Burning Angel (Dave Robicheaux 8)

”You told her we'd come?“

”No, I didn't. I said I'd check to see if you had anything planned.“

”How about we let this one slide?“

”They're nice people, Dave.“

”There's something off-center out at Moleen's plantation.“

”All right, I'll call her back.“ She tried to keep the disappointment out of her face. ”Maybe it's just me, Bootsie. I never got along well in that world.“

” That world?“

”They think they're not accountable. Moleen always gives me the impression he lives in rarefied air.“

”What are you talking about?“

”Nothing. Call Julia up and tell her we'll be out there.“

”Dave“ she said, the exasperation climbing in her voice. ”Believe me, it's part of a game. So we'll check it out.“

”I think this is a good morning to work in the garden,“ she said. It rained hard that night, and when I fell asleep I thought I heard a motorboat pass by the dock. After the rain stopped, the air was damp and close and a layer of mist floated on the bayou as thick as cotton. Just after midnight the phone rang. I closed the bedroom door behind me and answered it in the living room. The house was dark and cool and water was dripping off the tin roof of the gallery. ”Mr. Robicheaux?“ a man's voice said. ”Yeah. Who is this?“

”Jack.“

”Jack?“

”You found a dog tag. We tried to get your friend out. You want to hear about it?“ There was no accent, no emotional tone in the voice. ”What do you want, partner?“

”To explain some things you probably don't understand.“

”Come to the office Monday. Don't call my house again, either.“

”Look out your front window.“ I pulled aside the curtain and stared out into the darkness. I could see nothing except the mist floating on the bayou and a smudged red glow from a gas flare on an oil rig out in the swamp. Then, out on the dock, a tall, angular man in raincoat and hat flicked on a flashlight and shined it upward into his face. He held a cellular phone to his ear and the skin of his face was white and deeply lined, like papier-mache that has started to crack. Then the light clicked off again. I picked the phone back up. ”You're trespassing on my property. I want you off of it,“ I said. ”Walk down to the dock.“ Don't fall into it, I thought. ”Put the light back on your face and keep your hands away from your sides,“ I said. ”That's acceptable.“

”I'm going to hang up now. Then I'll be down in about two minutes.“

”No. You don't break the connection.“ I let the receiver clatter on the table and went back into the bedroom. I slipped on my khakis and loafers, and removed my holstered .45 automatic from the dresser drawer. Bootsie was sleeping with the pillow partially over her head. I closed the door quietly behind me, pulled back the slide on the .45 and chambered a round, eased the hammer back down, set the safety, then stuck the barrel inside the back of my belt. I picked up the receiver. ”You still there, partner?“ I said. ”Yes.“

&nb

sp; ”Turn on your flashlight.“

”What an excellent idea.“ I went out the front door and down the slope through the trees. He had moved out on the dirt road now and I could see him more clearly. He was well over six feet, with arms that seemed too thin for the sleeves of his raincoat, wide shoulders, a face as grooved and webbed with lines as dried putty. His left coat pocket sagged with the weight of the cellular phone and his left hand now held the flashlight. His lips were purple in the beam of the flashlight, like the skin of a plum. His eyes watched me with the squinted focus of someone staring through smoke. ”Put your right hand behind your neck,“ I said. ”That's not dignified.“

”Neither are jerk-off games involving the death of a brave soldier.“

”Your friend could still be alive.“ He raised his right hand, hooked it above his lapel, and let it rest there. I watched him and didn't answer. ”Sonny Marsallus is a traitor,“ he said. ”I think it's time we look at your identification.“

”You don't listen well.“

”You made a mistake coming here tonight.“

”I don't think so. You have a distinguished war record. Marsallus doesn't. He's for sale.“

”I want you to turn around, walk back to the dock, and place your hands on the rail .. .

Just do it, partner. It's not up for debate.“ But he didn't move. I could feel sweat running down my sides like ants, but the face of the man named Jack, who wore a hat and coat, was as dry as parchment. His eyes remained riveted on mine, like brown agate with threads of gold in them. Then I heard a sound out in the shadows. ”Hey, Jack, what's shakin'?“ a voice said. Jack twisted his head sideways and stared out into the darkness. ”It's Sonny,“ the voice said. ”Hey, Dave, watch out for ole Jack there. He carries a sawed-down twelve-gauge on a bungee rope in his right armpit. Peel back your raincoat, Jack, and let Dave have a peek.“ But that was not in Jack's plan. He dropped the flashlight to the ground and bolted past me up the road. Then I saw Sonny move out from under the overhang of a live oak, a Smith & Wesson nine-millimeter gripped at an upward angle with both hands. ”Get out of the way, Dave!“ he shouted. ”Are you crazy? Put that down!“