Santa Olivia

For a while, that was all. It was enough. They were quiet. The stars moved across the big desert sky. The lantern burned low, guttering.



“Honey?” Pilar shifted, her voice apologetic. “You think maybe you’re ready to go inside? My legs are falling asleep, and if you stay out here any longer, Katya’s up next. We all agreed to take turns.”



“Yeah.” Loup levered herself upright, extending one hand. “Okay.”



“Okay.” Pilar rose with her aid, her body stiff, the blanket still draped over her shoulders. They stood, hands loosely clasped. “It’s okay to be sad, baby. It is. It’s okay. We’re all sad.”



“Yeah?” Loup asked.



“Yeah.” Pilar kissed her. First her cheek, then on the mouth. Her tongue slid past Loup’s lips, quick and darting at first, then lingering. It felt very good and very surreal. “Umm.” She pressed two fingers against Loup’s lips. “Let’s say we just dreamed that part, okay?”



“Jesus, Pilar,” Loup murmured against her fingers.



“Come on.”



She let Pilar lead her back to the church without arguing. She didn’t have the heart for it. Whatever was between them would wait.



There were a handful of people waiting up, sitting around the table in the dining hall. Father Ramon, Sister Martha. Anna, all the older Santitos. They gazed at Loup with questions in their eyes.



“I’m okay,” she said. “I just want to sleep.”



Their expressions eased. They let her be, let her climb the stairs in peace. In the darkened room the girls shared, Loup crawled into bed without bothering to remove her clothes. She closed her eyes and fell asleep, taking her grief with her.



TWENTY-SEVEN



Loup slept for twelve hours.



When she awoke, it was afternoon and Tommy was still dead. She sat on her bed for a while, feeling the deep ache of loss and watching dust motes sparkle in the slanting sunlight.



She made a decision.



Downstairs, the church had returned to its normal routine. Katya and T.Y. were washing dishes after serving lunch to a few dozen parishioners. They gave Loup tentative smiles when she entered the kitchen.



“I was supposed to be on KP duty,” she said, remembering.



Katya shook her head. “Not today.”



Anna came in carrying a half-empty pot of soup. “Are you hungry, honey?” she asked hopefully. “Soup’s still warm.”



“Thanks.” She felt them watch her eating and finished quickly. “I’m gonna go over to the gym. I was pretty rude to Mr. Roberts, and he really did try to save Tommy. I need to thank him.”



They exchanged doubtful glances. “I’ll be back by dinner,” Loup added. “I promise.”



“I’ll go with you,” T.Y. said, drying his hands.



She shook her head. “I’d rather go alone.”



“Do you swear that’s all you’re doing?” Anna knit her brows. “Really and truly?”



“Really and truly,” Loup agreed. “I’m going to talk to Mr. Roberts and I’ll be back by dinner.”



Anna sighed. “I guess it’s okay.”



The town felt different as she walked along the streets. Smaller, emptier. More drab. Tommy’s death had crushed one more spark of Outpost’s spirit. When she reached Unique Fitness, she found it locked up tight. The big windows through which Tommy had gazed so avidly long years ago had been painted black on the inside. Someone had written on the outside of the glass with a wax candle.



SANTA OLIVIA, WHY HAVE YOU FORSAKEN US?



Loup began pounding on the door.



It took a long time for Floyd Roberts to answer, but she was patient and didn’t tire easily. She set up a steady, rhythmic banging and kept it up until Floyd came and yanked the door open. His eyes were still bloodshot and his expression was furious. He had a bottle of whiskey in one hand and his shotgun cradled in his arm. When he saw her, his expression changed.



“Loup.”



“Can I talk to you, sir?”



He hesitated, then gestured with the bottle. “Might as well. You’re about the only person I can stand to see right now.”



She followed him into the gym. It felt dark and cavernous with the windows painted over, but underneath the paint fumes, it smelled the same, like sweat and mildew.



Floyd took a long pull on his whiskey bottle. “You do know how goddamned sorry I am about your brother, right?”



“Yes, sir.” Loup nodded. “Thank you.”



“I loved that boy like a son.” He sloshed the bottle. “Never told him, of course. Not my way. But he was good-natured as the day was long. Worked like a horse, never complained. And my God, he loved to box!” He took another pull. “It was a fluke. A goddamned fluke.”



“What’s a fluke?”



The coach squinted at her. “An unlikely accident.”



“Oh.” Loup took a deep breath. “I want you to train me. I want to beat the guy that killed Tommy.”



A series of emotions crossed his face, settling on sadness. He set the whiskey bottle down on the edge of the nearest boxing ring. “I understand, child. I truly do. But that’s not the way. I can’t teach a little girl to fight.”



“I’m a year older than Tommy was when you started teaching him,” she said. “Two years. He lied about his age.”



“Sonofabitch,” Floyd murmured. “That doesn’t—”



“And I’m almost five foot six. Tim Roscovich’s the same height and you train him.”



“He fights as a welterweight,” he replied without thinking, then caught himself. “Loup, for God’s sake—”



“Weigh me.” She met his eyes. “Weigh me like I begged you to weigh the guy who killed Tommy. I weigh enough to fight in his class. He’s the one that doesn’t. It wasn’t a fluke. It wasn’t the same guy. And I’m like him. I know he’s bigger and taller and heavier, but he’s not a very good boxer. He never had to be. Make me one, and I’ll beat him.”



“Loup.” Floyd retrieved his bottle and drank. “Grief does strange things to people, child. Go home.”



“Remember the jump rope?” she pressed him. “A long time ago? I didn’t lie. I’d never used one before. You wondered. You’ve wondered.”



He closed his eyes. “Go home.”



“And I wasn’t in shock the other night. That’s just the way I am.”



“Loup—”



“Watch.” She waited until he opened his eyes, then walked over to the nearest heavy bag. It hung inert from its chain. She cocked her head, studying it, then hit it hard, putting all her weight behind the punch. The bag jumped, the chain rattling. A seam split open, sand trickling out.



Floyd Roberts stared at her. “You overreached,” he said at length. “In a fight, you’d have left yourself overextended and off balance if that hadn’t landed.”



“I was trying to make a point,” Loup said mildly.



“So I see.” He watched the sand trickle. “What are you?”



She fished her most treasured relic from the back pocket and handed the brittle, yellowing page to him. “I don’t know. My father was one of these guys.”



He scanned the article. “This is tripe.”



Loup shrugged and took it back, folding it carefully. “Maybe. I dunno. Anyway, he was different and so am I. And so was the guy who killed Tommy. Jaime says if any of it’s true, the army would have kept samples of their DNA. That they would have done experiments. Maybe with twins. So will you train me?”



“Twins,” he murmured.



She nodded.



“I am too goddamned drunk to be having this conversation.” Floyd looked at the bottle in his hand, then at Loup. “Santa Olivia. That was you, wasn’t it? You threw a two-hundred-pound rock through a jeep’s windshield?”



“Yeah.”



“Christ have mercy.” He raised his gaze to the ceiling. “I should turn you in. You know I should. I’m not on your side, Loup Garron. I’ve done my best to train fighters in Outpost, but I’m not one of you. I’m an American citizen. I’m doing a job, a favor to an old friend. While I’m here, I answer to Bill Argyle. I answer to the U.S. Army.”



“They tricked you and Tommy’s dead. Will you train me?”



For a long time, he didn’t answer, only stared at the ceiling. She didn’t know what he’d say, what he’d decide. Only that she had to ask. Loup waited, patient and motionless, while her fate hung in the balance. And after a long, long time, his gaze returned, colorless and bloodshot, but resolute.



“Yes.”



TWENTY-EIGHT



Loup kept her word and made it back in time for dinner, where she ate her way steadily through three plates of food.



“Holy shit,” C.C. observed. “You gonna start on the table next?”



“C.C.,” Sister Martha murmured in reproach.



“I didn’t eat anything yesterday,” Loup said. It was true; grief had eradicated her appetite. It wasn’t why she was ravenous, though. She was ravenous because Floyd had begun testing the limits of her abilities. He wouldn’t let her hit the bags or lift the heaviest weights, but he’d let her run on one of the treadmills as fast and long as she wanted. Or at least he had until the motor began to smell hot.



“Are you feeling a little better today?” Pilar asked.



“Yeah.” Loup glanced at her. Her voice softened involuntarily. “Thanks.”



Pilar turned pink and looked away. “Sure.”



No one would let Loup clean and clear when dinner was over, so she asked Father Ramon and Sister Martha if she could talk to them in private.



“Of course, child,” Father Ramon said kindly. “Whatever you need.”



He didn’t look so beneficent when she told them her plan.



Sister Martha looked appalled. “Coach Roberts agreed to this?” she asked incredulously. “Was the man drunk?”