Burning Angel (Dave Robicheaux 8)

”Yes?“

”It's Dave. You got a second?“

”Wait.“ I heard her bare feet on the floor. ”Okay.“

Her shelves were filled with stuffed animals, the walls covered with posters featuring cats of all kinds. Alafair had propped a pillow behind her head and pulled up her knees so that they made a tent under the sheet. The curtains puffed in the breeze and the screen hung loose from the latch.

I sat in the chair by her homework desk.

”I was upset for another reason yesterday, one that's hard to explain,“

I said. ”You didn't do anything wrong, Alf. I did.“

”You already said that.“

”Listen. When you kill another human being, no matter how necessary it might seem at the time, something goes out of your life forever. I never want that to happen to you. I still have dreams about the war, I have them about men I ran up against as a police officer. Their faces don't go underground with them.“ Her eyes blinked and went away from mine. I saw the sheet ruffle and hump at the foot of the bed. It should have been a humorous moment, but it wasn't. ”Let's get this guy out of here so we can talk,“ I said, and lifted Tripod from under the sheet. He hung heavily from my hands and churned his paws in the air as I walked to the window. ”He'll run down to the dock again,“ she said, as if she could open a door out of our conversation. ”Batist can handle it,“ I said, and dropped Tripod into the yard. I sat back down.

It was sunny and blue outside. In a short while we would be driving to Mass at St. Peter's in New Iberia, then we'd have lunch at Victor's on Main. I didn't want to address the question in her eyes. Her hands were pinched together on top of her knees. She looked at a poster of two calico kittens on the far wall. ”How many people, Dave, how many did you-“

”You never let yourself see a number in your mind, Alf. The day you do, the day it comes out of your mouth, that's the day you start being someone else,“ I said. Sonny Boy called the bait shop at three o'clock that afternoon. ”You've got a serious hearing problem,“

I said. ”I want you out of my life. Don't come around my house anymore, you understand? You want to be a guardian angel, go to New York, put on a red beret, and buy a lot of subway tokens.“

”What do you mean come around your house?“ he said. I could hear waves breaking against rocks or a jetty, then the sound of a door on a telephone booth closing. ”Friday night,“ I said. ”I was in New Orleans,“ he said. ”Don't give me that, Sonny.“

”I'm telling you the truth.“

”My daughter saw a guy in the trees. It wasn't Emile Pogue, it

wasn't Patsy Dap, Patsy wants to do business and screw Johnny Carp, that leaves you.“ But my words sounded hollow even to myself.

”They got lots of guys working for them, Streak, a lot of them in Florida. They get gooned-up like over-the-hill jarheads on a skivvy run, blow into town, give a guy a fatal accident, and catch the redeye back to Tampa the same night.“

I could hear myself breathing against the receiv

er. Outside the screen window, the sunlight's reflection on the bayou was like a sliver of glass in the eye.

”Why'd you call?“ I said.

”A rag-nose used to work for Johnny Carp told me Johnny's in on a deal to get some land by a train track. He said he heard Johnny tell a guy on the phone the land's got to be by a train track. That's the key.“

”To what?“ I said.

”I don't know. You ought to see the rag-nose. He's got nostrils that look like tunnels going straight into his brain. The real reason I called, if my string runs out, like I bounce back treys and boxcars, know what I'm saying, I wanted to tell you I'm sorry for the trouble I caused other people.“

”Come on, Sonny, you got your ticket punched a long time ago. You'll be standing on Canal with a glass of champagne when they drive Johnny's hearse by … Sonny?“

I heard the phone booth door rachet back violently on its hinges, the receiver clattering back and forth on its cord, then, almost lost in the crash of waves against rocks or a jetty, a sound like a string of firecrackers popping.

Chapter 21

DEARLY MONDAY MORNING the sheriff called and asked me to come to the department. I thought it was about Sonny. It wasn't. He was scraping out the bowl of his pipe over the wastebasket with a penknife when I walked into his office. ”Sit down,“ he said. He wiped the blade of the penknife on a piece of paper and folded it against the heel of his hand. ”This is a bad day, my friend … I wish I could tell you it's just a matter of IAD finding against you.“ I waited. ”You know the route,“ he said. ”It's the kind of deal usually gets a guy a letter of reprimand in his jacket or a suspension.“ He wadded up the piece of paper and tried to wipe the pipe's ashes out of his palm. ”This one's different.“

”Too many times across the line?“

”The problem is you're a police officer who doesn't like rules. You kept yourself on the job while you were officially suspended, didn't your In my mind's eye I saw Rufus Arceneaux's face leaning across the seat inside Julia's automobile, the green eyes lighted with ambition and long-held grievance.

“There's something you're not saying, Sheriff.”