They’re going to scrape you first, a voice whispered close to her ear. Then you’ll be given a chance to reconsider. A flick of incense on the fire, and you’re free.
I won’t do it, she answered.
Many of the others have. Are you too proud? Do you think you’re special?
Yes.
Don’t mock me. I can hurt you very badly.
I want to die.
Not really. You think you’re better than others. Your pride wants to live. You’ll beg. I guarantee it. Here’s another little reminder of reality.
She knew the pain had driven her mad. She didn’t care. The next shock was so great, it seemed to rattle the entire room.
I TOOK THE CELL phone from Clete’s hand. The moon was down, and the lake looked as dark as oil. “What are you guys into now?” the sheriff said.
“The gumball who was killed up here, what’s-his-name, he was dragged by a wrecker?” I said.
“The gumball? You’re talking about Kyle Schumacher?”
“I don’t remember his name. He was down on a child molestation beef of some kind in California.”
“What about him?”
“He was dragged by a wrecker, wasn’t he?”
“We’re not sure. There was only one witness, a man driving back from a bar. He was pie-eyed when he called 911.”
“Did you find the vehicle that dragged him?”
“The sheriff there checked out a place where the killer may have boosted it.”
“The killer?” I said.
“Okay, Surrette. If he boosted it, he returned it. So we’re not sure.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Thanks? That’s it?”
“Yeah, that’s it. We didn’t mean to cause you trouble, Sheriff. You got any idea where Jack Boyd might be?”
“What’s he got to do with this?”
“Gretchen Horowitz thinks she just saw him go by in a Cherokee. Is that what he drives?”
“As a matter of fact, he does.”
“We’ll be in touch,” I said.
“You guys covered up for Bertha Phelps.”
“I didn’t get that.”
“Her perfume. Both you and Purcel smelled it. It’s her logo. You lied about it. I won’t forget that, Mr. Robicheaux.”
“I think Love Younger got what he deserved. I hope Dixon and Bertha Phelps get away.”
“You’ve got some damn nerve.”
“Not really. On my best day, I’ve never earned more than a C-minus at anything,” I said.
My last statement probably didn’t make much sense to him, but I couldn’t have cared less. I folded the phone and handed it back to Clete.
“Where to?” he asked.
“Molly said she passed a mechanic’s shed and some junk cars south of here. Maybe the mechanic has a wrecker service. Maybe that was the wrecker that tore pieces off Kyle Schumacher for two miles down the highway.”
“Sounds like a long shot, Dave,” Clete said.
“Surrette got the wrecker from somewhere. If not here, where?”
Clete pinched his eyes with his thumb and forefinger and peered down the road. It was completely dark. He looked at the luminous dial on his wristwatch. “What’s keeping Molly and Albert?” he said.
THEY WERE DRIVING in Albert’s diesel truck, one so caked in mud that no license plate or logo was visible. It was the same truck that a number of hunters wanted to put a bullet hole in after he began chain-dragging logs across public roads to block access to the national forest. As he came down a long grade through an unlit area, he ran over a large chunk of rock that had fallen from the hillside. It wedged under the frame, scouring sparks off the asphalt. Albert pulled onto the shoulder.
A Jeep Cherokee approached from the opposite direction, the driver not bothering to dim his high beams, slowing down to look into Albert’s face as he passed. Then the Cherokee’s brake lights went on, and the driver began to back up.
The driver was a dark-complected man. His face was bruised, and there was a strip of white tape across the bridge of his nose. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he said.
“Not much. Trying to avoid some of the riffraff that’s floated into the state,” Albert replied.
Another man was sitting in the passenger seat. He was wearing a black polyethylene raincoat. He leaned forward to get a clear look at Albert. “I asked you a question,” the driver said.
“I know you did. I also know who you are. You were fired from your department. Your name is Boyd.”
“Maybe you know more than you should,” Boyd said. “Maybe you never learned how to keep your nose out of other people’s business.”
“That’s because he’s a smart guy,” the passenger said. “A college professor. I’ve seen him.”
“This is Terry,” Jack Boyd said. “You don’t want to meet him.”
“Let’s go,” Molly whispered.
But the transmission was jammed. Albert tried to back up to free it and heard something clank loudly and vibrate through the undercarriage.
“Did I say you could go somewhere?” Boyd said.
“I’ll have a look at the problem,” Terry said.
“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 t
o 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.”
“Where’s Caspian?”
“Probably cleaning out his old man’s accounts,” Boyd said.
Surrette’s lips were crimped, his eyes busy with thought, his breathing loud enough to echo in the room.
“Think your meal ticket is about to blow Dodge?” Boyd said.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing,” Boyd replied.
“Where’s Wyatt Dixon?” Surrette said.
“How would I know?” Boyd said. “Who cares? The guy’s nuts.”
“He knows who I am,” Surrette said.
“Everybody knows who you are. What are you talking about?” Boyd said. “Oh, he knows about your mission or whatever? That biblical crap on the cave wall?”
“Take them down to the basement,” Surrette said, breathing through his nose.
Molly was sitting in a chair by the door. She clutched a wadded tissue speckled with blood. “My name is Molly Robicheaux,” she said. “I saw the death squads at work in Guatemala and El Salvador.”
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” Surrette asked.
“They had your eyes,” she said. “They always smelled of alcohol when they came into the village. They never spoke in any voice except a loud one. They chose their enemies carefully—innocent villagers who had no weapons. You remind me of them.”
“Take them downstairs, Jack, and don’t try to think,” Surrette said. The heat seemed to go out of his face. He smiled. “No judgment calls.”
“Sure,” Boyd said. “I’m with you all the way. You know that.”
“What do you want me to do?” Terry said.
“I’ll tell you when I’m ready. In the meantime, there’s no need for you to speak.”
Albert looked at Boyd and Terry. “I got a question for you fellows,” he said. “Do y’all think this man is going to let you walk away so you can extort him down the road?”
“Asa is a kidder. He knows who his friends are,” Boyd said. “You bet on the wrong horse, old-timer.”
There was a beat. Terry was silent, his concentration turned inward, as though he were examining a flyspeck inside his head.
“Right, Asa?” Jack Boyd said. “Mr. Hollister shouldn’t be placing any bets in Vegas, should he? You got any snacks in the refrigerator? I’m starving.”
WE DROVE BACK up the two-lane, slowing at the driveways that led down to the houses on the lake or up the hillsides through the cherry orchards. We went over a rise and down a long grade into an unlit area where there were no houses and the shoreline was dense with trees and underbrush. In my high beams, I saw a large rock partially broken on the asphalt. It looked like it had been dragged under a vehicle.
“That wasn’t there when we went up the road earlier,” I said.
“No, it wasn’t,” Clete said. “Pull over.”
I drove around the rock and parked on the north side of it. Gretchen and Alafair pulled in behind me. Up ahead was a dirt road that cut back up the hillside and disappeared inside trees tangled with vines and shrubbery. “Did you guys see this rock earlier?” I said.
I took a flashlight from the glove box and walked to a dirt road that angled back up the hill. Stenciled in the dirt were the fresh tire tracks of a heavy vehicle. I shone the flashlight’s beam on a bend about forty yards up the grade. At first I saw only the trees and their shadows moving in the wind; then the beam reflected off a bright surface, perhaps a bumper or a windshield or a strip of chrome.
I walked up the incline. The behemoth-like outline of Albert’s diesel rig, sheathed in dried mud, was unmistakable. Whoever had left it there had backed it up and parked it with the engine pointed downhill. “Up here!” I shouted at the others.
There was nothing in the cab, no keys in the ignition, no signs of a struggle. But I knew my wife. She was not only intelligent and brave, she never went with the flow. I opened both doors of the cab and searched under the seats and behind them and in the glove box. I knew that somewhere, somehow, Molly had left me a message.
“Call it in, Clete,” I said.
“You know what those cocksuckers are going to say, don’t you?” he replied.
“Yeah, I do, but call it in anyway,” I said, feeling down in the seats.
“It’ll take at least a half hour for them to get a guy out here. Then he’ll tell us to file a missing persons report.”
“I know that. Just make the call,” I said.
“Then wait for somebody to show up? I say fuck that.”
I took out my cell phone and started to punch in 911.
“All right, I’ll do it,” Clete said, walking off with his phone to his ear.
I had found nothing in the cab. My heart was beating, my eyes stinging with moisture even though the night was cool. Where are you, Molly? I thought. I stood erect and closed the passenger door. Where could she have left a clue? It’s there someplace, I know it, I know it, I know it. I turned in a circle. On the truck itself, I thought. I shone the flashlight on the door. There it was, right in front of me, two initials on the outside panel. She had probably hung her arm out the window and used her thumb to furrow the letter J, then the letter B, in the muddy splatter that had dried on the panel.
Light of the World Page 52
