James Burke - Light of the World

“A project I’m working on,” she replied.

“We need to understand something, Miss Gretchen. I don’t impose my way on others. But my name was used in that message. I want to know what this is about.”

“Asa Surrette,” she replied.

“You’re going to bait him out of his hole, are you?”

“If I can.”

“What are you going to do when you catch up with him?”

“That’s up to him.”

“You have a gift. It comes from a source outside of yourself. It was given to you for a reason, and eventually, that reason will manifest in your life. Don’t let the world taint it or take it from you. Men like Surrette despise you for the talent and intelligence that were given to you for a higher purpose.”

“I doubt if a guy like that dwells on the arts and humanities, Mr. Hollister.”

“You’re wrong. The Surrettes of the world despise you because the Creator gave you the gift and not them.”

“Surrette has always operated in rural areas that lack sophisticated law enforcement,” she said. “That means he’s an amateur and he’ll slip up.”

“Don’t bet on it,” he replied.

Without telling Clete, Gretchen drove down the road to the two-lane highway, where she could get cell service, and dialed the number the woman had left on Albert’s machine. She believed the number belonged to a stolen phone and that Surrette probably paid someone to leave the message for him. The question was who would pick up on the other end. She didn’t have to wait long to find out.

“Is that you, Gretchen?” a man’s voice said.

“It sure is.”

“Did you tell the police I contacted you?”

“I’m not a big friend of the cops.”

“I understand you were a bad girl in Florida.”

“Not so much. Think you’d like to make a movie with me?”

“Ever hear of a guy named Bix Golightly?” he asked.

“I’ve heard the name.”

“Bix Golightly from New Orleans?”

“What about him?” she said.

“He got three in his face, sitting in his vehicle, in the what-do-you-call-it, the Big Easy.”

“Not true. It was across the river in Algiers.”

“There’re no flies on you,” he said.

“How would you know about Bix Golightly?”

“Your reputation gets around. Maybe you have fans you don’t know about.”

“Do you mind if I call you Asa?”

“Call me the Tin Man. How is Alafair?”

“She worries you might be mad at her.”

“I’d love to get together with both of you. I have some very good ideas. For many years I lived inside my head and thought about things I would like to do with others.”

“What kinds of ideas?”

“Maybe I shouldn’t tell you. I have a feeling you get embarrassed about sexual matters. I never knew a tomboy who wasn’t a prude at heart.”

“I’m a filmmaker. I live in West Hollywood. Does that sound like a prude?”

“I like your legs. Alafair’s figure is lovely but not as interesting as yours.”

“Are you trying to tell me you want to get it on?”

“You are a bad girl.”

“Where can we meet?” she asked.

“Let me get back to you on that. I’ve been busy of late.”

“With the guy who got dragged down the highway by Flathead Lake?”

“The simpleminded ones aren’t much fun.”

“The waitress up at Lookout Pass? Was that you?”

“Lookout Pass? Let me think.” He made a bubbling sound, as though flipping his index finger up and down on his lips. “I’m not sure where that is. There’s one thing I wanted to ask you.”

“Go ahead,” she said.

“When you eased Golightly into the next world, you enjoyed it, didn’t you? It wasn’t just a job. You love the rush. Your loins buzz with it, like a nest of bees. No, that’s not well said. It’s a wet lick on an ice cream cone.”

She tried to keep her voice empty of emotion. “I think we can make a successful film together,” she said.

“I got a little close to home, didn’t I?”

“Unauthorized photos from your crime scenes were posted on the Internet. Did you take those?”

“Maybe. How did you like them?”

“I can teach you about film. I have friends at Creative Artists. They can help us in lots of ways.”

“You sound a little weakhearted,” he said. “Be advised that Alafair must be on board, our centerpiece, so to speak. Give me your cell number. I have a couple of commitments that need to be wrapped up, but you and I will have our date.”

She gave him her number and closed her phone. After he hung up, she opened the door of her truck and vomited into the road.

Gretchen drove up to Albert’s house and told Alafair of the conversation.

“You’re sure it’s him? You actually had this bastard on the line?” Alafair said.

Gretchen was sitting by Alafair’s writing desk on the third floor of Albert’s house, her shoulders rounded. She looked out the window, not wanting to say the things she had to say. “He’s after you. It’s obviously an obsession.”

“That’s not exactly a big revelation,” Alafair said.

“He was hinting he would meet with me. But only if you’re on board, as he puts it.” A pool of heat seemed to shimmer and go out of shape on the barn’s metal roof. “I didn’t say anything to discourage him.”

“Without asking me, you were making deals with this asshole? Deals that include me?”

“I admire you. You’re everything I’d like to be. I wouldn’t let anyone hurt you. I’d kill them if they tried to hurt you.”

“What do you think this guy has been trying to do? You think you’re going to outsmart him?”

“I have experience other people don’t.”

“Did you ever read ‘Young Goodman Brown’ by Nathaniel Hawthorne?”

“No.”

“It was made into a film. Goodman Brown thought he could stroll with the devil in a midnight woods and outwit him. His wife was named Faith. He ended up losing not only his wife but his soul.”

Gretchen began writing on a piece of typewriter paper. “Who did the film?” she asked.

Alafair pulled the sheet of paper away from her and tore it in half and threw the pieces in the wastebasket. “Are you out of your mind? This isn’t about movies. It’s about evil. How did Surrette know about Bix Golightly?”

“I haven’t figured that out.”

“Think about it. There are only two ways he could know, Gretchen. He’s either mobbed up, or he’s privy to a world we can’t guess at.”

“No. The Mob uses pros. They’re businessmen.”

“So where does he get this omniscient knowledge?”

“You’re saying he has special powers?”

“I’m saying we ought to go to the cops.” Alafair put her hand on Gretchen’s back. “Your muscles are as hard as iron. I worry about you.”

“I’m doing fine.”

“You’re the sister I never had, Gretchen.” She touched Gretchen’s hair.

“Surrette put a bomb in Percy Wolcott’s plane. Percy was one of the gentlest people I ever knew,” Gretchen said. “His body was burned beyond recognition. I think Surrette did it. I’m going to saw him apart.”

Alafair gazed at the manuscript basket on her desk. It was half-filled with typed sheets. “What do you want me to do?” she asked.

“Surrette has plenty of money. Where does it come from? We also want to check out Felicity Louviere’s background. Her husband says she was the town pump. She says her father left her to founder while he went off to be a professional good guy among the Indians in South America.”

“So what?” Alafair said.

“She doesn’t add up. Clete is easily taken in by bad women. Because he follows his schlong doesn’t mean the rest of us have to.”

“I can’t believe you just said that.”