Last Car to Elysian Fields (Dave Robicheaux 13)

Dave! a voice said, as audibly as a voice speaking to you on the edge of sleep, as denned as a stick snapping inside the eardrum.

I rose from the bench just as the streetlight glinted on the lens of a telescopic sight and the muzzle flash of a rifle splintered from the passenger window of the compact car. The bullet whanged off the steel bench and blew pieces off a statue of Jesus's mother.

I ducked down between the crypts and pulled my .45 from my belt holster and sighted with two hands on the compact. But there were houses on the far side of the street and I couldn't fire. I started running toward the compact, the .45 held at an upward angle, zigzagging between the crypts, my eyes locked on the driver, who was fighting to straighten the car's wheels so he would not hit the curb.

He pulled around a parked pickup truck and floored the compact down the street. In seconds he would be beyond any safe angle of fire that I would have. I left the sidewalk and ran toward the corner of the cemetery, jumped on top of a crypt, and went over the chain link fence into the street. The compact was twenty-five to thirty yards away, headed down the bayou in the direction of the church, the license plated patinaed with mud. I stood in the center of the street, both arms extended, and aimed low on the trunk.

I squeezed off three rounds, the recoil knocking my forearms upward, the muzzle throwing sparks into the darkness, the spent shells tinkling on the pavement. I don't know what I hit inside the compact, but I heard the hard slap of all three hollow-point rounds bite into metal.

The compact swerved around a corner and disappeared down a tree-lined side street that looked like an illustration clipped from a 1940 issue of The Saturday Evening Post,

I went back to my truck and used my cell phone to punch in a 911 on the compact, then walked to Bootsie's tomb, my ears still ringing from the explosions of the .45. The umbrella had not been disturbed by the wind and the candle was burning brightly inside its red receptacle, but the pelicans had flown or drifted southward on the current.

I heard your voice, I said.

But there was no reply.

I don't care who else knows it, either. That was your voice, Boots, I said.

Then I said a prayer for her and one for me and headed back for the truck, wishing the pelicans had not gone.

Don't worry, they'll be back. One of these days when you least expect it, you'll see them on Bayou Teche, she said.

I turned around, my jaw hanging, the clouds blooming with electricity that made no sound.

Chapter 26.

I rose before dawn Sunday morning and ate a breakfast of Grape-Nuts and coffee and hot milk in the kitchen. When I opened the front door to leave I saw an envelope on the porch with a footprint stenciled across it and realized it must have fallen out of the door-jamb the previous night and been stepped on by either me or Father Jimmie.

The letter inside was handwritten and read:

Dear Mr. Robicheaux,

I must talk to you. I don't know why all this is happening. We moved here to live in a decent environment and look what everyone has done to us. I also do not understand this new development. Nobody will answer my questions. I think all of you people suck. Call me at home. Do it right now.

Sincerely, Donna Parks

In my memory I saw a stump of a woman, with dyed red hair and perfume that was like a chemical assault on the senses, a ring of fat under her chin. She was the mother of Lori Parks, the teenage girl who had died with two others inside their burning automobile on Loreauville Road. I did not look forward to seeing Mrs. Parks again.

I put away her note and drove to Franklin. The parking compound for Sunbelt Construction was located behind a house trailer that served as a company office. In the lot were trucks of every kind,

front-end loaders, bulldozers, and grading machines but no compact car that resembled the shooter's.

I drove back to New Iberia and parked in Merchie and Theodosha Flannigan's driveway. Their faux medieval home was shrouded in fog puffing off the bayou, their horses nickering and blowing inside the pecan orchard. The morning newspaper was still inside the metal cylinder at the foot of the drive, but woodsmoke was rising from a living room fireplace. There was no compact car anywhere in sight, but I did not expect to see one. In fact, I did not know why I had come to the Flannigans' home. Perhaps it was to prove somehow that Theo was not involved with a criminal enterprise, that she was a victim herself and not capable of setting me up to be kidnapped and tortured by the Dellacroce b

rothers. Maybe I just wanted to believe the world was a more innocent place than it is.

I got out of the truck and rested my hands on the top rail of the white fence that bordered the pecan orchard and watched the Flannigans' thoroughbreds moving about in the fog. I could hear their hooves thudding on the soft earth, smell the fecund odor of the bayou, like the smell of humus and fish roe, and the pecan husks and blackened leaves that had been trodden into pulp in the trees, and I wondered how it was that a place this beautiful would not be enough for anyone, why each morning would not come to the owner like a blessing extended by a divine hand.

Theodosha opened the front door and walked down the drive in her bathrobe and slippers, her hair black and shiny in the grayness of the morning. "What are you doing out here?" she asked.

"How bad would you be willing to screw an old friend?" I said.

"It's pretty early in the morning for your craziness, Dave."

"Your novels were nominated twice for Edgars but they didn't win. If your script-writing career was on track, I think you'd be out in the Hollywood Hills, not on the bayou. Maybe Fat Sammy Figorelli's skin films were a shortcut to being back on the big screen."

"You're sickening," she said.