Light of the World (62 page)

She also thought she’d heard a plane, the motors gunning during takeoff, the sound muffled by wind blowing in trees that were thickly leafed and grew side by side. There was another detail, one that seemed out of context, surreal, one that a drowning person might remember if he had been sucked into a whirlpool while people chatted on dry land a few feet away. Rhonda was sure she heard people singing while she was being loaded into a vehicle. The words she heard just before the door slammed shut were “Life is like a mountain railroad, with an engineer that’s brave.”

Later, Gretchen Googled the lyrics and discovered they were part of a hymn often sung in southern churches.

Where was Rhonda Fayhee held prisoner? In all probability, it was the same place Felicity Louviere was being held now.

“Rhonda, do you think there was an airstrip close by? Did you hear planes coming in overhead?” Gretchen asked.

The girl said the sound of the plane had been down below somewhere.

“Below the level of the basement?” Gretchen asked.

“Yes,” the girl replied. “It droned a long time before it took off. It sounded like it was turning. It made a fluttering sound.”

The details about the place of captivity did not fit together.

For Gretchen, the answer to the riddle probably lay with Caspian Younger, a man whose whole life had been one of entitlement, a man who may have been complicit in the murder of his adopted daughter. Should lines be an issue? Should a man like Caspian Younger be protected from accountability while his wife was tortured to death?
What a stupid question to ask,
Gretchen thought.

She drove to the Younger compound, expecting to be confronted with security personnel who would do everything in their power to turn her away. That’s what should have happened. Instead, she would learn that the Younger family drama was not the stuff of
Macbeth
or
Oedipus Rex
or King Arthur and Mordred or the horns blowing along the road to Roncevaux. Rather, it was the same material to be found in soap opera, as sordid and saccharine and petty as the behavior of the players in any work of pathos. The portrayal of the patrician protagonist and his tragic descent from grace made for lovely entertainment, but it seldom had anything to do with reality.

Gretchen parked her truck in front of the Younger compound and walked down the flagstones to the front door. The only vehicle she could see was a faded compact parked by the carriage house. It had dents in one fender and silver duct tape wrapped around a broken side mirror. The yard was empty, the heavy oak door ajar. She could hear voices inside and a sound like someone diving off a springboard into a swimming pool. With the tips of her fingers, she eased the door wider and walked through the foyer into the living room. Down a hallway, she could see Caspian Younger in swim trunks and a bathrobe, standing by French doors that gave onto a patio. He was pouring from a bottle of Cold Duck into a wineglass. He was unshaved and his robe was open, the mat of hair on his bony chest glistening with water. In the background, a girl not over nineteen climbed out of the pool, her bikini clinging to her body with little more density than wet Kleenex. Jack Boyd put his cigar in an ashtray on top of a glass table and handed her a towel.

Caspian took a sip from his wineglass, his gaze roving over Gretchen’s face and throat and breasts. “You again,” he said.

“You look like you’re pretty busted up over your wife’s abduction,” she said.

“I have no control over Felicity’s fate. She goes her own way. I go mine. You should know that by this time,” he replied.

“Where’s your father?”

“I’m not sure. Out and about, I guess. It’s what he does best,” he replied. “He’s never been a homebody. Do you know I can read your thoughts?”

“I doubt that.”

“Try this. You think I know where Felicity is. You’re going to do horrible things to me until I tell you.”

“How’s it feel?” she asked.

“How does what feel?”

“To be controlled by a guy like Surrette. The man who suffocated your daughter.”

He brushed at one eye as though a lash had caught in the lid. He was standing by a black granite–topped wet bar. A piece of stationery containing a note written in flowing blue calligraphy was positioned neatly under a paperweight on the granite.

“I know about your illegitimate birth, Ms. Horowitz,” he said. “I know that your mother was a whore and a heroin addict, and I know that you’ve murdered people for hire. So I’m going to share some things with you that might help you to understand a situation I’ve lived with most of my life.” He picked up the piece of stationery from the wet bar. The paper was thick, the color of French-vanilla ice cream. A family coat of arms was embossed delicately in the grain. “I’ll give you the highlights,” he said. “I took a nap earlier, and when I woke up, I discovered that my father had decided to tell me of his fear that Wyatt Dixon was his son. This is something I’d known for many years, primarily because my father has screwed women all over the world and used to brag about it. In his note, he said he has proof that Dixon is not his son, and for that he is thankful. He also says I am his only surviving son and that he loves me. Isn’t that sweet? It’s a bit like my father drinking a glass of champagne and
pissing it into a cup, then handing it to me to drink.” He paused and studied her face, perhaps waiting to see what effect his words would have. “A little too complex?” he said. “To explain: If Dixon were my father’s offspring, his affections might be divided. Isn’t that a grand compliment to receive? You get it now?”

“What kind of day do you think your wife is having?” Gretchen asked.

“I’ve had that kind of guilt heaped on me all my life, Ms. Horowitz. You still didn’t get the gist of my story, did you? I thought the Mob hired intelligent people to do the kind of work you do.”

“I got in through affirmative action,” she replied.

“My father got it all wrong. Wyatt Dixon
is
his bastard son. His girlfriend was here and told me. Dixon is my half brother. That’s a little hard to deal with. How would you like to find out your half sister is the bride of Dracula?”

“Bertha Phelps was here?” Gretchen said.

“An hour ago. I sent her down the road with a kick in her fat rump. I suspect she ran back to her cowboy.”

“You kicked Wyatt Dixon’s girlfriend in the butt?”

“I’m about to do it to you, too. And I’ll do it to him if he comes around here again.”

“You’re going to do a beat-down on Wyatt Dixon?”

“There’re ways,” he replied. “What are you doing?”

She stepped out on the patio. The girl in the bikini was sitting in a deck chair, taking a hit off a pair of roach clips. “What’s your name, honey?” Gretchen asked.

“Dora,” the girl said.

“You need to hit the road, Dora. My father beat the shit out of these two assholes. I may have to do the same. You don’t want to be here when that happens.”

The girl looked at Jack Boyd. He smiled and shook his head. “She’s a kidder,” he said.

“This guy was fired from the Missoula County Sheriff’s Department because he’s a dirty cop,” Gretchen said. “His bud was a geek named Bill Pepper who liked to tie up girls and rub his penis on them. A serial killer named Asa Surrette emasculated Pepper up at
Swan Lake. Surrette is buds with Caspian Younger. That’s the kind of people you’re hanging out with.”

The girl looked at Jack Boyd again, this time clearly frightened.

“Don’t pay attention to her,” Boyd said. He was still smiling. “I was in a car accident. She makes movies. Ask her.”

“Good-bye, Dora,” Gretchen said.

Dora glanced at Jack Boyd, then at Gretchen. She pulled on a pair of sandals, picked up her beach bag, and walked hurriedly through the side yard to her car, her buttocks jiggling.

“Why don’t you give Caspian a break?” Boyd said.

“Where is Surrette?” Gretchen said.

“You think I know that?” Boyd said.

“I hope one of you does.”

“Or it’s going to get rough?” Boyd said.

“I’ll handle this, Jack,” Caspian said, stepping out on the patio, setting aside his wineglass. “Ms. Horowitz, I don’t want to be unkind, but would you please go away? You and your father and Mr. Robicheaux and his daughter have been a constant nuisance. Mr. Boyd and I could have had your father arrested for aggravated assault, but we didn’t. Know why? Because that’s not my way. With one phone call, I could have your father ground into fish chum. He would disappear without a trace, other than a bloody skim floating on Flathead Lake.”

“You’re connected in Vegas?”

“I know some of the same people you do. Except they listen to me because I have money,” he said. “You won’t change anything. I made some mistakes. There’s no way to undo them. What’s done is done.”

“You’re going to give me Surrette. On this one, there are no lines.”

His eyes shifted sideways, as though he were processing her words. “I’m sure that makes sense to you. It’s lost on me.”

She glanced at her watch. “Your window of opportunity is closing,” she said.

“I’ll walk you to your truck. You’re a filmmaker. Maybe I can help you later. I know a number of people in the industry.” He fitted his hand around her upper arm and squeezed it tentatively. “Nice. You lift weights?”

Jack Boyd was grinning lasciviously.

Gretchen wet her bottom lip before she spoke. “I was never good at communication skills. A psychologist told me that. He suggested I try what he called ‘massage therapy.’ He was going to do it for me in his off hours. For free.”

Caspian was standing beside her as he clutched her arm. Without removing his hand, he stepped in front of her, looking warmly into her face. His eyes were pale blue and didn’t seem to belong inside the graininess of his face, like blond hair on a Mexican. He had a weak chin and a nose that was both sharp and small. She had seen toy men like him on the French Riviera. They seemed like caricatures of nineteenth-century aristocracy whose bloodline had run out. Gretchen wondered what life would have been like for Caspian Younger in the kinds of public schools she had attended in Miami and Brooklyn.

“I told you I could read your thoughts,” he said, sinking his fingers a little deeper into her upper arm, a flicker of lust and anticipation lighting on his mouth. “Be a good girl. Don’t do something rash. If you’d like to stay and have a good time, I’d say all sins are forgiven, including your father’s.”

Jack Boyd’s grin would not go away. “I wouldn’t argue with sloppy seconds,” he said.

“You’re asking me to get it on?”

Caspian raised his eyebrows and smiled. “You can tell me about your documentaries.”

“Can I ask you a question before we go any further?” she said. “Do you really believe you can go up against a guy like Wyatt Dixon?”

“It’s what’s under the hood that counts,” he said. “I’ll let you have a test drive upstairs.”

He worked his thumb deeper into the muscle of her arm, inching his fingers up on her shoulder, kneading the flesh along her collarbone, his mouth coming closer to hers.

Her reaction was not emotional, nor could it be described as vengeful. She didn’t consider it of much consequence and wondered that either man could have expected a different outcome.

“What do you say, babycakes?” Caspian asked.

“Say about what?”

“Going upstairs. You’ve got beautiful arms,” he said. “If the Venus de Milo had arms, they’d look like yours.”

“That’s a great come-on line. If I ever go trans, I think I’ll give it a try.”

“Are we on or not?” Jack Boyd said.

“You sure you guys want to do this?” she asked.

“Say the word,” Caspian said.

“What the fuck,” she replied.

“You won’t regret it,” Caspian said.

“But you will,” she said.

She ripped her elbow into Jack Boyd’s face and drove her fist between Caspian’s eyes. Then she pulled her blackjack from her side pocket and whipped it across the back of Boyd’s head and backstroked it across Caspian’s jaw, knocking the spittle from his mouth. She hit him on the collarbone and the points of his shoulders and shoved him through the open French doors onto the floor. Behind her, she heard Jack Boyd trying to rise to his feet. “Run,” she said.

“Do what?” Jack Boyd replied, barely supporting himself on the back of a chair. She brought the blackjack down on top of his hand. He cradled his arm against his chest, the color draining from his face.

“Run! Don’t come back. You’re finished here.”

She stepped toward him. He bolted through the yard, looking back once, knocking the concrete bowl of a birdbath off its pedestal. She turned to Caspian Younger and slid a pair of needle-nosed pliers from her back pocket. He was sitting up on the floor, pressing his palm against his mouth, looking at the thick red smear on his hand. She got down on one knee. “Do you know what I’m about to do to you?” she asked.

“I don’t know where Surrette is,” he said.

“Where do you want me to start?”

“Start what?”

“Pulling off your parts.”

“Please. I didn’t have a choice. He’s not human. You may think he is, but he’s not. He’s what he says he is.”

“So what is he?”

“I don’t know.”

She bent down closer to him, the pliers extended in front of her. His eyes were tightly shut.
There are always lines,
she heard a voice say.

He was probably telling the truth, she told herself. If he gave up Surrette, the feds would take him off the board, and no matter how the legal implications played out, Caspian Younger would be free of the man who had probably extorted him for years.

There was a problem, and it didn’t have to do with Surrette. Caspian had said he didn’t know where his father was. This was after his father had left him a note of endearment, one that should have made him conclude he was of some value to someone. Would he have brought a teenage girl onto the property, with the intent of debauching her, if he had no idea of his father’s whereabouts or the approximate time of his return?

She touched the point of the pliers to his cheek, just below his eye. “Where did your father go? You do not want to give me the wrong answer.”