Swan Peak (Dave Robicheaux 17)

He tried to return the photos to me, but I didn’t take them. Instead, I continued to look into his face without speaking.

“Wish I had more information for you, but it doesn’t look like I do,” he said.

“You’re sure about that?” I said.

“Nobody can be absolutely sure about anything, except faith in the Lord. But in this case, I’m pretty sure I haven’t seen these people.”

I removed the photos from his hand and placed them in my shirt pocket. The wind was blowing through the canyon, stiffening an air sock at the end of the mowed runway. Clete had not spoken. He stuck a cigarette in his mouth but did not light it. His gaze was fixed on the front doorway of the farmhouse. “That your daughter?” he said.

“No, she’s an assistant. In our campus ministry program,” Click said.

“We’d like to talk with her,” I said.

“She’s a mite shy. She’s had an unfortunate life. Her father was a drug addict and died in prison, and her mother became a street person in San Francisco. I created a little job for her helping out with my paperwork and such. She takes care of the yard and the plants while I’m gone, too. She’s a good kid, and I hate to see her drug into something like this.”

“Where’d she get that little wood cross around her neck?” Clete asked.

There was a beat like wheels stopping for an instant behind Sonny Click’s eyes. “A number of youth ministers wear them on the UM campus,” he said.

“Ask her to come over here, sir,” I said.

“Fay, these gentlemen are here about that tragedy at the university. I’ve told them everything we know, but they thought maybe you—”

“At this point you need to be quiet, Mr. Click,” I said.

“You don’t need to take that tone. It’s ‘Reverend,’ too, if you don’t mind,” he said. “Look, this other man here didn’t show me his identification.”

Clete took out his gold PI badge, which, like most of them, was bigger, more baroque, and more visually impressive than any state or county or federal law enforcement ID. “Have you ever visited Louisiana?” Clete said. “We’ve got the most famous faith healer in the country right there in Baton Rouge. Know what I can’t ever figure? Instead of curing people onstage, why doesn’t this guy go to emergency wards and hospitals and sanitariums where people are really in need of help? You know, rip the oxygen masks off their faces and tell them to get up and boogie? Walk over to my car with me, will you? My cigarette lighter must have fallen out on the seat.”

In the meantime, I walked to the porch, into the shade, where the girl was watching us. She wore cutoff blue jeans and a plain T-shirt and Indian moccasins with soles, the kind sold to tourists in reservation stores. She was heavyset and plain and big-breasted, with no expression at all, wearing a cross and leather cord that was exactly like the one Seymour Bell had probably worn the night of his death. She said her name was Fay Travis, and she lived in a dormitory on the university campus.

I showed her the photos of Bell and Cindy Kershaw. Then one of those strange and unexpected moments occurred, the kind that makes you feel every human being carries a secret well of sorrow whose existence he or she daily denies in order to remain functional. When she lifted her eyes to mine, I felt, rightly or wrongly, that I could see right into her soul. “You knew them?” I said.

Her eyes looked in Click’s direction. “I saw them around the campus. Maybe in the Student Union sometimes.”

“Did you see them other places?” I asked.

“You mean on campus?”

“No, I don’t mean that at all. I think you know what I mean.”

“What are you saying to me?” she asked.

“Don’t be afraid of this man.”

“I’m not. He’s good to me.”

“Don’t look at him, look at me. Reverend Sonny Click is a fraud and a bum. I think you’re a good person, Miss Travis. Don’t let this man use you. Were Cindy Kershaw and Seymour Bell here at the reverend’s house?”

I saw her swallow. I stepped into her line of vision so that she was facing me and not Sonny Click.

“At the end of the spring semester, the campus ministers met a few times for coffee at the Student Union. Brother Click was there as a guest. But I don’t remember Seymour or Cindy coming out to the house.”

“But he knew them?”

“Yes sir. He talked with them. He’s real good with young people.”

“Where did you get the wood cross?” I asked.