She rolled down the window and grinned as though the issue were of no consequence, then drove away.
If she had wanted to set the hook, she had done a proper job of it, he thought.
Clete Purcel’s deeds for the rest of the night and the early hours of the following day were not of a rational kind. Even to him, his behavior was bizarre. It had nothing to do with Julie Ardoin’s visit to his cottage, or his addictions, or his abiding need to find approval in the eyes of his father. The concerns that had beset Clete for most of his life had disappeared, only to be replaced by the conviction that every tick of the second hand on his wristwatch was an irrevocable subtraction from his time on earth.
He knew that death could come in many ways, almost all of them bad. Those who said otherwise had never smelled the odor of a field mortuary in a tropical country when the gas-powered refrigeration failed. Nor had they lain on a litter next to a black marine trying to hold his entrails inside his abdomen with his fingers. They had never heard a grown man cry out for his mother in a battalion aid tent. Death squeezed the breath from your chest and the light from your eyes. It was not kind or merciful; it lived in bedsheets that stuck to the body and wastebaskets filled with bloody gauze and the hollow-eyed stare of emergency room personnel who went forty-eight hours without sleep during Hurricane Katrina. It invaded your dreams and mocked your sunrise and stood next to your reflection in the mirror. Sex and booze and dope brought you no respite. When you lived in proximity to death, even a midday slumber was filled with needles and shards of glass, and the smallest sounds made the side of your face twitch like a tightly wound rubber band.
Once you understood that the great shade was your constant companion, a change took place in your life that you did not share with others. Sometimes you quickened your step when you walked through woods in the late fall; at other times indistinct figures beckoned to you from the edge of your vision, their voices as soft as the rustling of leaves, asking you to pause in your journey and rest with them awhile. Just when you thought you were onto their tricks, you discovered the joke that death had played upon you. While you were trying to avoid the natural cycle of the seasons, you empowered evil men to perpetrate upon you the greatest theft of all, enticing you into a manufactured crusade, taking you from your loved ones, robbing you of choices that should have been yours, separating you without warning from the gold-green cathedral given to you as your birthright.
These were the kind of reflections that lived behind the calmness of Clete’s intelligent green eyes. And these were what made him the brave man he was. He saw the truth but never pushed the burden onto someone else.
He drove his Caddy in the rain to the boatyard on East Cote Blanche Bay where he kept his eighteen-footer and his Evinrude seventy-five-horsepower engine. He went into the tin-roofed shed where his boat was moored to a post and winched it up on a trailer and hooked the trailer to his Caddy. The bay was chain-ringed with raindrops, the branches of the gum and willow trees along the shore flattening in the wind. He filled two five-gallon plastic containers with gasoline and hefted them inside the boat. Then he opened a steel lockbox he rented from the owner and removed two road flares, an entrenching tool, a KA-BAR knife attached to a web belt, a military-issue flashlight, an AK-47 modified into a semi-auto, and a scoped ’03 Springfield rifle that was heavily oiled and snugged up inside a canvas bag. Under the shed, he removed the Springfield from the bag and opened the bolt and placed his thumb in the empty chamber and closed the bolt. He wiped the excess oil from the stock and the steel surfaces of the rifle and placed it and a box of. 30–06 rounds in the bag and put the bag in the trunk of the Caddy.
By 4:15 A.M. he had off-loaded his boat into Bayou Teche and, with no lights on, had gone downstream ten miles to the back of Croix du Sud Plantation. The rain had stopped and the moon was up, and an elevated carriage lamp glowed inside the humidity in the backyard. When the wind blew, the yard was filled with moving shadows and rainwater that shone like crystal sprinkling from the trees. Clete had cut his engine upstream and allowed his boat to float silently through the shallows, past the cypress and oak trees and flooded canebrakes that bordered the back of the Dupree property. He picked up his anchor and lowered it over the gunwale and let the rope slide through his palm until the anchor sank in the mud and the rope tightened and the stern swung around and hung stationary in the current.
Someone turned on a light in the kitchen. Clete removed the Springfield from its canvas bag and opened the bolt and began thumb-loading a handful of soft-nosed rounds into the magazine. After he had locked down the bolt, feeding a bullet into the chamber, he set the safety and wiped his hand free of oil on his shirt and looked through the telescopic sight into the kitchen. The clarity of detail inside the lenses was stunning.
Alexis Dupree was eating a piece of cobbler and drinking a glass of milk at the kitchen table. He was wearing a striped robe, one that, paradoxically, might be confused with the striped pattern on the work uniforms of the inmates in Dachau and Buchenwald. His eyes were deep-set, his jowls flecked with tiny veins, his throat as coarse and wrinkled as a turtle’s. Hair grew out of his nose. His eyebrows looked feral; he scratched at a dark, crusty mole inside one sideburn. His tall frame had the stiffness of coat hangers. He ate with small bites, as though the process of eating were a joyless activity and should be undertaken only with measure and control. He gazed through the window at the backyard and at the giant trees that swelled with wind and scattered leaves on the bayou, and dabbed at a smear of cobbler on his chin.
Clete wondered if Alexis Dupree saw things inside the darkness that others did not. Had Dupree not only looked into the abyss but immersed himself in it, exchanging his soul for the black arts he unleashed on helpless people behind barbed wire? Or had he been little more than a cipher, a mindless bureaucrat carrying out the orders of other people, a man with the wingspan of a blowfly rather than a condor?
A flip of the safety mechanism, a squeeze of the trigger, and Clete could make all these questions moot. How would the world be the less? One squeeze, one bullet, and a few of Dupree’s victims would not have to wander the earth seeking justice.
Just do it and think about it later, Clete told himself.
Then he saw Pierre Dupree enter the kitchen, followed by a woman who remained in the background, her face obscured by the knives and skillets and cooking pans that hung from an iron rack suspended above a butcher block. Pierre was dressed in slacks and a snow-white shirt, and the woman wore a maroon skirt cinched with a gold belt. Clete suspected they were going on a trip or they would not have been up this early. He could not see the woman’s face or even the color of her hair, and he wondered who she could be.
He realized he had devoted too much attention to the scene and the people in the kitchen. In the corner of his vision, he saw the shape of a man by the gazebo on the left side of the backyard. Clete shifted his position in the boat and looked through the telescopic sight at the gazebo and the shadows in the yard, but the man who had been standing on the lawn seconds ago had disappeared. The wind gusted out of the north, blowing hundreds of unraked leaves across the Saint Augustine grass. While all the other shadows in the yard swayed back and forth, one remained starkly immobile. Then the figure lit a cigarette, the flame from his lighter flaring on his face. There was no mistaking the bump on his nose, the greased hair, or the scalp job around his ears. He was one of the men Clete had seen in Lafayette with Lamont Woolsey and the British oilman Hubert Donnelly.
Clete’s eyes were beginning to burn in the humidity. He lowered the rifle and wiped his eyes clear on his sleeve, then raised the telescopic sight again and scanned the area around the gazebo. The man with the bump on his nose was gone. His disappearance made no sense. Clete had a view of the entire yard, which was terraced like three stair steps, with gardens on each step. The gazebo and the latticework on it were silhouetted against the moonlit reflection of the house. In no more than three or four seconds, the Duprees’ sentinel had
walked either to the house or out to a sugarcane field, neither of which seemed possible.
Clete moved the telescopic sight back onto the kitchen. Pierre Dupree was seated with his grandfather, dipping a powdered beignet into a cup of coffee, a napkin tucked into his collar. Clete could not see the woman. Then he realized she had gone out the French doors and was standing on a patio overhung by the limbs of a live oak. The light from the kitchen fell across her hips and lower back and calves but not her upper body or face. She turned briefly, and Clete caught sight of her hands and her broad, laminated gold belt and the plate and fork she was eating with. Fog had started to form on the bayou and drift through the trees, wrapping around her, almost as though she enjoyed a symbiotic relationship with it.
Downstream he heard the drawbridge closing, then the droning sounds of a tugboat pushing a huge barge against the tidal inflow, the wake slapping loudly in the trees along the bank. The woman walked out in the mist and gazed at the tug and barge passing beyond the tree trunks. Did the boat represent escape? Was it a reminder of a working-class world she had abandoned for the ambience the Duprees could provide her? Did she long for a better and simpler world than the one she lived inside? Was she Tee Jolie Melton? Or Varina Leboeuf? Or someone else?
Clete would not learn the answer to his questions, at least not that night. The woman went back into the house and fastened the French doors and disappeared into the room beyond the kitchen.
Clete pulled up the anchor and let the boat drift south of the Dupree property before he fired up his engine. He worked his way upstream toward New Iberia, the running lights off, keeping to the far side of the bayou so he would not be seen from the Dupree home.
He rounded a bend and angled his boat toward a spot at the extreme end of the Dupree property, then cut the gas feed and tilted the propeller out of the water. His bow slid up on the mudflat between two cypress trees, and he stepped into the shallows and pulled the boat’s hull farther up the bank. Through the trees, he could see the lights in the Dupree kitchen and a porch light that someone had turned on. He lifted the five-gallon gasoline containers out of his boat and set them on the mudflat, then retrieved his E-tool and dug a loamy hole on the edge of a wild blackberry bush spiked with thorns. He wrapped the containers and the road flares inside a plastic tarp and buried them in the hole, sweating inside his clothes, his breath coming hard in his chest. He spat in his palm and looked at it, then rubbed his palm clean on his pants and tried not to think about the pink tinge in his saliva.
He stared through the darkness at the house, his head as light as a helium balloon. “Tomorrow or the next day or the day after that or maybe a month down the road, I’m going to get you,” he said.
To whom was he speaking? The Duprees and their hired gumballs? Or the men who would probably try to kill Gretchen? No, Clete’s real enemy had been with him much longer. He had seen him the first time he lay in a battalion aid station in the Central Highlands, dehydrated from blood expander, his face white from the concussion of a grenade, his neck beaded with dirt rings, his utilities fouled by his own urine. A corpsman had closed off an artery with his thumb, and suddenly the light had come back into Clete’s eyes and air had flowed into his lungs, as cool as if it were blowing across open water. That was when he saw the cloaked and hooded figure with the white face and thin lips and sunken cheeks. The figure smiled and leaned over and pressed his mouth to Clete’s ear, as though no one else were in the tent. His breath smelled like nightshade and lichen on damp stone and ponded water gone sour in a forest whose canopy seldom admits light. I can wait, the hooded figure whispered. But no matter where you go, you’re mine.
26
If you have met the very rich, and by the very rich, I mean those who own and live in several palatial homes and have amounts of money that people of average means cannot conceive of, you have probably come away from the experience feeling that you have been taken, somehow diminished and cheapened in terms of self-worth. It’s not unlike getting too close to theatrical people or celebrity ministers or politicians who have convinced us that it is their mandate to lead us away from ourselves.
If you are around the very rich for very long, you quickly learn that in spite of their money, many of them are dull-witted and boring. Their tastes are often superficial, their interests vain and self-centered. Most of them do not like movies or read books of substance, and they have little or no curiosity about anything that doesn’t directly affect their lives. Their conversations are pedestrian and deal with the minutiae of their daily existence. Those who wait on them and polish and chauffeur their automobiles and tend their lawns and gardens are abstractions with no last names or histories worth taking note of. The toil and sweat and suffering of the great masses are the stuff of a benighted time that belongs in the books of Charles Dickens and has nothing to do with our own era. In the world of the very rich, obtuseness may not quite rise to the level of a virtue, but it’s often the norm.
What is most remarkable about many of those who have great wealth is the basic assumption on which they predicate their lives: They believe that others have the same insatiable desire for money that they have, and that others will do anything for it. Inside their culture, manners and morality and money not only begin with the same letter of the alphabet but are indistinguishable. The marble floors and the spiral staircases of the homes owned by the very rich and the chandeliers that ring with light in their entranceways usually have little to do with physical comfort. These things are iconic and votive in nature and, ultimately, a vulgarized tribute to a deity who is arguably an extension of themselves.
The British oil entrepreneur Hubert Donnelly could be called an emissary for the very rich, but he could not be called a hypocrite. He came in person to my office at nine A.M. on Thursday. If he was a lawbreaker, and I suspected he was, I had to grant him his brass. He came without a lawyer into the belly of the beast and laid his proposal on my desk. “I want you and Mr. Purcel to work for us,” he said. “You’ll have to travel, but you’ll fly first-class or on private jets and stay at the best hotels. Here’s the starting figure.”
He placed a slip of paper on my desk blotter. The number 215,000 was written on it.
“That’s for the probationary period,” he said. “After six months or so, you’ll get a significant bump.”
“That’s a lot of money,” I said.
“You’ll earn it.”
“A guy like me would be a fool to pass it up.”
“Talk it over with your family. Take your time.”
He wore a dark blue suit and a shirt as bright as tin. His grooming was immaculate. I couldn’t keep my eyes off the pits in his cheeks and the way his skin sagged under his jaw.
“You already know this is a waste of time, don’t you?” I said.
“Probably.”
“You’re here anyway.”
“One toggles from place to place and carries out his little duties. I’m sure you do the same.”
“Have you chatted up Lamont Woolsey of late?”
“He and I are not close.”
“I hear somebody stomped his face in.”
“Woolsey has a way of provoking people.”
“Ever hear of a guy by the name of Ozone Eddy Mouton?”
“No, I can’t say that I have.”
“A couple of people were found incinerated inside a car trunk in St. Bernard Parish. I hear even their teeth were melted by the heat.”
He didn’t blink. I watched his eyes. They had a translucence about them that was almost ethereal. They were free of guilt or worry or concern of any kind. They made me think of blue water on a sunny day or the eyes of door-to-door proselytizers who tell you they were recently reborn.
“If you worked for us, you would be free of all these things,” he said. “Why not give it a try? You seem to have the benefits of a classical education. As a soldier, you walked in the footprints of the French and the British, and you know how it’s all going to play out. Do you always
want to be a beggar of scraps at the table of the rich? Do you enjoy being part of a system that instills a vice like gambling in its citizenry and placates the poor with bread and circuses?”
“The guys who died on that rig are going to find you one day, Mr. Donnelly.”
“When all else fails, we whip out our biblical dirge, do we?”
“Maybe you’ll have better luck dealing with the dead than I. They go where they want. They sit on your bed at night and stand behind you in the mirror. Once they locate you, they never rest. And you know what’s worse about them?”
He smiled at me and didn’t reply.
“When it’s your time, they’ll be your escorts, and they won’t be delivering you to a very good place. The dead are not given to mercy.”
He did something I didn’t expect. He leaned forward in his chair, his elbows splayed on my desk. “I was once like you, determined to impose my moral sense on the rest of the world. I was in Sudan and Libya and Turkistan and Rwanda and the Congo. I was repelled when I saw peasants buried up to their necks and decapitated by earth graders, and women disemboweled with machetes on the roadside. But I learned to live with it, as I’m sure you and Mr. Purcel did. Don’t rinse your sins at the expense of others, sir. It’s tawdry and cheap stuff and unworthy of a good soldier and a knowledgeable man.”
“Clete Purcel and I have nothing you want.”
“When you cross the wrong Rubicon, you enter a harsh and unpredictable environment, Detective Robicheaux. It’s not a country where you can depend on the kindness of strangers or those who seem to be your friends. Do you get my drift?”
“No, not at all,” I replied.
“That’s too bad. I thought you were a more perceptive man. Good-bye, sir,” he said.
Gretchen Horowitz did not deal well with emotions that involved trust or deconstructing her defense system. Her program had always been simple: Number one, you didn’t empower others to hurt you; number two, when people didn’t heed your warning signs, you taught them the nature of regret; number three, you didn’t let a man get in your head so he could get in your pants.
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