“Screw that,” he said. He fired three more rounds, and I heard at least one of them hit the plane’s propeller. Then the bolt on his Beretta locked open on an empty chamber. He dropped the magazine from the frame and inserted the backup magazine and chambered a round.
“Let the plane go, Clete,” I said.
It wasn’t really a choice now. The pilot, whoever he or she was, had given it the gas. The plane lifted off the bayou briefly, sputtered once or twice, and set back down, the fog closing as it drifted around a bend with the incoming tide. Whoever was aboard was off the playing field, at least temporarily.
Clete’s face looked poached, his green eyes as big as Life Savers. I ejected a spent shell from the chamber of the twelve-gauge I had taken off the dying man and inserted three shells into the magazine, until I felt the spring come tight against my thumb. It was all going very fast now. I saw Gretchen and Alafair come out of the house. Gretchen was carrying Helen Soileau over her shoulder, and Alafair was pulling Tee Jolie Melton behind her. That was not all that was going on. Someone had started a fire inside the house, a small one certainly, with flames no bigger than the candles on a birthday cake burning in a darkened room, but it was a fire just the same.
“Who the hell did that?” Clete said.
“My bet is on Gretchen,” I said.
“Good for her,” he said.
“How about all the evidence in there? The computers, the paper files, the message machines, the cell phones?”
Clete’s attention had wandered. “On the other side of the coulee,” he said. “The door is open to the slave cabin. It wasn’t open a minute ago.”
I let my eyes sweep back and forth across the backyard. The wind had died, and there were no shadows moving on the grass. The man who had been behind the carriage house seemed to have disappeared. I could hear myself breathing in the silence, and steam was rising from my mouth. “I’ll check out the cabin,” I said. “A dead guy back there is wearing a coat that’ll fit you. Maybe we’re home free, partner.”
“These guys don’t give up that easily,” he replied, his teeth chattering. “We’re not finished with payback, either.”
“Get the coat. You’re going to come down with pneumonia.”
“Pull a coat off a dead guy with bullet holes in him?”
“Just do it. Don’t argue. For once in your life. I’ve never seen anything like it. You have a cinder block for a brain.”
“What’s wrong with that? It helps keep things simple,” he said.
“That’s what I mean. You’re hopeless.”
The moon was out from behind the clouds, and I could see the smile on his face. “Let’s see what’s going on inside Uncle Tom’s cabin,” he said.
We began walking across the lawn, past a stone birdbath and a Roman sundial and a dry goldfish pond scrolled with black mold. The water in the bayou had risen over the cypress knees and elephant ears and clumps of bamboo that grew along the banks. Leaves that were still yellow and red were floating on top of the water, and the caladiums someone had planted around the oaks reminded me of the ones I had seen through my window in the recovery unit on St. Charles Avenue in New Orleans.
Out in the fog, I could hear somebody grinding the electric starter on the pontoon plane. We walked down one side of a dry coulee and up the opposite slope, the leaves crackling under our shoes, the air filled with a bright, clean odor not unlike the smell of snow. The leaves had drifted in piles so thick and high they were over the tops of our shoes, and the sound of the leaves breaking made me think of squirrel hunting in the fall with my father, Big Aldous, when I was a young
boy. I wondered where Big Aldous was. I wondered if he was with my mother and if they were both watching over me, the way I believe spirits sometimes do when they’re not ready to let go of the earth. My parents had died violent deaths while they were young, and they knew what it meant to have one’s life stolen, and for those reasons I had always thought they were with me in one fashion or another, trying to do the right thing from the Great Beyond.
The cabin was not over twenty yards ahead of us. It had been built of cypress planks and chinked with a mixture of mud and moss before the War Between the States, then restored and reroofed with corrugated tin and outfitted with an air conditioner for the guests of Croix du Sud. I had often wondered if the guests had any idea of the deprivation that characterized the lives of the historical occupants. I had the feeling they did not dwell upon questions of that sort and probably would be bored and offended if they were ever questioned on the subject.
Then a strange occurrence took place, maybe one that was the result of a cerebral accident inside my head. Or maybe I experienced one of the occasions when we glimpse through the dimension and see the people to whom we thought we had said good-bye forever. Inside an envelope of cool fire, right on the bank of the bayou, like the flame of a giant votive candle, I saw my mother, Alafair Mae Guillory, and my father, Big Aldous Robicheaux, looking at me. She wore the pale blue suit and the pillbox hat with the stiff veil she had always been so proud of, and Big Aldous was wearing his tin hat and hobnailed work boots and freshly laundered and starched PayDay overalls, his arms covered with hair as thick as a simian’s. At first I thought my parents were smiling at me, but they weren’t. Both were waving in a cautionary way, their mouths opening and closing without making any sound, their faces stretched out of shape with alarm.
That was when I saw Pierre Dupree walk straight at me from behind a tree, either a .32 or .25 semi-auto in his left hand, aiming into my face, his chin lifted in the air, as though even in killing someone, he could not give up the arrogant demeanor that seemed to be his birthright.
“At three o’clock, Dave!” I heard Clete shout.
I lifted the shotgun and fired, but I was too late. I saw the muzzle flash of the semi-auto like jagged fire leaping off a spark plug, but I didn’t hear the report. Instead, I felt a pain high up on my cheek, similar to a heavy-handed slap that comes out of nowhere.
The burst from my shotgun had not only gone wild; there had been dirt in the muzzle, and the barrel had exploded, splitting the steel all the way down to the pump. The buckshot in the load had ripped through the canopy, scattering leaves down upon us. I fell sideways, one arm extended like a man looking for a wall to lean against. Then I crashed to the ground.
Through a red haze, I saw Clete firing at Pierre Dupree, walking toward him, the ejected nine-millimeter casings flying into the darkness, shooting one bullet after another into Dupree’s chest and head and neck, then shooting him again at almost point-blank range as he lay dead and spread-eagled against the trunk of a live oak.
I sat up in the leaves and pushed myself against a tree trunk and tried to clear my vision and stop the ringing in my ears. Clete was squatted down in front of me, staring into my eyes, holding up my chin with one hand, his mouth moving, his words like the muted sounds of submerged rocks bumping together in a streambed.
I saw Gretchen moving toward me, then Alafair kneeling by my side, holding my head against her breast, saying something inaudible.
“I don’t know what anyone is saying,” I said.
I felt her hands touching the side of my head and stroking my eyes. Her breath was cold on my skin, and her hair smelled like leaves and pine needles. “What are you saying, Alafair? I don’t understand anything you’re saying.”
She moved in front of me so I could see her mouth. “Can you hear me now?”
“Yes.”
“I think the bullet went out the side of your cheek. I think it’s a flesh wound,” she said.
“Where are Tee Jolie and Helen?”
“We left them in the coulee,” she said. “Some guys have got the driveway blocked. There aren’t many of them left.”
For reasons I couldn’t explain, her words seemed unrelated to what
was happening around us, perhaps because the eye sometimes registers danger before the brain does. Regardless, I knew that something had gone terribly wrong.
“Where’s your gun?” I said to Gretchen.
“I dropped it in the dark when I was carrying the sheriff outside,” she said.
I stared at Clete and at the gun in his hand and realized our situation had changed dramatically and unfairly, as though the fates had conspired to cheat us of what was ours and deny us the fruits of victory. The backup magazine I had given Clete had not been fully loaded, and the bolt on the Beretta was locked open, the chamber empty. I was of no help to anyone. My head was throbbing, and blood was draining down the side of my face. The trees started to spin around me, and I turned aside and vomited into the leaves.
Like an ugly black-and-white film strip out of control on the projector, our collective bête noire was in our midst. He had stepped out of the slave cabin, the Prussian imperious aristocrat confronting the mongrel mix, a Walther P38 with checkered brown grips in his right hand. I can’t say that he had an amused expression, but it’s safe to say it was at least one of puzzlement. He gazed at us as he would at a collection of creatures behind a wire fence on a game farm. He glanced at the dead body of the man who may or may not have been both his son and his grandson, then back at us.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said.
I could hear the trees creaking in the wind and the grinding of the starter on the pontoon plane. The propeller caught for a moment, then died. The four of us stared back at him woodenly, still unsure how we had become powerless and at the mercy of a man who not only had no mercy but who took pride in his cruelty. “I see Pierre gave you a tap, Mr. Robicheaux,” he said.
“The only score that counts is the one at the bottom of the ninth,” I said. “It looks to me like your grandson or son or whatever he is had a bad night. I think he’s going to be dead for a long time.”
“Did you do that, Mr. Purcel?” Dupree said.
“I feel bad about it, actually,” Clete said. “Kind of like picking on a cerebral palsy victim.”
“Where does that leave us? Let me think,” Dupree said. “Is it true our little Jewish assassin here is your illegitimate daughter? Years ago I would have found a place for her. We spared many who were half Aryan. Did you know there were whorehouses at every one of the camps? I think that might have made a nice fit for you, Ms. Horowitz.”
Dupree was looking intently at Gretchen, a shaft of moonlight striking half of his face, the skin under one eye wrinkling. “Would you be willing to fly away with me in order to see your life spared?”
“I guess it depends on what you have in mind. Did you ever see
The Mummy
?” Gretchen said. “It starred Boris Karloff. If there’s a remake, I think you could do a better job than Boris. But wearing that mummy wrap on the set all day might be a problem. You seem to have a bulge around your ass. Do you have to wear adult diapers? I bet carrying around a couple of crab cakes all day is pretty uncomfortable.”
“Where’s Varina Leboeuf?” I said, trying to distract Dupree. It was not an easy task. Gretchen had gotten to him. “Is Varina on the plane?” I said. “She hates your guts, Mr. Dupree. I bet she’s going to be a loose cannon.”
“That’s why she’s handcuffed to a pipe in the utility room,” he said. He glanced toward the house. “I see someone has started a fire there. How nice of you.”
Through the fog, I heard the starter on the plane grind again, but this time the engine caught and I could see the fog thinning from the back draft of the propeller, the tail and fuselage standing out in relief against the water and flooded elephant ears on the far bank.
Dupree walked to a spot by the corner of the cabin so he had a clear view of us and the house and the yard and the plane. He looked at us as if placing us inside a frame, or perhaps as though he were staring at us through a peephole in a door beyond which was a shower room full of disrobed people who had been told they would be spared if they were willing to murder their fellow prisoners.
I had no doubt he was about to shoot the four of us, and Gretchen was to be first. His left hand joined his right on the Walther’s grips; his tongue slid across his bottom lip. His teeth looked small and
crooked inside his mouth as he raised the gun to eye level and sighted it on Gretchen’s throat. “It’s too bad to waste such a nice specimen,” he said. “But that’s the way it is.”
Then Clete Purcel performed one of the bravest acts that any human being is capable of. He ran forward, his feet churning in the leaves, his arms widespread, and threw himself on Alexis Dupree, hooking his hands behind the other man’s back, crushing Dupree’s body against his.
I heard a single shot and saw a flash of light between their bodies. I saw Clete stagger and lift Dupree into the air, then the two of them toppling backward into the leaves. I heard the gun fire a second time and saw Clete getting to his feet, ripping the Walther from Dupree’s hand, holding it by the barrel, pressing his other hand against his side, turning toward me, his mouth forming a large round O, his breath wheezing out of his throat.
“Clete!” I said. I said it again: “Clete!”
I was on my feet, and the world was tilting sideways, and I could hear a sound like a train whistle screaming inside a tunnel.
Gretchen took the Walther from Clete’s hand and set the safety on it and gave it to Alafair. She put Clete’s arm over her shoulder. “Sit down on the edge of the coulee,” she said.
“No,” he replied. “Give me the gun.”
“What for?” Alafair said.
“I’m going to kill him.”
“No,” Gretchen said.
“Then you do it.”
“What?” Gretchen said.
“Smoke him,” he said. “Do it now. Don’t think about it. He should have died a long time ago. Don’t give this guy a chance to come back.” Clete was holding on to the side of the cabin like a long-distance runner catching his breath.
“I can’t do it,” Gretchen said.
“Listen to me. A guy like this re-creates his evil over and over again. And nobody cares. He put thousands of people in gas ovens. He sent children to Josef Mengele’s medical labs. You’re not snuffing a man. You’re killing a bug.”
“I don’t care what he did. I’m not going to do these things anymore, Clete. Not unless I have to. I’m through with this forever,” she said.