Burning Angel (Dave Robicheaux 8)

”Did y'all find out who the broad was?“ Clete said.

”It's not your business, pal,“ Rufus said.

”Pal. Terrific,“ Clete said. ”Who's the kid? He looks like he's about to melt.“

”Did y'all find any shell casings?“ I said, and opened the back door to Rufus's car and brought the little boy outside. There was a dark, inverted V in his blue jeans where he had wet his pants.

”I don't know what it is with you, Robicheaux,“ Rufus said. ”But, to be honest, I'd like to beat the living shit out of you.“

”What are you doing with the boy?“ I said.

”His mother didn't come home. I'm taking him to the shelter. Now, y'all get the fuck out of here.“

I squatted down on my haunches and looked into the little boy's face.

His upper lip was beaded with sweat.

”Where do you live, podna?“ I asked.

”In the trailer, up yonder on the road.“

”What's your mama's name?“

”Gloria Dumaine. They call her “Glo' where she work.”

“Does she work at the juke?” I said.

“Yes, suh. That's where she gone last night. She ain't been back.”

I stood erect and put my fingers lightly on Rufus's arm, turned him toward the trees. I saw the skin stretch tight at the corners of his eyes.

“Walk over here with me,” I said.

“What .. .”

“I know his mother,” I said. “She knew something about the decapitated floater we pulled out of the slough in Vermilion Parish. I think she was in the car with Sweet Pea.”

He removed his sunglasses, his eyes looking from the burned Caddy to the little boy. His mouth was a tight seam, hooked downward at the corners, his expression wary, as though a trap were being set for him.

“Take the little boy to the shelter. I'll call the sheriff and tell him what I told you,” I said.

“I'll handle it from here,” he said.

I walked over to Clete's convertible and got inside.

“Let's hit it,” I said.

As we drove across the field toward the gravel road, I looked back toward the oak grove. Rufus was squatting on his haunches, smoking a cigarette, staring at the scorched hulk in the trees, a man whose keen vision could snap the twine off Gordian knots. The little boy stood unnoticed and unattended in the sunlight, like a black peg tamped into the weeds, one hand trying to hide the wetness in his jeans.

They had killed Sweet Pea and Gloria. Who was next? I didn't want to think about it.

I drove to the office on Main with Clete, then walked down to Moleen Bertrand's law offices across from the Shadows. His secretary told me he had gone home for lunch. I drove across the drawbridge, past the old gray stone convent, which was now closed and awaiting the wrecking ball, and followed the winding drive through City Park to Moleen's deep, oak-shaded lawn and rambling white house on Bayou Teche.

Julia was spading weeds out of a rose bed by the driveway, a conical straw hat on her head. She looked up and smiled at me as I drove by.

Her shoulders were tan and covered with freckles and the skin above her halter looked dry and coarse in the sunlight. Behind her, balanced in the St. Augustine grass, was a tall highball glass wrapped with a napkin and rubber band.

2) O