James Burke - Light of the World

“I can leave him anytime I want.”

Clete turned his head slowly, trying to concentrate on Jack Boyd’s face. “If you do anything to Molly and Albert and the girls, I’m going to hurt you.”

“ You’re going to hurt me ?”

“Take it to the bank.”

“You’re a laugh a minute,” Boyd said.

“That’s me,” Clete replied.

Jack Boyd walked toward the front of the house, the German rifle slung upside down on his shoulder, his trousers tucked inside the tops of his hand-tooled boots. Involuntarily, Clete’s head fell on his chest, his eyes shutting, his shoulders slumping. For a moment, he thought he was going to fall on the grass. He forced himself to his feet and walked toward the back of Gretchen’s pickup, the stars burning coldly in a sky that looked like purple velvet. He reached inside the truck bed and felt along the sides until his fingers touched the tip of a steel chain.

The odor from behind me was unmistakable. I turned and looked into the face of Asa Surrette. He was wearing a bulletproof vest and carrying a Bushmaster semi-automatic rifle. “We finally meet,” he said. He touched the muzzle of the Bushmaster to the back of Alafair’s head. “Lay your weapons down, please.”

“Don’t do it, Dave,” Alafair said.

Surrette winked at me. “Humor me,” he said.

“You got it,” I said. I set the M-1 down on the grass. Gretchen lay her AR-15 down and pushed it away with her foot.

“Do as he says, Alafair,” I said.

She was carrying a cut-down Browning twelve-gauge that Gretchen had given her. She squatted slowly and placed it on the grass, then stood up. She gazed at Surrette a long time. “We saw what you did to Felicity,” she said.

“It was what she wanted. Have you been publishing any more magazine articles?” he said.

“No, I published a novel. What about you?” she said. “Has Creative Artists or William Morris been trying to get in touch with you?”

“Oh, you’re good,” he said.

“I looked through the house. Where were you?” I said.

“In the attic. The one place you didn’t look.”

“Pretty slick,” I said. “Who are these guys?”

“You don’t know?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“I’ll rephrase my question,” he said. “You’ve haven’t figured out yet who I am? You’re that slow on the uptake?”

“Your entire life has been characterized by mediocrity,” I said. “You got busted because you were stupid enough to believe the cops when they told you the floppy disk you sent them couldn’t be traced.”

His smile never wavered. He stepped closer to me. The odor that rose from his body made me choke. “Breathing problem?” he said.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve never been around anything like it.”

Jack Boyd came out of the darkness, carrying the Mauser upside down on its sling.

“Where’s Clete Purcel?” I said.

“Relaxing, I suppose,” Boyd said.

“You didn’t finish them?” Surrette said.

“You didn’t tell me to,” Boyd replied.

“I’ll deal with you in a minute,” Surrette said.

“What do you mean, you’ll deal with me?”

Surrette looked at me and Gretchen and Alafair. “Get on your knees,” he said.

“Sorry,” I said.

“I can put you there if you wish,” he said. “Have you ever seen someone shot through both kneecaps? Would Daddy like to see his daughter shot through her kneecaps? Tell me now.”

“Kiss my ass,” Alafair said.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I have something special in mind for you. I’m going to turn you into an artistic masterpiece. Unfortunately, you won’t be able to see the notoriety that my artwork draws, even though you’ll be the centerpiece.”

“Look at me, Surrette,” I said.

“Look at you? Why should I? Do you think you can condescend to me and give me commands at a moment like this? You’re truly a foolish man, Mr. Robicheaux.”

“You’re right about that,” I said, holding my eyes on his. “But at least I never wrote a short story that was so bad, the professor wouldn’t allow it to be read in front of the class.”

I saw his chest rising and falling and his eyes narrowing and the blood draining from around his mouth. He raised a finger in the middle of my face. “You listen—” he began.

That was as far as he got. Clete Purcel lumbered out of the darkness, holding the bear trap by a handle welded to the bottom of the frame, the jaws cocked. He swung it down on top of Asa Surrette’s head like an inverted skillet, the trigger impacting on Surrette’s skull. The jaws snapped shut on Surrette’s ears, mashing them into his scalp. Surrette dropped the Bushmaster and whirled in a circle, fighting to pull the trap from his head, his teeth grinding, blood running down his neck into his shirt collar, the tether chain hanging down his back like a Chinese pigtail.

I picked up the M-1 and shot Jack Boyd to death and then followed Asa Surrette down the slope toward the water. I suspect his pain was terrible. I also suspect that his suffering didn’t begin to approach what he had inflicted on his victims for over two decades. He was silhouetted against the starlight on the lake, trying to force the trap off his head with the heels of his hands. As he stumbled onto the dock, I aimed through the M-1’s peep sight and let off three rounds.

He showed no reaction. I was tempted to believe that Surrette was indeed demonic and not human and consequently impervious to bullets. Then I remembered the vest he was wearing, and I reloaded with a clip of armor-piercing ammunition and began shooting again.

He was on the dock when I hit him with the first round. I saw his shoulder jerk and his feet stumble. I fired again and heard a round clang off the steel trap. Another round tore into the side of the vest and caught him in the rib cage. But I have to hand it to him. He was still standing when I stepped onto the dock.

I would be dishonest if I said my actions at that point were driven simply by the passion and heat of the moment. I would also be inaccurate if I said I made a conscious decision about the immediate fate of Asa Surrette. I created a blank space in my mind where I thought of absolutely nothing except the faces of the innocent people whom this man had tortured and killed. In particular, I saw the faces of children. Inside that space, I pulled the trigger over and over until the bolt locked open and the clip ping ed into the darkness. I’m convinced that not one round went wide or high and that he ate every one before he fell off the end of the dock.

Only one thing bothers me. I thought he would go straight down into the depths of the lake with the weight of the bear trap. Instead, I saw him roll on his back, his clothes — even the armored vest — ballooning with air. He looked up into my face and grinned, the jaws of the trap embedded an inch into his skull. Only then did the lake close over his head. I wondered if Asa Surrette didn’t get the last laugh.

I heard Clete behind me. “You’d better sit down,” I said, taking him by the arm.

“Where’s Surrette?” he said.

“Down there,” I said, motioning at the water. “He was grinning when he went under. I don’t understand it. I punched holes all over him.”

“Yeah?” he said. “Right there?”

“That’s the spot.”

Clete propped himself against a dock post and unzipped his fly. I saw a golden stream arch onto the water’s surface. “Wow, does that feel good,” he said, his face filled with release as he tilted it up at the sky. “Look at the stars. You ever see a more beautiful place? Lordy, Lordy, Streak, I think I’m about to pass out.”

I placed my arm around his waist, and together we limped up the slope, a couple of vintage low-riders left over from another era, in the season the Indians called the moon of popping cherries, in a magical land that charmed and beguiled the senses and made one wonder if divinity did not indeed hide just on the other side of the tangible world.