James Burke - Light of the World

He stepped out of the creek, water draining from his trouser cuffs onto the bank, the wind blowing as cold as an icicle through his thin shirt. He had thought his way through his problems and done what he could. The only concern that nagged at the edge of his conscience was his daughter-in-law, Felicity Louviere. But she was not a Younger. She was the offspring of a professional do-gooder and, from what he’d heard, a profligate working-class girl who had decided to enrich herself by marrying his pitiful son. Her fate had nothing to do with him.

He began walking back down the bank toward the cabin. He could hear bats flying by his head, their leathery wings throbbing, and he remembered how they had frightened him when he was a little boy, at dusk, when the hollow turned into a winter set, no matter what the season. Now he gave them no thought whatsoever, although he was sure some of them were rabid, just as they had been in Snakey Hollow. Why didn’t he fear them? The answer to the question was not complex. A king did not die from the bite of a rodent.

He went back inside with his .44 cap-and-ball revolver and hung it in a holster on the back of a wicker chair. Then he went outside again and gathered an armful of wood he had split and stacked under a pole shed. He thought he saw a pickup truck, one with a camper mounted on the bed, wending its way out of the dusk toward him, its headlights jiggling with a strange blue-stained white radiance that Love Younger associated with fairy tales more than he did with motorized vehicles.

Fornicators have to go somewhere, he thought. In the barn or the woods or on top of a corn-shuck pallet. Nothing will ever stop them from mating and pumping out legions of the same mentally defective creatures the world never seems to tire of. Well, have at it. I hope you have better luck with the product of your misspent seed than I did.

He started a fire in the stone fireplace. As he stood in its heat, steam rose from his wet khakis, and he felt a sense of tranquillity he hadn’t experienced in years. From down below, he heard a vehicle clank across the cattle guard. Was it the fornicators? Or perhaps Caspian’s ex-convict security people coming to tell him that Felicity Louviere had been released by the predator from Kansas? He didn’t care one way or another.

Love Younger walked to the door, a bourbon and branch water in his hand. He started to turn the doorknob, then paused and glanced over his shoulder at the blue-black walnut-handled thumb-buster hanging from the back of the chair. What a fine weapon, he thought. Kicks like a jackhammer and, in the dark, throws out a six-inch muzzle flash that would make the devil jump. One hundred and fifty-two years old and deadly as the day of its manufacture. He clicked on the porch light without unlocking the door and pulled aside the window curtain. An orange pickup with a chrome grille was just turning off the dirt road onto Younger’s property. A man wearing a starch-white cowboy hat was behind the wheel, his left arm propped on the window, a purple garter snugged around his upper arm. The man in the white hat drove to within fifty feet of the cabin and cut the engine.

Dixon again, Younger thought. So it’s about money after all. They claim they don’t want it. They love Jesus and country and their mothers. But it’s always about money and then more money, and if they could, they’d all get naked and wallow in it in the middle of a Walmart. Okay, Mr. Dixon, maybe it’s time you heard a wrathful voice, since you seem to understand no other kind.

Love Younger set down his tumbler and pulled open the door, his irritability overriding caution. He was staring straight into the high beams of the truck, his eyes tearing and blind to what might be taking place in the truck’s cab.

“Begone, Wyatt Dixon,” he said. “Disappear into the primeval soup that bred you, and never let the name of my family issue from your lips.”

The wind had dropped, and he thought he could hear the heat of the engine ticking under the hood.

At 8:47 P.M. the phone rang in the kitchen. Molly picked it up. I could hear a man talking on the other end. Molly cut him off. “Sheriff, why don’t you just do your job and stop bothering us?” she said. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but you’re a genuine test of Christian charity, if not a pain in the ass.”

Then she handed the phone to me. Great start, I thought.

“Can I help you?” I said.

“Agent Martini thinks you and Purcel are concealing information from us,” the sheriff said.

Only minutes earlier, Alafair had told me of Gretchen’s speculations on the whereabouts of Asa Surrette. “Why would he think that?” I asked.

“Surrette was living within a quarter mile of Albert Hollister’s house, but you had no suspicions that he was there. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“The agent doesn’t believe that.”

“If I thought Surrette was living up the road, why wouldn’t I tell you or the FBI?”

“Because you wanted to bust a cap on him yourself.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

He was silent a moment. “Maybe it is. Here’s the second reason for my call. A short while ago Wyatt Dixon caused a disturbance at the truck stop in Lolo. He tried to put air in his tires, but the hose was leaking, and he lost ten pounds of pressure on a tire that was already low. He pulled the clerk over the counter and threw him into a stack of oil cans.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I said, growing more uncomfortable.

“Because beating up on clerks isn’t Dixon’s style. A woman, probably Bertha Phelps, was with him. You have any idea what they might be up to?”

“Dixon knows he’s Love Younger’s illegitimate son. He may be going to Younger’s cabin on Sweathouse Creek.”

“How long have you known this?”

“My daughter just told me. She found out from a third party. But all of what I’ve told you is speculation, Sheriff. How about easing up a little bit?”

“I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Robicheaux. Before this is over, I think you’re going to be charged.”

“With what?”

“I’ll check with the district attorney and get back to you. By the way, he was stationed at Fort Polk and hates the state of Louisiana.”

“It’s not for everybody.”

“Is there anything else you’ve concealed from this office?” he said.

“Surrette may be on Flathead Lake. Somewhere around an orchard, close to the water. Maybe there’s an amphibian close by. I’m going up there in a few minutes.”

“You’re not going to do a goddamn thing, Mr. Robicheaux. I can’t express how angry you make me—”

Molly pulled the receiver from my hand and put it to her ear. “Listen, you simpleton,” she said. “My husband has dedicated his life to law enforcement. He doesn’t need a tobacco-chewing pinhead lecturing him on legal protocol. My husband was also in the shit. Do you know what that means? He’s the recipient of the Silver Star and two Purple Hearts. Do not call here again unless you have something worthwhile to say. If you try to harass him again in any way, you’ll hear from me.” She slammed down the phone, her cheeks flaming.

“I don’t think he chews tobacco,” I said.

“Whatever,” she said.

Wyatt turned off the engine but left the headlights on. There was a silver skull on the tip of his key chain, hollow-eyed and buffed smooth, like old pewter, and it swung back and forth under the dash. When it stopped, he popped it with his thumb and index finger. There was no other sound inside the cab. He looked out the side window and saw lights in the sky.

“You still haven’t told me what you plan to do,” Bertha said.