A Private Cathedral (Dave Robicheaux 23)

WE RODE ON the airboat to the stilt house and got out on a floating dock that was fastened to the pilings. Dallas Landry cut the propeller just as a big man exited the cabin on the tug and shone a flashlight on us. Carroll lifted his badge from his chest so it caught the flashlight’s beam. “Get back in the cabin, asshole,” he said.

I could hear waves slapping against the pontoons on the airboat. The man went back in the cabin. I told Dallas to come back in one hour.

“I t’ought you wanted me to wait,” he said.

“We’d rather have you in a safe place,” I said. “If we’re not standing outside in one hour, call for the cavalry.”

“Yes, suh, I got it,” he said.

He clamped on his ear protectors and restarted the propeller, then drove away, the backdraft flattening the water. I started to mount the steel steps that led to the deck above us, then I heard a sound I had heard before: wood stroking against wood, oars lifting and dropping back into the waves, perhaps a taskmaster drumming cadence on a forecastle. Clete heard it, too. I searched the horizon in all four directions but saw only the black-green curl of the waves and a lighted ship on the southern horizon.

“That bastard is out there, isn’t he?” Clete said.

I nodded but didn’t answer. Carroll looked at me and at Clete and then at me again. “What are y’all talking about?”

“You didn’t hear anything?” I said.

“No, nothing. Something’s going on?”

“It’s probably a buoy,” I said.

Carroll’s eyeballs were clicking back and forth. “You’re not talking about this ghoul or whatever?”

“Stay behind me,” I said.

I climbed the stairs, my shoes ringing on the steel steps, then crossed the deck in the wind and knocked on the door. The waves below were gaining strength, pitching against the tugboat and smacking the floating dock against the pilings. I wondered about the tolerance of Dallas Landry’s airboat.

Mark Shondell answered the door in a red smoking jacket like Hugh Hefner might wear. “Why, Dave, how good of you to come see us. And Mr. LeBlanc and Mr. Purcel. We were just discussing the possibility that the Aryan race might not be the most intelligent after all, and then in you walk.”

The interior of the living room was exotic, the walls covered with bookshelves and leopard and zebra skins, the furniture made of African blackwood and ivory and glass, the carpet an inch thick, swirling with color. A chandelier burned with the warm radiance of candles.

Adonis and Penelope and Johnny Shondell were standing at the mantel below a brass clock. They stared at us like people who had suffered a heart attack. But I was no longer looking at them or the decor in the living room or even Mark Shondell. Through the window, I could see waves bursting on the bow of a double-decked galleon, its long oars dripping green fire.

“We were in the neighborhood,” I said. “Is Isolde home?”

Chapter Thirty-six

JOHNNY WAS FROZEN at the mantel, his face sick. “Dave, you’re such a fool,” Penelope said. “And damn you to hell for it.”

“Where’s your daughter, Penelope?” I said.

“Don’t address my wife by her first name,” Adonis said.

“Hey, Adonis, time to keep your mouth shut,” Clete said.

“Let’s not have unpleasant words,” Shondell said. “Do you have a warrant of some kind, Dave?”

“We don’t need one,” I said. “We’re not here to arrest anyone or to search your dwelling.”

“Dave, I don’t appreciate your being here,” Shondell said. “You struck me in the face. In an earlier era, you would have been called out. Under the Dueling Oaks. Do you understand what I am saying to you?”

“I’m trying to grab a noun or adverb here and there,” I replied.

“Our situation is not a humorous one, sir,” he said. “You are meddling in things you know nothing about. I am going to ask you once, and once only, to leave the premises.”

“Listen to him, Dave,” Penelope said.

“Where’s your daughter?” I said.