to Cottle.
The chief engineer blinked twice, shook his head, and headed back to his own cabin, muttering something about “this trip just gets weirder and weirder.”
The next day wasn’t easy, not for Jack and not for his Kazakh friends. Jack, despite his cuts, bruises, and exhaustion, had to work a full day without letting on about what had happened in the night. He pretty much got away with it, he thought, except that Wild Fox winked at him and made a suggestive comment about “rough trade.” Jack just glared at him for that.
But Aiman and Tazhibai, Jack thought, had had an even rougher night—they had not only nearly died, but Aiman had been forced to kill her own father, leaving her an orphan. Fortunately, Aliya and Jyrgal had taken both kids in with open, loving arms—they were not nearly as closed-minded about young love as Erzhan had been—and Nurassyl’s healing powers had gone a long way toward soothing their injured bodies and psyches.
They told no one the truth about how Erzhan had died. The story they had concocted on the walk back to the boat was that the kids had run away; Erzhan, Timur, and Jack had followed them; they had tried to hide in the sewer and got caught in the currents; and Erzhan had drowned rescuing them. Jack wasn’t happy that a man who’d tried to kill his own daughter wound up being portrayed as a hero, but Timur had convinced him to go along with the fiction for the good of the community.
As for Timur himself … he had given Jack a very long, warm embrace before retiring to his own bed for a well-deserved rest, but Jack had barely seen him since. At least, not with his eyes. The noble, fearless joker who had saved Jack’s life so many times in the last twenty-four hours was rarely far from his thoughts … or his imagination. But, he thought, that was probably the closest he would ever get.
So when Jack locked up the bar that night and trudged back to his cabin, he was pleased as well as surprised to find Timur waiting. “We talk?” he said.
“We talk,” Jack replied.
Over a series of stiff drinks—vodka neat for Timur, top-shelf cognac for Jack—they had a long heart-to-heart, with many gestures and much drunken laughter at their difficulties of communication … and eventually they discovered that the language barrier was far from insurmountable.
Afterward, they walked out on deck together, not willing to let go of each other just yet. The clouds had cleared away, the Arch gleamed gold in the light of the rising sun, and the full moon was just setting behind it.
In that glimmering light they shared a passionate kiss.
When a very tired but happy Jack opened the bar at eleven, he found Leo Storgman waiting at the door. “I can’t sleep on this boat,” Storgman complained. “It’s too quiet.”
“Nothin’ like New York,” Jack agreed with weary camaraderie. “Boilermaker?”
“Yep.”
Jack fixed the man’s drink and set it in front of him. He looked to either side; there were no other patrons yet. “You were a cop, right? You know anything about immigration? Green cards?”
“A little…”
“I was just wondering.” He folded his arms on the bar and leaned in close. “Can a guy gay-marry another guy—a foreigner—and bring him into the States?”
Storgman snorted. “These days? I suppose anything’s possible. But it’s not easy.”
“I’m prepared to do whatever it takes.”
Storgman’s gray eyes met Jack’s bleary red ones, taking his measure. Then he shook his head and grinned indulgently. “I play poker with a lawyer back home. Dr. Pretorius. You might have heard of him?”
Jack nodded. “Yeah, maybe.”
“If anyone can work out an arrangement for you,” Storgman continued, “it’s him.” He pulled a smartphone from his pocket. “I’ll drop him a line right now.”
“Thanks. I really appreciate it.”
That afternoon, as Natchez pulled away from the dock, Jack came out on the promenade to watch the Arch receding into the distance behind the paddle wheel. Gateway to the West, he thought. Gateway to a new life, maybe, for both of us.
He could hardly wait.
In the Shadow of Tall Stacks
Part 7
WILBUR NOTICED AN ENTIRELY naked Jack, Timur, and the two young refugee lovers Aiman and Tazhibai (all four of them soaking wet) coming back aboard in the early-morning rain. He watched, curious, as Jack took the Kazakh trio and hid them under a table in the lounge, then padded down—still naked but wielding a paper bag in front of his privates—to the main deck. Since neither Jack nor Timur appeared terribly concerned about their bedraggled and beaten appearance, Wilbur decided he didn’t need to be concerned either.
In any case, the steam was back up in the boilers and Wilbur was feeling simultaneously excited and morose about being on the last leg of the trip, the storm battering both the boat and St. Louis fitting his mood. He stayed in the lounge to guard the jokers until Jack returned (wearing clothing now) to take the Kazakhs back to the relative safety of their cabin.
As to what he saw with Timur and Jack … he only shook his head. It was just another indication that the world continued to change around him. As with Captain Montaigne, he might not entirely understand or approve of those changes, but there was nothing he could do about it. Eleanor would likely have only told him, “Love is love, dearest. Leave it alone and let them enjoy what we have, Wilbur.”
So that’s what he did.
That afternoon, the Natchez left the St. Louis dock and headed downriver to the confluence of the Ohio River with the Mississippi just south of Cairo, Illinois, a small town surrounded by tall levees on a spit of land flanked by the Mississippi on one side and the Ohio on the other, though the town gave its back to the Mississippi and instead looked out over the Ohio to Kentucky on the opposite bank.
In the evening with the skies finally beginning to clear, the Natchez made the sharp left turn at Fort Defiance State Park, where a Civil War fort was once commanded by Ulysses S. Grant, to enter the Ohio River. They docked for the night in Cairo; several of the passengers strolled out to examine the town’s tiny historic district, but it was a new passenger coming aboard there who garnered the most attention from Wilbur: Paul Lewis. Wilbur watched a fully dressed Jack greet the man on his arrival and escort him up to JoHanna’s stateroom as Wilbur followed, curious.
Lewis was a tall, ginger-haired man with a face was so florid as to appear permanently sunburned. His hands moved constantly as he talked, as if he were unable to speak without waving them about. “The final arrangements are set,” Lewis was saying as Wilbur entered the room. If Jack or JoHanna noticed the remnants of Wilbur’s wet entrance on the wall, neither said anything. Wilbur noted that Jeremiah wasn’t present, nor were Wild Fox an
d Sylvia, who—after Wild Fox’s help with Evangelique Jones—were now part of the group whenever they consulted about the Kazakhs. Wilbur wondered if Jack and JoHanna simply didn’t want Lewis to know about the others. “I have the transportation arranged in Cincinnati to take the group to Theodorus in Charlotte. There will be six of them still on the ship at that point, right?” Wilbur winced at that and stifled the impulse to grab steam so he could correct the man: It’s a boat, not a ship.…
JoHanna did it for him. “This isn’t a ship; it’s a steamboat,” she told him, her dark features stern. “They’re never, ever called ships.”
Lewis simply shrugged at that and continued his monologue. “Sure, fine. Whatever. Here’s how I see this all playing out. You’ll have a full load of paying customers for the race in Cincinnati; what I plan to do is to bring the Kazakhs out just after the last passengers have disembarked for the evening after the race, like they’re just some late-leaving group. JoHanna, you can help me with that. I’ll escort our refugees to a van parked close by on the Public Landing, and we’ll be off to Charlotte. By the morning after the race, they should all be safely with Theodorus, which is our target goal, eh?”
“And you’re with the JADL?” Jack asked. “Forgive me, but that seems … strange to me.”
“Because I’m a nat?” Lewis asked. “Hey, both of you look normal enough, and you’re working with the JADL. Even jokers sometimes have nats working for them. Look, my brother was infected by the wild card; he drew the black queen and died. After I got out of law school, I decided to work for nonprofit human rights agencies, and the JADL had an opening. Dr. Pretorius didn’t seem to mind that I’d never experienced what most of them had. He just wanted a good lawyer. ICE is still looking for the Kazakhs you have, and they’d especially like to get their hands on Nurassyl and the Handsmith. The rest they’ll just pack off to Rathlin with the others, but those two … That’s why I’m coming aboard now—my expectation is that you’re going to have at least one other ‘visit’ from ICE before we get to Cincinnati, so I’m aboard just in case that happens. Now, is it only the three of us who are aware of our secret passengers?”
Jack and JoHanna looked at each other. “That’s correct,” Jack said. “No one else is involved. So, Mr. Lewis, you can stop ICE from taking them?”
Wilbur snickered silently at that. So Jack and JoHanna didn’t entirely trust Lewis.…
“I can tangle them up in bureaucratic red tape locally and fly in Dr. Pretorius from New York at need. He’s been working on this from when they arrived in New Orleans and on. At the very least, we can make everything terribly uncomfortable for the Van Rennsaeler administration. They won’t want the publicity we’d give them.” He nodded to Jack and JoHanna with the last statement, still smiling broadly with white and perfect teeth.
Make everything terribly uncomfortable for the Van Rennsaeler administration … Wilbur snorted at Lewis’s overblown, stiffly formal language. I swear, the man should be speaking in one of those upper-crust British accents. Frankly, he thought the man rather a pompous ass, but if he could deliver on his promise, then he was at least a decent pompous ass.
All that mattered was that the rest of the Kazakhs ended up safe. If it took an ass to do that, an ass would do just fine.
Louisville was the last stop before Cincinnati itself: Kentucky’s largest and most populous city, perched on the Kentucky side of an Ohio River bend with its attendant satellite towns of New Albany, Clarksville, and Jeffersonville slumbering across the river on the Indiana side. The Natchez had docked along the Riverwalk area east of the Louisville Locks, at the U.S. 31 bridge next to the Belle of Louisville, which would be accompanying them upriver to Cincinnati and the festival, and along with the Delta Queen would be taking part in the race with the Natchez. Wilbur had visited Louisville often in his mortal days and seen it from the deck of the Natchez countless times in the years since his death.
He looked out now over the small downtown area from the hurricane deck. There was a small fair under way in the area, and the Jokertown Boys had temporarily abandoned the Bayou Lounge to entertain on a stage there. Wilbur could hear the throb of the sound system and Roger’s low voice echoing from the nearby buildings, competing with the hum of traffic crossing the bridge. Visitors who purchased a five-dollar ticket were being allowed to tour the boat, and Wilbur watched a line of the curious constantly entering and leaving over the extended gangway.
He also watched a trio of the Kazakhs leave the boat under the cover of other tourists—Louisville was the final sanctuary city in which they would stop. Cincinnati was not a sanctuary city, but it was as far east as the Natchez would be going, and would offer a short drive to Charlotte and Theodorus for Nurassyl, Jyrgal, Aliya, Timur, and Tazh and Aiman.
As the Jokertown Boys launched into “Jokertown Blues,” Wilbur found himself staring down at the gangway with a grimace. He recognized the African-American woman striding up toward the main deck: the ICE agent who had nearly discovered the refugees back in Memphis, Evangelique Jones, accompanied by a man in a dark suit and sunglasses whose appearance also fairly screamed “federal agent.” So Lewis was right about another ICE visit.
As quickly as possible, Wilbur headed down to the main deck, not even caring that he was passing through people and leaving them somewhat dampened in the process, though he heard the shouts of surprise and outrage that followed him: “Hey, is there a leak somewhere? Is someone spraying water? Who the fuck just spilled their drink on me?”
As tall and striking as Jones was, she wasn’t hard to spot in the crowd. Wilbur saw her ascending the bow stairs to the boiler deck, and he hurried after her in time to see her sit down in one of the plastic deck chairs near the forward rail. It was who she chose to sit beside that surprised Wilbur the most.
Paul Lewis. Their man from the JADL. Mr. Sunglasses stood directly behind the two, pretending to pay no attention to anything at all and undoubtedly watching it all.
Wilbur moved to stand directly in front of the trio, in the small space between Lewis’s and Evangelique’s legs and the railing. They looked out through him toward the river, the Belle, and the bridge, and their words were both quiet and alarming. “I take it your offer of a reward for the remaining Kazakhs still stands, since the ones you’re really after are part of that group?” Lewis asked. His hands swept through the air as if conducting their conversation.
“Actually, we prefer that people give us information and help us because they understand it’s their patriotic duty.” Jones turned to look at Lewis directly, with a moue of unconcealed distaste on close-pressed lips. When Lewis just stared back, she continued. “But yes, our offer still stands, assuming you can deliver on it. The Kazakhs we wanted most are still … missing. So where are the Kazakhs? Martin”—she said the name with a quick nod of her head at Mr. Sunglasses behind her—“can have our people here in ten minutes. Less.”
Lewis shook his head. His right hand waved in a gesture of dismissal. “It can’t be here or now,” he said.
“Why not?” The look of annoyance deepened on Jones’s face.
“First, Louisville’s a sanctuary city, and so there’s a legal issue,” Lewis answered. “Dr. Pretorius would be on you immediately for grabbing them here—and fire me for letting you. Not a complication you want, believe me. But more importantly, the Kazakhs aren’t currently on the ship.” Wilbur knew that for a lie, as he’d visited the refugees not an hour before; judging from Jones’s expression, she had the same thought. And it’s a boat, not a ship, you idiot. “I have to protect myself; I can’t have the JADL knowing I gave up the refugees. I’d lose my job, be sued, or worse.” Both hands waved at that. “Cincinnati’s not a sanctuary city, so taking the refugees in Cincinnati’s a much better option, and safer for everyone involved, too. I can tell you just when and how the Kazakhs will leave the boat, and let you take them without a crowd around to witness it and record everything on their smartphones. You don’t want video posted two minutes later on Fa
cebook.”
He gestured at the crowds filling the two boats. “I can guarantee you’ll be able to grab them easily, with no fanfare and no one plastering it all over social media. No bad publicity for the White House and the administration at all. And most especially, I can say that I was just as surprised as everyone else when you showed up, thus keeping my reputation, my salary, and your reward.” Lewis’s grin widened. “My creditors will be very happy, all around. What’s another few days, Agent Jones? You’ve been looking for these people a lot longer than that. A little patience is all that’s required, for both of us.”
I could grab some steam, slip into the woman, and just stay there until her insides have been boiled into a soggy stew.… But no. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—kill anyone else. That wasn’t the answer. But after all Nurassyl had done for him, after making friends with the Kazakhs and starting to learn their language, he wasn’t going to allow Lewis to give up the joker refugees who he now considered friends.
Jones lifted her shoulders and let them fall again, her dark eyes closing once and opening again as she stared off toward the river. “All right,” she said. “Cincinnati it is. You will be my eyes and ears on the Natchez, and I’ll be calling you twice a day from now until Cincinnati, just in case anything you’re going to tell me happens to … go awry. And you’re going to tell me—right here and right now—exactly what you and the JADL have planned. I want every last little detail, and if I don’t like them, maybe I change my mind.”
“I’m sure you won’t.” Lewis grinned. Wilbur saw him reach out as if to touch Jones’s hand on the armrest of her chair, but the look she gave him made the smile disintegrate and he pulled his hand back with a showy flourish worthy of Ravenstone, as if that was what he’d intended to do from the beginning. “Well then. Here’s what I’ve arranged…”