James Burke - Light of the World

“That’s close enough. Right now I’d like to keep her alive.”

“You don’t think we’re doing our job?”

“He means to kill her if he can. Surrette should have been gutted, salted, and tacked to a fence post years ago. That didn’t happen.”

“The Bureau is at fault?” he said.

“One time I pulled over a drunk driver, then let him go because he had no priors and was two blocks from his house. Three hours later, he killed his wife.”

“The Bureau had limited reach on Surrette’s crimes in Kansas,” he replied.

He was a company man and he wasn’t going to concede a point. I didn’t blame him for it. I had a feeling he wasn’t dealing well with the scene in the basement. No normal person would. The day you are not bothered by certain things you witness as a police officer is the day you need to turn in your shield. Martini removed a notebook from his coat pocket and opened it. He was a nice-looking man, with high cheekbones and a flush to his cheeks and a crew cut that had started to recede. He seemed to study the notebook, then gave up the pretense.

“I don’t blame you for your feelings,” he said. “I have a teenage daughter. I don’t think I could handle it if she were abducted by a predator. I don’t know how any parent does.”

“You’re sure the two girls are with him?” I said.

“The older one, Kate, was scheduled to be at work at Dairy Queen at six. She didn’t show up. Lavern was supposed to go to a birthday party this evening. There’re some messages for her on the phone. Truth is, we don’t have a clue about this guy’s whereabouts. Why do you think he didn’t kill the girls inside, when he had the chance?”

“A friend of mine thinks he’s going into meltdown and planning to take it out on the girls.”

“Why’s he going into meltdown?”

“Felicity Louviere is stronger than he is, and he knows it.”

Clete Purcel was talking to a sheriff’s detective by a cruiser. The agent watched him curiously. “I think you guys are operating as vigilantes, Detective Robicheaux,” he said. “I think you plan to cool out Surrette.”

“That’s news to me.”

“A guy with the AG’s office in New Orleans says Clete Purcel may have poured liquid Drano down a Nazi war criminal’s throat.”

“I wouldn’t believe everything I hear down there,” I replied.

“The guy says you were probably there when it happened.”

“Some days I think I have Alzheimer’s.”

“Maybe you ought to see a doc. Take Purcel with you.”

“What for?”

“There’s blood in his barf,” he said. “Maybe he drank some of that Drano himself.”

At eight-fifteen that evening, Gretchen Horowitz went up to Alafair’s bedroom. Alafair was working at her desk, wearing jeans and loafers without socks and a man’s long-sleeved khaki shirt. Shadows had already started to fall on the pasture and the barn, and the crests of the hills had taken on a golden glow in the sunset. “I was wondering where you were,” Alafair said.

Gretchen sat down on the edge of the bed. “I had a visit with Caspian Younger.”

“Did Dave tell you what happened at the house up the road?”

“Clete told me. I need to talk to you about something.”

“You know about the abduction of the two girls? They used to feed carrots to Albert’s horses.”

“Yeah, I heard all about it, Alafair. Did you hear what I said? I’ve got to talk with you.”

Alafair set down the sheet she had been working on and took off her glasses. “You need to rein it in, Gretchen.”

“I did a beat-down on Caspian Younger and that ex-detective Jack Boyd.”

“Clete already tore them up.”

“I thought a second helping wouldn’t hurt. My head is bursting. Will you please listen to me?”

“Yes, please tell me, whatever it is.”

“You don’t have to get bent out of shape. Rhonda Fayhee told me she was kept in a basement of some kind. She could hear water lapping against a boat or a dock or a beach. She also heard an airplane taking off and landing, but it was below the level of the window. She heard wind through a lot of trees close by. Here’s the last part: Not far away, people were singing a hymn of some kind. Rhonda remembered the words ‘Life is like a mountain railroad, with an engineer that’s brave.’ ”

“Those details don’t go together very well,” Alafair said. “The plane was beneath the level of the window?”

“She could hear water chucking at the same time.”

“She was on a hillside by a lake, one big enough for an amphibian?”

“That’s what I would think,” Gretchen said. “A lake that has a lot of trees on the shore.”

“There are lakes all over this area. Over in Idaho, too.”

“She said the wind made a rushing sound in the trees, like they grew everywhere and were thick with leaves.”

“An orchard?” Alafair said.

“Yeah, an orchard,” Gretchen said. “It’s cherry-picking season. Where would that put us?”

“Flathead Lake?” Alafair said.

“I’m glad you said that.”

“Why?”

“Because Caspian was bragging about his contacts in Vegas. He said he could have Clete shredded into fish chum. He said there would be nothing left of Clete except a bloody skim floating on Flathead Lake. What does Flathead Lake have to do with Vegas?”

“He had the lake associated with Surrette’s previous involvement with the casinos?”

“It’s a possibility,” Gretchen said.

“It’s more than that,” Alafair said.

“There’s something else. Caspian Younger told Bertha Phelps where his father was.”

“You lost me,” Alafair said.

“Wyatt Dixon is Love Younger’s illegitimate son. His stepfather treated him terribly. Who do you think Dixon blames?”

“Dixon is going to do something about it?” Alafair said.

“Maybe.”

“You’re wondering if you should warn Love Younger?”

“Yeah, I am. What would you do if you were me?” Gretchen asked.

“It’s their grief.”

“That simple?”

“Wyatt Dixon can take care of himself. Love Younger is a professional son of a bitch and would be the first to tell you that.”

Gretchen stood up. “Want to take a ride up to the lake?”

“Let me tell Dave,” Alafair replied.

Wyatt Dixon was standing shirtless and barefoot in his kitchen up on the Blackfoot, a ring of fire glowing around one of the lids on his woodstove, where he had set his coffeepot to boil. Through the side window, he could see the boughs of the cottonwoods swelling in the wind down by the riverbank, the trout starting to rise and dimple the riffle under the steel swing bridge. Through the screen, he could smell the evening as though it were a living presence, the purple and yellow flowers in his yard and the dark green wetness of the fescue part of a song that was never supposed to die. Except he could feel things ending, coming apart at the center, and he didn’t know why.

“You went up to Younger’s place, didn’t you?” Wyatt said.

“I was looking for you. I didn’t know where you were,” Bertha said.

“Was the old man there?”

“No, he was not.”

“That twat of a son was, though, wasn’t he?”

She looked away, her eyes full of injury.

“He did something to you?”

“I won’t lie about it.”

“He put his hand on you?”

“I said I wouldn’t lie about it, but that doesn’t mean we should fall into his trap,” she replied. “I hate the Youngers. I hate what they’ve done to you.”

“Tell me what he did, Bertha.”

“I was going out the door. He kicked me. He laughed when he did it, too.”

The coffee had started to boil. Wyatt removed the top from the pot and fitted his palm through the handle. He lifted the pot to his mouth and drank, his face as expressionless as a leather mask, his pupils like dead flies trapped in glass. “Where did he kick you?”