“I’m going to the health club in a few minutes,” Gretchen said. “Why don’t you come with me?”
“That’s very nice of you, but I’ve probably already bothered you enough.”
“Ms. Louviere, I don’t have great experience in these things, but I think you’re blaming yourself for something that happened recently, or something you just found out about. Is it related to your daughter’s death?” The hollowness in Felicity’s eyes was such that Gretchen could hardly look at them. “I know Clete would like to see you,” Gretchen said. “Stay awhile. We can have breakfast together.”
“Maybe another time. Thank you, Ms. Horowitz. I think you’re a nice woman.” Felicity got into her Audi and drove away.
Gretchen went back into the cabin, packed her workout bag, and went to the health club, thinking that her strange encounter with Felicity Louviere was over. Early on in her life, she had come to believe that the differences in human beings were not of great magnitude and had more to do with appearance than motivation. The exception was the difference between the sick and the well. Some people glowed with sunshine and health; others seemed stricken in body and spirit, as though they had walked through an invisible cobweb and their pores could not breathe.
Three hours later, when Gretchen emerged from the dressing room at the health club, her skin ruddy, her hair damp from her shower, she was convinced that Felicity Louviere carried a form of perdition with her wherever she went.
Felicity was standing by the registration desk, her bag on her shoulder, oblivious to the club members who had to step around her to swipe their membership cards. Gretchen put a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s have a bagel and some cream cheese,” she said.
“I’d like that,” Felicity said. “Is Clete with you?”
“He’s at the ranch. It’s just you and me. I’ll put in our order. Sit down over there on the sofa, and we’ll talk.”
After Gretchen had ordered, she checked her phone for messages, then sat down next to Felicity in a quiet area by the fireplace.
“I have to confide in somebody,” Felicity said. “I feel worse than I’ve ever felt in my life. I don’t want to burden or hurt Clete any more than I have.”
“What is it?”
“My husband left his financial statement from Vanguard on his desk. In four months, he’s made withdrawals of eighty-five thousand dollars from his money-market account. I thought maybe he was gambling again. I looked at the accounting book he keeps in the bottom of his desk. He enters every expenditure and deposit and transaction in ink and never puts information in a computer. The Vanguard withdrawals were there. Beside each of them were the initials A.S.”
“Asa Surrette?”
“That’s what I asked him. He went into a rage.”
“Why would he be paying Surrette?” Gretchen asked.
Felicity stared into Gretchen’s face without replying. Felicity had put on no makeup; her lips were cracked.
“Surrette is blackmailing him?” Gretchen said.
“I think he paid Surrette to murder our daughter. I think I shut my eyes to what he did. I think I’m responsible for my daughter’s death.”
“You mustn’t say that,” Gretchen said. “You had nothing to do with your daughter’s death. Where’s your husband now?”
“I don’t know. He’s frightened. He was drunk last night, and I saw him doing lines on a mirror this morning. I don’t think he’s bathed in days. He hates Clete and he hates Dave Robicheaux. He killed our daughter. The man I have slept with for years killed Angel.”
“Regardless of what may or may not have happened, you’re not responsible. Do you understand me?”
“There’s something else. I think I’ve seen him. Twice, maybe three times.”
“Seen who?”
“Him, the man who killed Angel. He had a camera with a zoom lens. I looked at the photographs of him that are posted on the Internet. He’s lost weight since he went to prison in Kansas, but I’m almost sure it was him.”
“Did you tell your husband?”
“Yes. It terrified him.”
“I’m not sure what you’re saying. He fears for your safety?”
“He fears Surrette will take both of us. Ms. Horowitz, you’ve been very patient. But I know what I have done, or what I have failed to do. I didn’t protect Angel. I’m partly at fault for her death. I’ll never forgive myself.”
One of the club’s employees held up the heated bagels on a plate so Gretchen could see them, then set the plate on the counter.
“I’ll be right back,” Gretchen said. She charged the bagels to her account, then picked up the plate and returned to the sofa. Felicity had disappeared. Gretchen’s hobo bag lay on the coffee table, the drawstring pulled loose. She rummaged through it. Her cell phone was gone. Through the glass doors, she watched Felicity’s Audi drive away.
ALAFAIR WAS SITTING in the passenger seat of Gretchen’s pickup when they turned off the Higgins Street Bridge and parked down by the river, next to the old train station that had become the national headquarters of a conservation group founded by Teddy Roosevelt.
Six hours had passed since Felicity had stolen Gretchen’s cell phone.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Alafair asked.
“Love Younger is one of the most powerful men in the United States,” Gretchen said. “You think he doesn’t know what’s going on in his own family?”
“I doubt he does.”
“You can say that with a straight face?” Gretchen said. She cut the engine. The river was high, slate-green, coursing over the submerged boulders close to the banks.
“Younger probably used Cronus as a role model,” Alafair said.
“Who?”
“The Greek god who ate his children,” Alafair said.
“I don’t care about Younger’s children. They were born rich. They had choices. I was wrong about Felicity Louviere. She wants to punish herself, and I think she’s going to use Asa Surrette to do it.”
“She’s not innocent in all this, Gretchen.”
“Are you coming with me or not?”
“I’m your friend, aren’t I?”
Gretchen hooked the strap of her hobo bag over her shoulder, but did not get out of the truck. The refurbished train station looked like an orange fortress and had the clean lines of an architectural work of art. It was located at the base of a hill that sloped abruptly down to the river. At the top of the hill was the maple-lined street where Bill Pepper had lived and where he had drugged and sexually assaulted her. “You’re more than a friend,” she said.
“You don’t need to say any more.”
“I’ll say what I feel like. You know what you mean to me, Alafair?”
“Sometimes it’s better not to be too specific about feelings.”
“What did you think I was going to say?”
“I’m not quite sure.”
“You’re everything I want to become. You’re educated and smart and beautiful. You stand up to people without having to threaten them. I sleep with a gun. You can walk away from situations that make me want to tear people apart.”
“I don’t know if that’s always a virtue.”
“You’ve published a novel. You were Phi Beta Kappa at Reed. You had a four-point average at Stanford Law. Everybody in New Iberia respects you.”
“People respect you, too, Gretchen.”
“Because they fear me. They know I have blood on my hands. You know what’s even worse?”
Alafair shook her head, her eyes lowered, not wanting to hear more.
“I’m glad they know,” Gretchen said. “I want them to know what blood smells like. I want them to know what it’s like to live with the kind of anger that can make you kill people. You know how I feel today, even though I think I’ve changed? I wish I could dig up every person who ever hurt me and kill them all over again. What do you think of me now, Alafair?”
“I love you. You’re one of the best people I’ve ever known. I??
?d do anything for you.”
Gretchen grasped her by the back of the neck and kissed her on the mouth. “You rip me up, girl,” she said.
Then she got out of the pickup and started toward the train station, her bag swinging from her shoulder. Alafair stared through the windshield at the river and at the water sliding over the boulders and eddying in deep pools that were dark with shadow and strung with foam. Her face was tingling as though it had been stung by bees. She let out her breath and blinked and followed Gretchen inside.
A meeting was under way in a spacious room hung with rustic paintings containing scenes from America’s national parks. Perhaps ten men were seated at a long hardwood table set with a silver service and a decanter and glasses and a silver bowl with red flowers floating in the water. Love and Caspian Younger were seated at the head of the table. A well-dressed man with gray hair was in the midst of introducing Love Younger to the group. He was a pleasant-looking man whose manner was deferential and whose sentiments seemed genuine. He had probably labored for hours on his introductory remarks.
“Mr. Younger formed an early and protective attachment to the woods and rivers and streams and mountains of his East Kentucky home,” he said. “The cabin in which he was born was not far from the Revolutionary fort built on the Cumberland River by Daniel Boone. His ties to American history, however, are not simply geographical in nature. He’s a descendant of Tecumseh, the great Shawnee leader, and proud of his relationship to Cole Younger, who fought for his beliefs during the Civil War and was admired by both friend and foe. Mr. Younger’s donation of ten thousand acres to the Conservancy is not only an act of great generosity but of vision.”
The gray-haired man turned to Love Younger and continued, “I cannot tell you how appreciative we are of your support. Your investment in wind and solar power has set an example for everyone committed to finding a better way to supply energy for the twenty-first century. You’ve demonstrated that the rancher and the sportsman and the conservationist and the industrialist can work together for the common good. It’s a great honor to have you here today, sir.”
Love Younger studied the tumbler of whiskey in his hand, tilting the glass slightly, as though more praise had been given him than was his due. He rose from his chair. “The honor is mine,” he said. “You gentlemen have invested a lifetime in a higher cause. I have not. People such as me are bystanders. Tecumseh was a man with a noble vision, one far greater than mine has been. Cole Younger led a violent life but became a Christian before his death. He was a business partner in the operation of a traveling Wild West show with Frank James. The two men were not cut out of the same cloth. I say this not to judge or condemn Frank James but to remind myself of the biblical admonition that many are invited and yet only a few are chosen. I believe my ancestor redeemed himself. The donation I make to your cause is my small attempt at righting some wrong choices in my own life.” Younger raised his whiskey glass. “Here’s to each and every one of you,” he said, and drank it to the bottom. Only then did he seem to notice Alafair and Gretchen standing in the doorway. “Would you ladies like to come in?” he asked.
“That’s Robicheaux’s daughter,” Caspian said, looking up from his chair at his father’s side. There was an ugly scab across the bridge of his nose from the beating Clete had given him, and a bruise couched like a tiny blue-black mouse under one eye.
Alafair waited for Gretchen to answer, then said, “We can speak with you later, Mr. Younger.”
“No, if you have something to say to me, do it now,” Love Younger replied.
“Your son is being blackmailed by Asa Surrette,” Gretchen said. “Your granddaughter’s death might make your son an independently wealthy man. I’m saying your son may have paid Asa Surrette to kill your granddaughter.”
“Who sent you here?” Younger said.
“No one. I called your office and was told this is where I could find you. I think your daughter-in-law is in danger, Mr. Younger,” Gretchen said. “I think she may be trying to contact Surrette.”
The gray-haired man leaned toward Younger. “I’m sorry about this, Mr. Younger. I’ll take care of it,” he said.
Younger placed his hand on the man’s shoulder so he couldn’t rise from his chair, his gaze never leaving Gretchen’s face. “Felicity is trying to contact this killer?” he said.
“She thinks she’s responsible for Angel’s death,” Gretchen replied.
“And out of goodwill, you’ve come here to discuss my family’s personal tragedy in public? You use my granddaughter’s first name as though you knew her?”
“Maybe you’d rather see your daughter-in-law dead?” Gretchen said.
“I know all about you. You’re a contract killer from Miami. I think you’re working with Albert Hollister to blacken my name in any way you can.”
“I came here to prevent your daughter-in-law from being killed. I don’t see you as a victim, Mr. Younger.”
The other men at the table were silent, without expression, hands motionless on the tabletop. One man cleared his throat, then picked up his water glass and drank from it and set it down as quietly as he could.
“I think you ladies have come here to cause a scene and to further the agenda of Albert Hollister and the ecoterrorists who are his proxies,” Younger said.
“I’ve told you the truth,” Gretchen said. “I think your son has done everything in his power to provoke Wyatt Dixon into harming you. Why would he want to do that, Mr. Younger? Dixon said you were out on his property. Why do you and your son have all this interest in a rodeo cowboy?”
Love Younger looked at the other men at the table. “My apologies, gentlemen,” he said. “My family has been through a difficult ordeal. I’m sorry that you’ve been witness. I’m sure we’ll see one another again soon. Thank you again for allowing me to participate in your mission. I think you’re a fine group of men.”
“We feel the same about you, Mr. Younger,” one of the seated men said.
“I have to say something else,” Gretchen said. “You’re educated and wealthy and have knowledge about foreign governments that only intelligence agencies have access to. But you use your education and experience to deceive people who never had your advantages. I’m not talking about these men here; I’m talking about people who never had a break. You exploit their trust and patriotism and inspire as much fear in them as possible. Tell me, Mr. Younger, do you know of any viler form of human behavior?”
The only sound in the room was the wind blowing through the trees behind the train station.
“Come on, Caspian,” Younger said to his son. “We’ve taken up too much of these gentlemen’s time.”
“I’m sorry I had to disrupt your meeting,” Gretchen said to the men at the table. “I admire the work you do. If I could have talked to Mr. Younger somewhere else, I would have.”
She walked outside, leaving Alafair behind, the back of her neck as red as a sunburn.
“Is there something you wanted to say, Ms. Robicheaux?” Love Younger asked.
“Yeah, you got off easy,” Alafair replied. “Your son is mixed up with Asa Surrette, a man who ejaculates on the bodies of the little girls he tortures and murders, the same guy who murdered your foster granddaughter. You’re a real piece of work. I’ve known some scum in my time, but you take the cake.”
“You can’t talk to me like that,” he said, his face quivering.
“I just did,” she replied.
ALAFAIR CAUGHT UP with Gretchen outside. “Where are you going?” she said.
“I think I’ll drown myself.”
“I’m proud of you,” Alafair said.
“For what?”
“What you said in there. The way you talked to those guys when you left.”
“What about it?”
“They know courage and integrity when they see it. They can’t say it to Love Younger, but they respected what you did. It was in every one of their faces.”
“Are you telling me the truth?” r />
“You shouldn’t ask me that. I’ve never lied to you,” Alafair said.
“Care to explain why you’re looking at me like that?”
“Your smile,” Alafair said.
FROM THE MOMENT Felicity Louviere stole Gretchen Horowitz’s cell phone, she knew that her life had changed and that she would never be the same again. She also knew that nothing from her past life could possibly prepare her for the ordeal that lay ahead. As she drove away from the health club, there was a well of fear in her breast that seemed to have no bottom. At the red light, she looked at the impassive faces of the drivers in other cars, as though these strangers, whom she never would have noticed under ordinary circumstances, might know an alternative to her situation and somehow remove her from the scorched ruins that her life had become.
Her hands were small and powerless and without sensation on the steering wheel. She felt that a poisonous vapor had invaded her chest and attacked her organs and that nothing short of death was worse than living in her current state of mind. She drove through town, barely aware of the traffic around her, going through a yellow light without seeing it, ending up in a park on the north side of Missoula, not sure how she got there.
She turned off her engine down by the creek, in the shade of trees, and didn’t pick up calls. The creek was as clear as glass and rippling over rocks that were orange and green and gray-blue, but she could take no pleasure in the pastoral quality of the scene. She had never felt more alone in her life, except on the day when she realized her father had abandoned her to seek martyrdom in a South American jungle. For the first time since she last saw him, she understood the burden he must have carried to his death. The guilt over the killing of the Indians by the men he worked with must have been so great, he could have no peace until he atoned for them and himself. He did this, she was sure, in order to be the father he wanted his daughter to have.
She had never thought about her father in that way. That he’d chosen to travel the path up to Golgotha’s summit on her account.
Gray spots, like motes of dust, were swimming before her eyes. She opened the windows to let fresh air in the car and was surprised at how cold the weather had turned, even though the equinox was at hand. She got out and saw snow flurries spinning in the sunlight, sparkling in the branches of the trees that lined the stream. Her stomach was sick, her skin clammy; she could not remember when she had felt this light-headed. When she closed her eyes, the earth seemed to tilt under her feet. Gretchen’s cell phone vibrated on the dashboard. She reached back in the car and looked at the screen. The call was blocked.