But we both knew better. Nobody hunts gators with scoped rifles, and no person of goodwill looks through the scope at another individual. I restarted the engine and we headed home, the wind in our faces, ten degrees colder now, like a slow burn on the skin.
I showered and went to Bailey’s house, hoping we could have a late dinner. She had gone shopping in Lafayette and told me she expected to be home by eight.
It was almost nine. I called her cell phone twice and went directly to voicemail. I sat on the gallery and waited. Then I began to go places in my head I probably shouldn’t have. Or at least that’s what I felt at the time.
I could not explain away the presence of the man with the bolt-action rifle on the flooded island. Clete and I had enemies. Every cop does. But few of them seek revenge. I witnessed the electrocution of two murderers I helped convict, partly out of duty, partly at their request. Neither of them bore me enmity. None of my past experience as a detective in New Orleans or New Iberia had been any help in solving the series of murders connected with the tarot or the Maltese cross. What was the motivation? That was the big one. The old saw money wasn’t working.
How about someone who had declared war on something much larger than he was, a misanthrope with the vision of Captain Ahab in his pursuit of the white whale? The kind of man who wanted to destroy beauty and goodness whenever he found it? That brought to mind the image of a man firing out of a resort window in Las Vegas.
Or maybe he was the kind of man who hated others so much he would kill their friends or loved ones so the real target would suffer daily for the rest of his or her life. I thought again of the damage done to the body of Hilary Bienville.
I called Bailey a third time. No answer. I called Alafair at the house.
“Hi, Dave,” she said.
“You okay, Alfie?”
“Don’t call me that dumb name.”
“Are you okay?”
“Sure. What’s going on?”
“I’m just checking.”
“Where are you?”
“In front of Bailey’s house. I don’t know where she is. She said she would be back from Lafayette by eight.”
“You know how the traffic is.”
“What did you do today?”
“We quit the shoot early and I played tennis with Des at Red’s.”
“When did you start hanging out with Desmond?”
“He’s in the dumps. They’re going broke. Lou is and so is Antoine. They borrowed against their homes and their video business. Dave, I know you’re not sympathetic, but how many people would risk everything they own to create an epic film that will probably bomb?”
“I saw a guy with a scoped rifle at Henderson Swamp. I think he was looking at me and Clete through the scope.”
“Why didn’t you say that?”
“I don’t know who it was. Maybe it was just a guy.”
“Maybe it was Smiley Wimple,” she said.
“Smiley doesn’t have a beef with either Clete or me. So that means for now we don’t trust anyone. Got it?”
“That’s a little broad.”
“Did you hear me?”
“Copy that. Where are you going now?”
“I’m not sure,” I said.
But I was lying.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The blues club on the bayou was packed, bodies pressed one against the other, people shouting in order to hold an ordinary conversation, the band blowing the joint down with Clifton Chenier’s “Ay-Te Te Fee.” I squeezed my way to the bar. Lloyd, the indignant black bartender with the small head, waited silently for me to order.
“Bella Delahoussaye!” I shouted.
“What?” he shouted back.
“Where’s Bella?”
He looked at the bandstand. “She ain’t here!”
“Where is she?”
“Running late! Like always!” he shouted. “What you want, man?”
“Half a barbecue chicken, double dirty rice, and a diet Dr Pepper!”
Ten minutes passed. Still no Bella. The bartender brought my food on a paper plate with a napkin and a plastic fork and knife. The noise was getting louder. My head was coming off.
“Where’s the Dr Pepper?” I shouted.
“I tole you, this ain’t a soda fountain!” the bartender replied. He walked away. A big man who looked familiar sat down next to me.
“Watch my food, will you?” I said.
I worked my way outside and checked the parking lot. I didn’t have Bella’s phone number and had no way to contact her except to call the city police in St. Martinville and ask the dispatcher to send a car to her cottage. I didn’t think Bella would appreciate the gesture. I went back inside and sat down. I could see Sean McClain sitting at a table below the bandstand. He was with several other young people and drinking a beer from a bottle.
“Find what you were looking for?” the man next to me said.
I looked at him. His face was as generic and uninteresting as a shingle. “I know you?”
“You came into my former place of employment in St. Martinville.”
I had to think. “Harvey?”
“You got a good memory.”
“You never heard of Evangeline. You called me ‘asshole’ and ‘fuckball.’ ”
“I was having an off night. You were acting weird on top of it. Sorry about the asshole and fuckball references. You come here often?”
“No,” I said. “I’m waiting on Bella Delahoussaye.”
“The black gal with the magical fingers?”
“Pardon?” I said.
“The way she plays guitar. She’s got magic.”
I started eating. I tried to catch the bartender’s eye.
“What’d you think I meant?” Harvey asked.
“Nothing,” I replied.
He saw me trying to get the bartender’s attention. “What do you need?”
“My drink.”
“The bartender here’s got an attitude.” He tapped his knuckles on the bar.
“He’s all right,” I said. “Let him alone.”
The front door opened and a clutch of people came in. In the center was a slender ebony-skinned woman wearing an African head wrap and a sleeveless turquoise and gold dashiki, her body clicking with beads and chains and bracelets. I got up and clamped my hand onto Harvey’s shoulder. “You’re on guard duty again.”
The woman was not Bella. I stopped by Sean McClain’s table. He stood up to shake hands. His friends smiled. “I didn’t know you hung out here, Dave.”
“Not really. Just tonight,” I said.
“Everything okay?”
“Sure.”
“Want to join us?” he said.
“Thanks,” I said. “Nice seeing y’all.”
I went back to the bar. A soda cup filled to the brim had been placed next to my plate. “Where’d that come from?”
“I told him to get on it. He said he didn’t have Dr Pepper. I asked him if he had Coca-Cola. Between you and me, I think the guy’s got a racial problem. Better eat up.”
“You paid for the Coke?”
“Big deal.”
I looked at the doorway. No Bella. I could feel a sensation like a guitar string tightening around my head. I filled a fork with chicken and dirty rice. It was cold and tasted like confetti. I lifted the cup to my lips and tilted back my head. I felt the Coca-Cola and crushed ice slide over my tongue and down my throat. But something else was in the cup. What had I done? Did I not recognize the smell, the golden glow inside the barrel the whiskey was aged in, the cool fire that lit my loins and caused me to close my eyes with release and surrender, as though a treacherous lover had returned from long ago for another go-round between the sheets?
I set the cup down on the bar, harder than I should have, perhaps more in pretense than in alarm.
“You dig Jack, right?” Harvey said. “He didn’t have Dr Pepper. So I told the guy to give you Coke and Jack. What’s with you?”