The shooter fired only once. The round was likely soft-nosed, with a notched cross hammer-tapped into the lead for good measure. When it struck the back of Caspian Younger’s skull, it left a hole no bigger than the tip of your little finger but blew his forehead apart like an exploding watermelon. He fell forward into a spruce tree, stone dead, his throat catching in a fork, his knees striking the ground simultaneously.
The lightning died in the sky, and the roof of the shed receded into a blue-black darkness that seemed to be spreading from the lake across the entirety of the valley. The men who had been standing on either side of Caspian Younger moved away from his body, staring at it dumbly, glancing back at the orchard and the shed and the mountaintops, as jagged and sharp as scissored tin against the sky.
I tried to make out their faces. Were they mercenaries, adventurers, or jailhouse riffraff? They seemed to have no more depth or singularity than a computer-generated illusion. “We’ve got no grievance against you guys,” I said. “The way I see it, Younger got what he deserved. How about we call it square?”
No one moved or spoke.
“There’s another way to look at it,” I said. “That was probably Wyatt Dixon on the roof. If you’ve been around these parts, you know his reputation. Who needs grief with a dude like that? Wyatt gives insanity a bad name.”
I saw them start stepping back from us, like people withdrawing from a presence they truly fear, not because of their experience with it but because of an atavistic instinct that goes back before recorded time.
Then I realized my terrible mistake.
Surrette never left the house, I thought.
Clete was still sitting on the bumper of the truck, nauseated, his head spinning from blood loss. He was looking at his feet and the shine of his blood on the tops of his loafers, his eyes half-lidded.
“Got you, fat boy,” a voice said.
Clete raised his eyes and looked straight ahead. He felt the muzzle of a handgun touch his ear. “Is that you, Boyd?” he asked.
“Surprised?”
“What happened to the light?” Clete asked.
“What light?”
“The northern lights or whatever it was. That’s you, huh, Jack? You’re still hanging around?”
“We never left, you idiot. We snookered you good.” He pushed the gun tighter into Clete’s ear. With the other hand, he picked up the Mauser bolt-action and hung it over his shoulder. “I’d say you’re in a lot of trouble.”
“Yep, that’s true,” Clete said.
“What do you think dying is gonna be like?”
“I’ll let you know.”
“You should have been a clown on one of those kid shows. You could be Captain Animal, an old pervert loitering around the kiddie park.”
“It’s a thought,” Clete said.
“You think I won’t pop you?”
“Not unless Surrette tells you to. You’re like me: You’ll always be a dirty cop, wherever you go. I’ve got a PI badge. You’ve got Surrette. For the rest of your life, you won’t take a dump without his permission.”
“I can leave him anytime I want.”
Clete turned his head slowly, trying to concentrate on Jack Boyd’s face. “If you do anything to Molly and Albert and the girls, I’m going to hurt you.”
“You’re going to hurt me?”
“Take it to the bank.”
“You’re a laugh a minute,” Boyd said.
“That’s me,” Clete replied.
Jack Boyd walked toward the front of the house, the German rifle slung upside down on his shoulder, his trousers tucked inside the tops of his hand-tooled boots. Involuntarily, Clete’s head fell on his chest, his eyes shutting, his shoulders slumping. For a moment, he thought he was going to fall on the grass. He forced himself to his feet and walked toward the back of Gretchen’s pickup, the stars burning coldly in a sky that looked like purple velvet. He reached inside the truck bed and felt along the sides until his fingers touched the tip of a steel chain.
The odor from behind me was unmistakable. I turned and looked into the face of Asa Surrette. He was wearing a bulletproof vest and carrying a Bushmaster semi-automatic rifle. “We finally meet,” he said. He touched the muzzle of the Bushmaster to the back of Alafair’s head. “Lay your weapons down, please.”
“Don’t do it, Dave,” Alafair said.
Surrette winked at me. “Humor me,” he said.
“You got it,” I said. I set the M-1 down on the grass. Gretchen lay her AR-15 down and pushed it away with her foot.
“Do as he says, Alafair,” I said.
She was carrying a cut-down Browning twelve-gauge that Gretchen had given her. She squatted slowly and placed it on the grass, then stood up. She gazed at Surrette a long time. “We saw what you did to Felicity,” she said.
“It was what she wanted. Have you been publishing any more magazine articles?” he said.
“No, I published a novel. What about you?” she said. “Has Creative Artists or William Morris been trying to get in touch with you?”
“Oh, you’re good,” he said.
“I looked through the house. Where were you?” I said.
“In the attic. The one place you didn’t look.”
“Pretty slick,” I said. “Who are these guys?”
“You don’t know?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“I’ll rephrase my question,” he said. “You’ve haven’t figured out yet who I am? You’re that slow on the uptake?”
“Your entire life has been characterized by mediocrity,” I said. “You got busted because you were stupid enough to believe the cops when they told you the floppy disk you sent them couldn’t be traced.”
His smile never wavered. He stepped closer to me. The odor that rose from his body made me choke. “Breathing problem?” he said.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve never been around anything like it.”
Jack Boyd came out of the darkness, carrying the Mauser upside down on its sling.
“Where’s Clete Purcel?” I said.
“Relaxing, I suppose,” Boyd said.
“You didn’t finish them?” Surrette said.
“You didn’t tell me to,” Boyd replied.
“I’ll deal with you in a minute,” Surrette said.
“What do you mean, you’ll deal with me?”
Surrette looked at me and Gretchen and Alafair. “Get on your knees,” he said.
“Sorry,” I said.
“I can put you there if you wish,” he said. “Have you ever seen someone shot through both kneecaps? Would Daddy like to see his daughter shot through her kneecaps? Tell me now.”
“Kiss my ass,” Alafair said.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I have something special in mind for you. I’m going to turn you into an artistic masterpiece. Unfortunately, you won’t be able to see the notoriety that my artwork draws, even though you’ll be the centerpiece.”
“Look at me, Surrette,” I said.
“Look at you? Why should I? Do you think you can condescend to me and give me commands at a moment like this? You’re truly a foolish man, Mr. Robicheaux.”
“You’re right about that,” I said, holding my eyes on his. “But at least I never wrote a short story that was so bad, the professor wouldn’t allow it to be read in front of the class.”
I saw his chest rising and falling and his eyes narrowing and the blood draining from around his mouth. He raised a finger in the middle of my face. “You listen—” he began.
That was as far as he got. Clete Purcel lumbered out of the darkness, holding the bear trap by a handle welded to the bottom of the frame, the jaws cocked. He swung it down on top of Asa Surrette’s head like an inverted skillet, the trigger impacting on Surrette’s skull. The jaws snapped shut on Surrette’s ears, mashing them into his scalp. Surrette dropped the Bushmaster and whirled in a circle, fighting to pull the trap from his head, his teeth grinding, blood running down his neck into his shirt collar, the tether chain hanging down his back like a Chinese pigtail.