Light of the World (Dave Robicheaux 20)

“Mr. Younger?”

“I could come out to your place, but I suspect I won’t be welcomed by Albert Hollister.”

“Give me your number. I’ll call you back,” I said.

“You’ll call me back? In case you’ve forgotten, you approached me, Mr. Robicheaux. Do you want to talk or not?”

“I want to bring somebody with me. He’s the best investigator I’ve ever known. His name is Clete Purcel,” I said.

“I don’t care who you bring with you. If you’ve got information about my granddaughter’s death, I want to hear it. Otherwise, let’s stop this piffle.”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

I put on a pair of khakis and a heavy long-sleeved shirt and brushed my teeth and shaved and went downstairs. Albert was putting a coffeepot and cups on the breakfast table. “Who was that on the phone?” he said.

“I picked up because I thought it might be Gretchen.”

“She’s back home. I saw her pickup by the cabin. Who were you talking to?”

“Love Younger.”

His face showed no reaction.

“I’m going out to his place,” I said. “I think the murder of his granddaughter might be connected to the guy who shot at Alafair.”

“You watch out for Love Younger,” he said, the cup in his hand rattling when he set it on a saucer. “He’s a son of a bitch from his hairline to the soles of his feet.”

“He donated three million dollars to a scholarship fund at the University of Louisiana.”

“The devil doesn’t charge his tenants for central heating, either.”

“You’re a closet Puritan, Albert.”

“Let me start the day in peace, would you, please?” he said.

I walked down to Clete’s cabin at the far end of the north pasture. Gretchen’s hot rod was parked in the cottonwoods by the creek; in the east there was a blush on the underside of the clouds. Two white-tailed deer bounced through the grass and bounded over a fence railing into a stand of untended apple trees that Albert never picked, so food would always be available for the herbivores on his property. I tapped lightly on the cabin door. Clete stepped out on the gallery and eased the screen shut behind him. “Gretchen came in about three this morning,” he whispered.

“Is everything okay?”

“She spent a lot of time in the shower, then went to bed with a piece under her pillow. It’s an Airweight .38.”

“Did she say where she’d been?”

“She told me to mind my business.”

“Take a ride with me to Love Younger’s home.”

I could tell he didn’t want me to change the subject, but I didn’t believe that Clete or I or anyone else could resolve the problems of Gretchen Horowitz.

“I don’t like the way that guy operates,” Clete said.

“Who lik

es any of the people we deal with?”

“There’s a difference. He hires other people to do his dirty work.”

The story was political in nature and well known and, like most political stories, had already slipped into history and wasn’t considered of importance by most Americans. A United States senator got in Love Younger’s way and discovered that his citations in the brown-water navy were somehow manufactured. Like many of my fellow voters, I had lost interest in taking up other people’s causes. Someone had almost killed my daughter with a razor-edged hunting arrow, and I was determined to find out who it was.