Purple Cane Road (Dave Robicheaux 11)

13

Later that morning I called the prison psychologist at Raiford in Florida, a social worker in Letcher County, Kentucky, and a high school counselor in Detroit. By quitting time I had received at least three dozen fax sheets concerning Johnny Remeta.

That afternoon Clete Purcel sat next to me on a wood bench at the end of the dock and read through the file I had put together on Remeta.

“He’s got a 160 I.Q. and he’s a button man?” Clete said.

“No early indications of violence, either. Not until he got out of Raiford.”

“You’re saying he got spread-eagled in the shower a few times and decided to get even?”

“I’m just saying he’s probably not a sociopath.”

Clete closed the manila folder and han

ded it back to me. The wind ruffled and popped the canvas awning over our heads.

“Who cares what he is? He was on your turf. I’d put one through his kneecap if he comes back again,” Clete said.

I didn’t reply. I felt Clete’s eyes on the side of my face.

“The guy’s of no value to you. He doesn’t know who hired him,” Clete said. “Splash this psychological stuff in the bowl.”

“The social worker told me the kid’s father was a drunk. She thinks the old man sold the kid a couple of times for booze.”

Clete was already shaking his head with exasperation before I finished the sentence.

“He looked Zipper Clum in the eyes while he drilled a round through his forehead. This is the kind of guy the air force trains to launch nuclear weapons,” he said.

He stood up and gripped his hands on the dock railing. The back of his neck was red, his big arms swollen with energy.

“I’m pissed off at myself. I shouldn’t have helped you fire this guy up,” he said.

“How’s Passion?” I asked, changing the subject.

“Waiting for me to pick her up.” He let out his breath. “I’ve got baling wire wrapped around my head. I can’t think straight.”

“What’s wrong?” I said.

“I’m going to drive her to the women’s prison tomorrow to visit her sister.”

“You feel like you’re involving yourself with the other side?”

“Something like that. I always figured most people on death row had it coming. You watch Larry King last night? He had some shock-jock on there laughing about executing a woman in Texas. The same guy who made fun of Clinton at a banquet. These are America’s heroes.”

He went inside the bait shop and came back out with a sixteen-ounce can of beer wrapped in a paper towel. He took two long drinks out of the can, tilting his head back, swallowing until the can was almost empty. He blew out his breath and the heat and tension went out of his face.

“Dave, I dreamed about the Death House at Angola. Except it wasn’t Letty Labiche being taken there. It was Passion. Why would I have a dream like that?” he said, squeezing his thumb and forefinger on his temples.

But I was to hear Letty Labiche’s name more than once that day.

Cora Gable had volunteered her chauffeur, Micah, to deliver a thousand-name petition on behalf of Letty to the governor’s mansion. After he had picked up several friends of Cora’s in New Orleans, driven them to the capitol at Baton Rouge, and dropped them off again in New Orleans, he ate dinner by himself in a café by the river, on the other side of the Huey Long Bridge, then headed down a dusky two-lane road into Lafourche Parish.

He passed through a small settlement, then entered a long stretch of empty road surrounded by sugarcane fields. A white car closed behind him; a man in the passenger’s seat glanced back over his shoulder and clapped a battery-powered flashing red light on the roof.

The cops looked like off-duty narcs or perhaps SWAT members. They were thick-bodied and vascular, young, unshaved, clad in jeans and sneakers and dark-colored T-shirts, their arms ridged with hair, handcuffs looped through the backs of their belts.

They walked up on each side of the limo. Micah’s windows were down now, and he heard the Velcro strap peeling loose on the holster of the man approaching the passenger door.