Burning Angel (Dave Robicheaux 8)

“I don't get it. Black people keep showing up in the middle of all this bullshit. Let's face it, mon. Ripping off the food stamp brigade isn't exactly the big score for these guys.”

“It's land.”

“For what?”

I didn't have an answer.

We drove down a gravel road through sugar and cattle acreage, then turned into an empty field where a section of barbed wire fence had been knocked flat. The weeds in the field were crisscrossed with tire tracks, and in the distance I could see the oak grove and a bright yellow strand of crime scene tape jittering in the wind.

Clete parked by the trees and we got out and walked into the shade. The fire-gutted, lopsided shell of Sweet Pea's convertible was covered with magpies. I picked up a rock and sailed it into the frame; they rose in an angry clatter through the leafless branches overhead.

Clete fanned the air in front of his face.

“I don't think the ME got everything off the springs,” he said.

“Look at this,” I said. “There's glass blown into the backseat and a partial pattern on top of the door.” I inserted my little finger into a ragged hole at the top of the passenger door, then looked at the ground for empty shell casings. There weren't any.

“What a way to get it,” Clete said.

“You can see the angle of fire,” I said. “Look at the holes in the paneling just behind the driver's seat.” I aimed over the top of my extended arm and stepped backward several feet. “Somebody stood just about where I'm standing now and fired right into their faces.”

“I don't see Sweet Pea letting himself get set up like this,” Clete said.

“Somebody he trusted got in the backseat. Another car followed. Then the dice were out of the cup.”

“I got to get out of this smell,” Clete said. He walked back into the sunlight, spit in the weeds, and wiped his eyes on his forearm.

“You all right?” I said.

“In ”Nam I saw a tank burn. The guys inside couldn't get out. I don't like remembering it, that's all.“

I nodded.

”So I probably signed Sweet Pea's death warrant when I put him in the trunk of my car,“ he said. ”But that's the breaks, right? One more piece of shit scrubbed off the planet.“ With his shoe he rubbed the place where he had spit.

”You blaming yourself for the woman?“ I asked.

He didn't have time to answer. We heard a car on the gravel road. It slowed, then turned through the downed fence and rolled across the field, the weeds rattling and flattening under the bumper.

”I know that guy, what's his name, he thinks we should be buddies because we were both in the Crotch,“ Clete said.

”Rufus Arceneaux,“ I said.

”Oh, oh, he doesn't look like

he wants to be friends anymore.“

Rufus cut the engine and got out of the car. He wore tight blue jeans and a faded yellow polo shirt and his pilot's sunglasses, with his badge and holster clipped on a western belt. A small black boy of about ten, in an Astros baseball cap and oversize T-shirt, sat in the backseat. The windows were rolled up to keep the air-conditioning inside the car. But the engine was off now and the doors were shut.

”What the hell do you think you're doing?“ Rufus said.

”The sheriff called me this morning,“ I said.

”He told you to come out here?“

”Not exactly.“

”Then you'd better get out of here.“