James Burke - Light of the World

“This was over his wife?”

Clete ignored the question. “Boyd was carrying a drop,” he said. “There’s something else I should mention.”

“What?” she asked.

“Felicity and I might get married. One thing bothers me, though: Her husband says she got it on with the old man.”

“With Love Younger?”

“That’s what he said.”

“What did she say?”

“What she always says: Her husband is a liar. I believe her. I think.”

“Nobody can get in this much trouble,” she said.

“I was trying to be straight with you. I wanted to bust up Jack Boyd worse than I did. It wasn’t because he was out to clip me, either. He called you ‘butch’ up by the cave, and his friend Bill Pepper kidnapped and assaulted you. So I made sure he’ll be taking his nutrients through a straw for a while. If I see him again, I may finish the job.”

She opened a tin of Altoids and placed one on her tongue. “What am I going to do with you?” she said.

“Nothing. I’m your father. It’s the other way around. You need to understand that, Gretchen.”

“You’re an absolute mess,” she said. She stood up on her toes and kissed him on the forehead. “Don’t let the feds throw you a slider. They’d like to jam both of us.”

The rodeo and county fairgrounds were midway down in the Bitterroot Valley. All week an army of carnival people had been erecting the Ferris wheel, the Kamikaze, the Tilt-A-Whirl, the Zipper, the pirate ship, the fun house, the merry-go-round, planes that swung on cables, and a miniature train that ran on a looping track never over five feet from the ground. The sun was still high in the western sky when Wyatt returned from a concession trailer and sat down at a table under a cottonwood beside Bertha Phelps, a paper plate loaded with chili dogs in each hand. Indians wearing beaded costumes strung with feathers and tinkling with bells walked past them to a huge open-sided tent where the snake dance was about to begin. Wyatt popped open two cans of Pepsi and set them on the table.

“You know what rodeo people call Christmastime?” he asked.

“No, I don’t. But I know you’ll tell me,” she replied.

“Christmastime is the two weeks before and after the Fourth of July,” he said. “That’s when all the prize money gets won.”

“You’re not going to put on greasepaint, are you?”

“I might.”

“The years take their toll on all of us, Wyatt. You should think about that.”

“I say ride it to the buzzer. I say don’t give an inch.”

She put her hand on his.

“What?” he said.

“Nothing,” she replied. “You’re just a special kind of man, that’s all.”

The breeze came up, and the leaves in the cottonwood tree seemed to take on a life of their own and flicker faster than the eye could record their movement. Their sound reminded Wyatt of a matchbook cover in the spokes of a bicycle wheel. He started in on his chili dogs, then stopped and stared at the mountains in the west. In minutes the sun had become a reddish-purple melt above a canyon already dark with shadow. He stared at the sun until his eyes watered and he saw a woman separate herself from its radiance and walk toward him in silhouette, her chestnut hair blowing on her cheeks, her legs longer than was natural, her posture like that of a man.

“Is something wrong?” Bertha asked.

“I get these lapses in my head. Time goes by, and I don’t have no memory of where it went or what I done. My head gets like it was before I drank all them chemical cocktails. It’s been happening to me of late, and it gives me feelings of anxiety I don’t have no name for.”

“You’ve been right here,” she said. “With me. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“You see yonder?”

“See what?”

“The woman walking out of the sun. She’s coming straight to our table. I already know what she’s gonna say and why she’s here. How come her words are already in my head?”

“The sun is too bright. I can’t see her. Wyatt, you’re not making sense.”

“She’s been sent.”

“You’re scaring me.”

“Her name is Gretchen Horowitz. She’s come to tell me about him . I knew it was gonna happen.”

“I can’t follow what you’re saying. Let’s eat our food. Don’t pay attention to that woman or these crazy thoughts. Pick up your fork and eat.”

“People don’t want to believe he’s here. That Lou’sana detective, Robicheaux, he knows it, too. So does the woman. He did your brother in. Stop pretending, Bertha.”

“You were raised among primitive and violent people. The superstition and fear they taught you is not your fault. But you cannot let their poison continue to cause injury in your life. Are you listening to me, Wyatt Dixon?”

He stood up from his folding chair. He was wearing garters on his sleeves, his gold-and-silver national championship buckle, a spur with a tiny rowel on one boot, and an oversize cowboy shirt that wouldn’t bind when he rode a horse. He was wearing all the things that told him who he was and who he was not. Except now these things seemed to mean nothing at all.

Gretchen Horowitz stepped out of the sun’s brilliance so Bertha Phelps and Wyatt could see her clearly. Behind her, the Kamikaze rose into the air, teetering against the sky as the teenagers inside the wire cage screamed in delight, then rushed toward the earth. “Hello, cowboy,” she said. “I won’t take but a minute.”

“I know why you’re here,” he replied. “This here is Miss Bertha. I ain’t sure I want to get involved.”

“Asa Surrette says someone wants to see you hurt. I think he means to do it himself,” she said. “You know who Surrette is, don’t you?”

“It don’t matter what he calls hisself. His real name is in the Book of Revelation.”

“No, it isn’t. He’s a serial killer from Kansas. He’s not a mythological figure. He’s a sack of garbage. He killed Angel Deer Heart, and he may try to kill you.”

“Don’t you be telling him these things,” Bertha said. “Who are you to come here and do this? You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Gretchen looked at the heavyset woman, then back at Wyatt Dixon. “Do you know any reason the Younger family might hold a grudge against you? Caspian Younger in particular?”

“I could say their kind don’t like working people, and I got in their face. But that ain’t it.”

“Miss, please leave,” Bertha said.

“It’s all right,” Wyatt said. “Miss Gretchen is just doing what she thinks is right. He was using the name Geta Noonen when he grabbed the waitress.”

“How do you know this?” Gretchen asked.

“I did some investigating on my own.”

“Have you told anyone?”

“The state of Montana shot my head full of electricity. You think they’re gonna ask me for advice in catching serial killers? Besides, that ain’t what he is.”

“He’s the beast in the Bible?”

“No, he’s probably an acolyte, a lesser angel in the bunch that got thrown down to hell.”

“I’ve had all this that I can listen to,” Bertha said, getting up from the table. “You get out of here and leave us alone.”

“I’m sorry for upsetting you,” Gretchen said.

“Love Younger come out to my place and fished off my bank,” Wyatt said. “He asked about my folks. He asked if I was part Indian. What the hell would he care about my folks?”

“Watch your back, Wyatt. Good-bye, Ms. Phelps,” Gretchen said.

Wyatt watched Gretchen walk through a field of parked cars, her red shirt and chestnut hair seeming to blur and merge with the molten intensity of the sun. He pushed aside his food and removed a whetstone and a large sheathed bowie knife from a rucksack by his foot. The knife had a white handle and a nickel-plated guard. He began sliding the blade up and down the length of the whetstone, his eyes fixed on a spot three inches in front of his face.