James Burke - Light of the World

“See? You get to meet Terry after all,” Jack Boyd said.

Terry got out of the Cherokee and walked to Albert’s window. His raincoat was flapping like torn vinyl in the wind. He had a small, tight face and tiny eyes and wore no hat. The hair on his head looked like wheatgrass growing on white stone. “You’ve been down on the water, snooping around, bothering family people when they’re trying to sleep?”

“You need some breath mints, son,” Albert said.

“Step out of your truck. You, too, lady.”

Albert opened his cell phone. Terry slapped it from his hand. He was wearing a jersey and a pair of navy blue workout pants under his raincoat. He reached into his waistband and lifted a .25-caliber semi-auto into view and rested it on the windowsill. He looked back down the road, his expression relaxed, drumming with his left hand on his wrist. He smiled into Albert’s face. “All quiet on the Western Front,” he said. “I read books, too. I read one of yours, Professor. I think you should stick to teaching.”

“Give me the title and your name and address, and I’ll make sure the publisher sends you a refund,” Albert said.

“I already wiped my ass with it,” Terry said. “Get in the back of the Jeep.”

“You’ll last about thirty seconds with my husband,” Molly said.

Terry was still smiling when he walked to the other side of the truck and dragged Molly from the passenger door, flinging her onto the gravel, the .25 auto tucked inside his waistband again. “I look forward to meeting your husband. But right now it’s just me and you. So please don’t give me a bad time.”

Asa Surrette took the gag from Felicity’s mouth and the tape and cotton pads from her eyes. He fitted his hand gently under her chin and moved her head back and forth. “Are you awake?” he said.

She wasn’t sure. Maybe she was dreaming. She had heard a rattling or cascading sound in the basement, like ice being poured into a large receptacle. She had also heard the girls whimpering. Now there was no sound in the room except the steady breathing of Asa Surrette, drawing air into his lungs like an asthmatic and savoring it as long as he could and releasing it only because he was forced to.

“I taped over the window,” he said. “I’m going to turn on the light now. Don’t let it hurt your eyes.” He pulled a beaded chain on a lightbulb. “See? I put a leaf bag across the window. That way the sunrise won’t bother you, and you can rest up, get some extra shuteye, so to speak.”

“Where are the girls?” she said.

“Right over there. They’re fine. You know you can’t get away from me, don’t you? The girls are not really part of the relationship between you and me.”

“I’m going to die soon. Then what will you do?”

“Keep you. Over there in the bathtub full of ice. You’ll always be mine. At least until I decide to dispose of you. No one will ever know what became of you.”

She closed her eyes against the glare of the electric bulb. “You were in my dream.”

“I’m flattered.”

“You were standing inside a conduit that led through a cloud, blocking the ascent of others. Then you were flung into a place that had no bottom.”

“If I were you, I’d be careful about what I say.”

“Everyone felt sorry for you. But after you were gone, no one remembered or cared. You weren’t worth hating.”

He fitted his hand over her mouth, squeezing her cheekbones. “You will not speak to me like this.”

“People are coming for you. They’re going to put an end to your misery,” she said.

“They’d better not find me.”

She turned her head. She could see the two girls in a corner. They were inside a wire cage of some kind, the bottom padded with a quilt. “The girls called you Geta,” she said.

“That’s a name I sometimes use. I think you know why.”

“Yes, you have delusions of grandeur.”

He went to strike her, then withdrew his hand. A vehicle had just come up the driveway and stopped close to the house, the vibration of its engine coursing through the basement wall.

I called Molly on her cell phone, but it went directly to voice mail. We drove south along the lakeshore, with Alafair and Gretchen behind us. Almost all the houses on the lake were dark. We went over a rise and down the other side and saw an auto repair sign on a shed near some junker cars. There was a cottage close by, the lights off. I turned my truck’s spotlight on the yard. The lawn was uncut, the front porch of the cottage blown with leaves and pieces of newspaper, the screen door flapping. I moved the beam across the property until it fell upon a blue wrecker parked by a barn.

“Looks like nobody has been there for a while,” Clete said. “Surrette might have taken this wrecker because he knew it wouldn’t be missed. Maybe he’s holed up not far away.”

I thought Clete was right. The problem was, I couldn’t stop thinking about Molly and Albert. I didn’t have Albert’s cell number; I wasn’t sure he had one. I tried Molly again. No luck. Clete knew what I was thinking.

“Dave, Gretchen can’t be sure that was Jack Boyd in the Cherokee,” he said. “Besides, what are the chances of Boyd recognizing Albert and Molly on the highway?”

“Then where did they go?”

“Maybe they saw something on a side road and pulled off.”

“Why would she turn off her cell phone?”

“She probably lost service. This is a lousy area for cell phones.”

We were on the shoulder of the road, looking down over the tops of cherry trees at the shadows playing on the cottage and the mechanic’s shed. The moon had come out from behind the clouds, and farther down the shore, I could see a two-story house constructed of what appeared to be yellowish-gray stone. There was a marina by the lake and a number of sailboats rocking in their berths. I looked in the rearview mirror. Gretchen and Alafair were parked behind us, the engine running.

“I’ve got to find Molly,” I said.

“Okay, big mon,” he said. “Let’s go do that.”

Asa Surrette climbed the stairs to the first floor and looked out the side window at the driveway. He couldn’t believe his eyes. He jerked open the side door. “Have you lost your goddamn mind?” he said.

Jack Boyd and one of Caspian Younger’s security men were herding Albert and a woman inside. “They were onto you, Asa,” Boyd said.

“What do you mean, they were ‘onto’ me?”

“Why else would they be here?”

“A thousand reasons, you stupid shit. Do you realize what you’ve done?”

“It was a judgment call,” Boyd said.

“What happened to her ?” Surrette said.

“She fell on the gravel when Terry was helping her out of their truck.”

“That’s your name? Terry? ”

“It was when I woke up this morning.”

“Who am I?” Surrette said.

Terry flexed his neck. “I’m not big on names. I hear you’re a guy who leaves a big footprint.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Surrette said.

“Where do you want these two?” Terry said.

Surrette could hardly contain himself. “Where do I want them? I want them on the moon. But that can’t happen, because you’ve brought them into my house.” He looked into Albert Hollister’s face. “Remember me? Wichita State University, 1979?”

“Hard to say. I remember a pervert in my seminar who wrote a short story that was artless and filled with misspellings. Was that your work?”

“Love Younger is dead,” Boyd said.

Surrette looked at him, blinking, not sure what he’d heard.

“Somebody cut off his head. It was probably Wyatt Dixon,” Boyd said. “It was on the news.”