House of the Rising Sun (Hackberry Holland 4)

“Go ahead,” Beckman said. “I’ll be along.”

Ishmael talked with a foreman about the reconstruction, then finally said what was on his mind. “We were shooting down below. A round didn’t stray this far, did it?”

“Not that we noticed,” the foreman said.

“I’m glad. I apologize for disturbing your work. How old is this place?”

The foreman had a build like a beer barrel about to burst, the sleeves of his flannel shirt rolled up on his thick forearms, his face wind burned. “Two centuries, I suspect. Want to walk around inside?”

The wooden roof had collapsed long ago, and the rock walls had been blackened by fire, the apse piled with debris. Ash from a trash fire in back floated like hundreds of moths out of the sunlight into the nave.

“It’s cold in here,” Maggie said. Her hands were stuffed in a fur muff.

“You didn’t ‘love’ what Beckman said, did you?” Ishmael asked.

“What was that?”

“He said you loved his racist sense of humor.”

“I’m used to it.”

“Tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“That you didn’t like that comment about Irishmen and Negroes.”

“No, I didn’t like it. I’ve heard worse. Who cares? Why is it so cold in here?”

“Early winter, maybe.”

“I don’t like the cold,” she said. “It’s like being alone. I could never live in the North. I never liked winter or gloomy places. Why did you want to come in here?”

“It makes me think of all the people who stacked the stones in the walls or prayed in here or died here. I think they’re still around, just like at the Alamo.”

“You’re talking about ghosts?”

“Sometimes I believe that all time happens at once. Maybe the dead are still living out their lives right next to us.”

She removed one hand from the fur muff and slipped her arm inside his. “You’re a strange boy.”

“I like the way you stood up to Beckman. I just wish you didn’t push him the way you did. Like you were having fun with him.”

“Fun? There is no such thing as fun with Arnold. Don’t ever underestimate him. He’s lighthearted until he decides to become serious. Then he’s dangerous. I’ll put it another way: He’s a short man no one thinks of as short.”

“Maybe we should stay away from him.”

“Arnold is the twentieth century. Be glad I found you, Ishmael, even if I have my warts.”

“I’ve yet to see them.”

She started to smile, then her gaze broke. “We should go now. Why talk about things no one can understand? One day we’ll all be dead and none of this will matter.”

“That’s a grim way to think,” he said.

“We have now. We have each other. You like me, don’t you?”

“Sure. Who wouldn’t?”