Swan Peak (Dave Robicheaux 17)

“I asked him why he was doing it. He said, ‘It’s fun.’”

“What else did he say?”

“I tried to keep him talking and turn his thoughts on himself. I thought maybe I could buy a little time. He thought that was funny. He said, ‘No cigar.’”

“That’s all of it?”

“He said, ‘No cigar, fat man.’”

“You told the deputies he blew smoke in your face?”

“From a cigarette. I could tell by the smoke. You find a butt?”

“No. Gribble said he picked it up from the ground. The guy was evidently sanitizing the crime scene before he set you on fire.”

The image her words created made Clete glance up at her face. “The FBI was still following me?”

“No, we got a call from the Ravalli County Sheriff’s Office.”

“What have you found so far?”

“The tie cuffs and the tape he used on your eyes. We’ve got his gas can, too. Maybe we can trace it back to the vendor.”

“I heard machinery up the hill, steel treads and a clanking sound.”

“It’s a front-end loader with a claw bucket on it. He hot-wired it.”

“Why was he digging on the side of the hill?”

“I think he was going to cook you and put you in a grave.”

“We finished here?”

“You ought to go to the hospital.”

“I need a drink. Thanks for your time.”

“Thanks for my time? Your vehicle is evidence. It’s going to be towed into Missoula. You’re not driving anywhere.”

“Then I’ll walk.”

She looked at the flashlights and emergency flashers burning in the mist, one hip cocked, a holstered Glock on her gunbelt. Her dark hair looked clean and full of tiny lights. “Go sit in my car with Mr. Gribble. I’ll take you home in a few minutes.”

“I didn’t ask for a ride home. I told you I need a drink. How do I get that across?”

“We can stop at a store on the highway,” she said. “I’d like to tell you something on a personal level, Mr. Purcel.”

He waited for her to go on.

“You deserve better treatment than you’ve gotten. I think Sally Dee and his men died because of an engine failure. If the airplane crash wasn’t an accident, I still say good riddance,” she said. “We’re going to find the guy who did this to you. But you’re going to have to help us, and that means you need to take care of yourself.”

“The guy knows heavy equipment. He had the burial site set up. He also knows a cigarette butt is a source for DNA. I think he’s done this lots of times.”

Alicia Rosecrans made no comment. Clete looked at her left hand and the absence of a ring on it.

“I’m gay,” she said.

REVEREND SONNY CLICK didn’t think anybody’s luck could be this bad. First those two plainclothes roaches had come to his house asking questions about a double homicide, then they’d indicated he was a molester they were going to throw into his own airplane propeller. His stomach was flip-flopping for an hour. He smoked a joint down on the river to calm his nerves and rebui