Purple Cane Road (Dave Robicheaux 11)

“I had a terrible dream,” I said.

“About what?”

“I don’t know. Is Alf all right?”

“She’s at the library. She promised me she’d call or get a ride from somebody we know.”

I took two glasses out of the cabinet over the drainboard and filled them from a pitcher of tea in the icebox.

“Why wouldn’t she tell me who this boy is?” I asked.

“The one who recommended the book about the Appalachians?”

“Yes.”

“Because she’s sixteen. Dave, don’t see a plot in everything. The kid she’s talking about is studying to be an artist.”

“Say again?”

“Alafair said he’s a painter. He paints ceramics. Does that sound like Jack the Ripper to you?”

I stared stupidly at Bootsie, and in my mind’s eye I saw the humped black shape of the carrion bird in the midst of the flowering tree.

I dialed 911 and got the city dispatcher, then I was out the back door and in the truck, roaring backwards in the driveway, the rear end fishtailing in a plume of dust out on the road. The dust drifted out onto the glare of the electric lights over the dock, glowing as brightly as powdered alkali under the moon.

I came down East Main, under the oaks that arched over the street, and pulled into the City Library. The outside flood lamps were on and the oak trees on the lawn were filled with white light and shadows that moved with the wind, and next to the parking lot I could see a wall of green bamboo and the stone grotto that contained a statue of Jesus’ mother.

A city police cruiser was parked under a tree by the grotto, and an overweight, redheaded cop, his cap at an angle on his brow, leaned against the fender, smoking a cigarette. He was a retired marine NCO nicknamed Top, although he had been a cook in the corps and never a first sergeant.

“I’ve already been inside, Dave. Your daughter’s with a bunch of kids upstairs. I don’t see anything unusual going on here,” he said.

“You didn’t see a tall kid, wide shoulders, dark hair, real white skin, maybe wearing glasses with black frames?”

“How old?”

“It’s hard to tell his age. He doesn’t always look the same.”

He took the cigarette out of his mouth, and, without extinguishing it, tossed it in a flower bed.

“That’s what I need. To be hunting down Plastic Man,” he said.

We entered the building and walked through a large reading area, then went up the stairs. I saw Alafair sitting with five or six other high school kids around a table in a side room. I stood just outside the door until she noticed me. Her concentration kept going from me to the creative writing teacher, a black writer-in-residence at USL in Lafayette who volunteered his time at the library. Alafair got up from the table and came to the door, her eyes shining.

“Dave …,” she said, the word almost twisting as it came out of her mouth.

“The kid who paints ceramics? Is he here tonight?” I said.

She squeezed her eyes shut, as though in pain, and opened them again. “I knew that was it.”

“Alf, this guy isn’t what you think he is. He’s a killer for hire. He’s the guy who escaped custody in the shoot-out on the Atchafalaya.”

“No, you’re wrong. His name’s Jack O’Roarke. He’s not a criminal. He paints beautiful things. He showed me photographs of the things he’s done.”

“That’s the guy. O’Roarke was his father’s name. Where is he?”

A fan oscillated behind her head; her eyes were moist and dark inside the skein of hair that blew around her face.

“It’s a mistake of some kind. He’s an artist. He’s a gentle person. Jack wouldn’t hurt anybody,” she said.