A Private Cathedral (Dave Robicheaux 23)

“Nothing to explain,” Niles said. “Father Hebert fled a homicide scene in Baton Rouge. Some collectible stamps belonging to him were on the vic’s body.”

“So you came down here and tore up his house?”

“No, we searched it,” Niles said. He held up the Ziploc. “This was in the refrigerator. There’s discoloration in each cube.”

“Get out of here,” she said. “Take your shit with you.”

My cell phone vibrated in my pocket. As I answered, Helen went to her cruiser, slid her baton from the front seat, and smashed out a side window in the unmarked car driven by the two detectives.

Niles stared through the screen door. “Are you drunk?” he said.

She walked back inside and tapped him with the baton in the middle of his forehead, hard enough to leave a white spot. “File a complaint with the DA. I’ll give you his private number.”

But I was no longer paying attention to Helen and her behavior. I had seen her take down too many bad guys, some of them cops, some of then psychotic, and I knew how it would end. I was listening to Leslie Rosenberg on my cell phone.

“I had a nightmare and was burning to death,” she said. “When I woke up, there was ash in my hair. A green man was in the yard.”

“Start over,” I said.

“I’m not crazy. I could smell smoke in my clothes. I know him. From long ago.”

“Where are you?”

“In my cottage.”

“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” I said.

“I didn’t tell you the rest of it. I confronted him. He tried to touch me.”

“Where is he now?”

“Looking at me. Through the screen.”

I took the cell phone from my ear. “Helen, I want you to listen to this.”

“I’m a little busy right now.”

I walked down on the grass and shoved the detective named Niles. “Do what you’re told and haul your worthless ass out of here,” I said. Then I gave Helen my cell phone. “Now listen.”

* * *

I HEADED UP OLD Jeanerette Road to the self-help center run by the activist nuns and the cottage where Leslie and her daughter were now living. Leslie was on the gallery when I arrived. The tide was in, and the bayou was high and dark and running through the canebrakes on the bank. I wondered if Gideon had hidden somewhere along the bank or escaped in a boat. That he had appeared at the cottage in broad daylight indicated that he had become bolder and perhaps more dangerous.

I got out of the cruiser. “Is your daughter all right?”

“She’s sleeping,” Leslie said. “The man just left.” She looked at her watch. “He said he’ll call you on my phone in approximately seven minutes. He said you left your cell phone with the sheriff. How could he know that?”

“I have no idea.”

“Who is he, Dave?”

“Gideon Richetti.”

“I don’t mean his name. Who is he? What is he?”

“He didn’t try to explain himself?”

“He cried.”