James Burke - Light of the World

He’s going to kill her, the voice said. Do it while there’s still time. Have you grown weak?

I don’t have the right to risk someone else’s life.

You want to feel good about yourself at the woman’s expense?

If you were in the SUV with Surrette, what would you want me to do?

Take the shot.

I see. Just spit into the wind and see what happens? Oh, I hit you in the brisket? Sorry about that.

Take the shot, Gretchen.

You’re not inside the vehicle. You’re one of those who like to use terms like “collateral damage.”

He’ll torture her to death. Try to imagine the level of pain she’ll suffer in just one minute. Then multiply that by several hours.

I can’t do it.

Take the shot now, bitch, or stop pretending you’re a player. Sign up with the titty-baby brigade and burn candles for the person you could have saved.

Gretchen rose to her feet, lifting the rifle, trying to refocus on the target and catch the exact moment when Surrette’s image stood out in clear relief, separate from Felicity Louviere’s, framed forever inside the crosshairs, his face about to dissolve like a photograph curling over a flame.

Surrette slammed the door and turned and looked back down the slope. The sun had just broken from behind a cloud, and he had probably seen the glint on her scope. He appeared puzzled rather than alarmed, as though no one had the right to intrude upon what was clearly his province.

Eat this, Gretchen thought.

Just as she squeezed the trigger, she saw Felicity Louviere raise her bloodied head directly behind Asa Surrette’s.

The round ticked the top of the steering wheel, an inch from Surrette’s hand, and pocked a hole the size of a nickel through the windshield, powdering the dashboard with splinters of glass. He floored the accelerator, the tires spinning on the slick logging road, and bounced over the apex of the switchback and down the far side. Felicity Louviere was thrown against the passenger door by the SUV’s momentum, her hair in her eyes, her face swollen and bleeding.

“You told Gretchen Horowitz we were out here?” he said.

“What does it matter?” Felicity replied. “She’ll hunt you down for the rodent you are. She’ll make you beg.”

“Not like you will. Wait till you see what I have planned.”

She was losing consciousness and talking at the same time. Surrette hit chuckhole after chuckhole, bouncing in the seat, looking sideways at her, his safety strap not snapped in place. “What are you mumbling about?” he asked.

“He is risen,” she replied.

He hit the brake and skidded to a stop. He lifted himself up on one knee in the seat and began beating her in the face with both fists, as though his rage could never be sated.

Gretchen worked her way up the slope, through the tree trunks, carrying the Mauser at port arms. The bound woman had tripped over a log and fallen to the ground. Her bare legs were smeared with dirt and leaves and deer droppings and tiny twigs; a mewing sound came from the cloth bag cinched under her chin.

“Hey, it’s okay. You’re safe,” Gretchen said, kneeling beside her, propping the rifle on the log. “Surrette is gone. I’m here to help you.”

She placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder and felt her shiver as though she had been touched with a piece of dry ice. “My name is Gretchen Horowitz,” she said. “I’m going to remove the bag from your head now, then cut the tape on your wrists. Don’t be afraid.”

The woman did not reply. Gretchen loosened the drawstring and slipped the bag from her face. The woman stared into Gretchen’s eyes with the expression of an infant just emerging from its mother’s womb.

“What’s your name?” Gretchen asked.

“Rhonda. My name is Rhonda Fayhee. I live up by Lookout Pass. I work in the café. I went home from work. I don’t know what happened to me.”

“Many people have been looking for you, Rhonda. They’re all your friends. The whole world is on your side.” She opened her pocketknife and cut the tape on Rhonda Fayhee’s wrists.

“Who kidnapped me?” Rhonda asked.

“You don’t know?”

“I never saw anyone. I felt the needles someone put in me. Somebody fed me, too. A man did. The same one who put his—” She couldn’t finish.

“It’s all right,” Gretchen said. “I’m going to take you to the hospital in Missoula.”

“I don’t want to go there.”

Gretchen sat down next to her. “Why don’t you want to go to the hospital?”

“He did things to me.”

“We’re going to fix him for that. I promise you,” Gretchen said.

“I want someone to kill him.”

Gretchen put her arm around Rhonda and kissed her on the cheek. “You’re going to be all right,” she said. “Not all at once but with time. Do you hear me? All of this will pass. None of it is your fault. All of the things that were done to you happened outside of you and have nothing to do with your soul or who you are.”

“He had a smell. It will never go away.”

“Yes, it will. I promise. Terrible things were done to me when I was a child, and also when I was an adult. But I’m still here. I’m here for you, too. Are you listening, Rhonda? I give you my word: We’re going to blow up this guy’s shit.” She pressed Rhonda Fayhee’s head against her breast and kissed her hair. “We’ve got to go now,” she said.

“Not yet.”

“He has another hostage, Rhonda. She traded herself for you. Her name is Felicity Louviere.”

“I don’t know anyone by that name. Who is she?”

I don’t know. I’m not sure anyone does.

Gretchen did not share her thoughts and simply said, “We don’t have any phone service here. Let me help you up. There you go. Just put one foot after the other. See? You’re doing fine.”

Gretchen did not return to Albert’s ranch until almost dark. The news media cooperated with the sheriff’s department and released a minimum amount of information about the rescue of Rhonda Fayhee, to avoid telling Surrette that he’d been identified as her kidnapper. However, the redacted story was troubling on another level. There was no mention that Felicity Louviere had been abducted.

I still had Love Younger’s unlisted number. I called it at 10:17 P.M. I thought he might screen the call, but he didn’t. When he picked up, I was treated to another instance of his irritability. “Why have you called my home?” he said.

“I suspect by now you know that Surrette has abducted your daughter-in-law,” I said.

“Why is that your business?”

“Where’s your son?”

“You’re probably the most presumptuous man I’ve ever met, Mr. Robicheaux.”

“Sir, what in the name of suffering God is wrong with you? This isn’t about me or you. It’s about Felicity Louviere and my daughter, Alafair. It’s also about Gretchen Horowitz, who was almost killed by Asa Surrette.”

“Yes, the same woman who shot at him and may have wounded my daughter-in-law.”

He was a master at deflecting any reasonable form of redress for a problem that involved his agenda and his pride. Or in this instance, his profligate son. I asked again if he knew Caspian’s whereabouts.

“I have no idea,” he said. His voice had dropped in register. “He’s drinking or using drugs. He’s been gone all day. Why do you torment us so?”

“Every perp I ever met feigned the role of victim, Mr. Younger. A role like that is unworthy of you.”

I did not expect what he said next. “My son may have become deranged. He’s always been frightened, ever since he was a little boy. Caspian, Caspian, my poor son Caspian. What else can I say, sir? His sins are mine. It’s I who planted the seeds of doubt and self-hatred in him. Do you know what it’s like for a father to accept the fact he has ruined his son, Mr. Robicheaux? Do you have any idea what that is like?”