Swan Peak (Dave Robicheaux 17)

The man in the mask stood stock-still. Then he seemed to make a decision, extending his arm away from his body, the twist of burning paper lighting the surfaces of his mask. He released the paper, letting it float to the ground, igniting the trail of gasoline he had poured on the leaves and pine needles.

CHAPTER 14

THE CRIME-SCENE TAPE enclosed an area not unlike a trapezoid on the hillside, the emergency vehicles from the Ravalli County Sheriff’s Office lighting the trees with their flashers, firemen spraying the area outside the tape where sparks had blown into the underbrush.

J. D. Gribble sat in the back of a silver Stratus with a government tag on it while an Amerasian government agent stood outside the door, in jeans and a gunbelt and a windbreaker with the yellow letters FBI on the back, asking him one question after another.

“You didn’t see where the guy in the mask went?” she said.

“No, I told you, he bagged ass while I was stomping out the fire,” Gribble said.

“But you heard a vehicle of some kind?” she said.

“Yeah, but later, like it was way off down the road. It didn’t have no lights. I just heard the engine, then maybe a door slamming.”

“Like somebody was already in the car?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t see anything, I done told you. I had to put the fire out before it got to Mr. Purcel. Then I had to get them ties off his wrists and drag him out of there before sparks set off the gasoline again. You could smell it everywhere. It was soaked into his clothes and on everything around him.”

“Then you walked down the log road to the farmhouse?”

“An old man was up watching television with his grandson. He called 911. Then I come back up here to help Mr. Purcel.”

“And you never saw a vehicle headed for the highway?”

“Maybe. I ain’t sure. Long as that guy wasn’t coming back up here, I didn’t care what he did.”

She put her hand on his shoulder. Because she was bent forward, her long hair hung on her cheeks and made her face look narrower, more intense. “You did a good job, Mr. Gribble. But we want to catch this guy. Every detail we learn from you can put us one step closer to this guy. Did you hear him say anything at all?”

“If he did, I didn’t hear it. He had that mask on, and the wind was blowing in the trees. I pointed my rifle at him, and he dropped a piece of burning paper on the gasoline and took off. He looked back once over his shoulder. The moonlight on that mask was maybe the scariest thing I ever seen. Is that the guy killing people around here? Is that why the FBI is here? I read about the murders in the paper, those kids and that couple in the rest stop.”

“Tell me again what you actually saw the man do. Don’t leave anything out. Small things can turn out to be real important to us.”

“I saw him throw an armload of sticks and leaves on Mr. Purcel. I saw him pour gas from that can yonder on Mr. Purcel. I saw him searching around on the ground. He picked up a cigarette butt and put it in his pocket. Then he kind of kicked at the ground with his foot.”

She scratched at a place on her cheek and seemed to think about his last statement. It was cold in the trees, and a mist had started to settle on the hillside. “This next question doesn’t imply any reflection upon you. But why didn’t you shoot?” she said.

“I’m a ranch hand. Shooting people ain’t in my job description.”

“We can find you at Albert Hollister’s?”

“I got no reason to go anywhere else.”

“You’re sure about that?” she said.

“What’s that mean?” he asked.

But she walked away without replying, and J. D. Gribble wondered if he had wandered into an outdoor mental asylum.

Two Ravalli County sheriff’s deputies were interviewing Clete Purcel. He was sitting on the floor of the ambulance, the back doors open, his legs hanging over the bumper. He had taken off his shoes and socks and gasoline-soaked clothes and had put on a big smock given to him by the paramedics. His bare feet looked strangely white and clean in contrast to his face and hair, both of which were streaked with soot and the cleansing cream the paramedics had used on him.

“Give us a minute?” the FBI agent said to the deputies.

After they had walked off, she stepped into the box of light created by the interior of the ambulance. “What did the guy in the mask have to say to you?” she asked.

“Not much. He said he was having fun.”

“Just like that, ‘having fun’?”