Light of the World (Dave Robicheaux 20)

She thought of the twin-engine parked unguarded on the airstrip, the elderly Indian man in the general store, perhaps asleep behind the counter; a red Cessna circling above, radioing to someone else the location of Percy’s plane.

She had to sit down on the bumper of a truck, her eyes tightly shut, to keep from losing her balance.

THURSDAY MORNING, CLETE and I kept our word to the sheriff and drove Gretchen to identify the body his deputies had pulled out of the Clark Fork, west of town. It was obvious she couldn’t have cared less about the name of the dead man in the drawer at the mortuary. Her eyes roved over the bluish-white sheen on his refrigerated skin and the wounds in his head and throat and chest and side without seeming to register any of it.

“You’ve never seen him before?” the sheriff said.

“He’s the man I shot, if that’s what you’re asking,” she replied.

“You never saw him before that?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Why would I say no if I meant something else?”

“He worked out of Fort Lauderdale and Atlantic City. You spent most of your life in Miami. His name was Emile Schmitt. He was a PI and bail-skip chaser. He also worked for an armored car service. You’re not familiar with that name?”

“No,” she said.

“But you recognize him as the man you shot and killed?”

“It was dark, but yes, I believe this is the man who tried to kill me and who I shot and killed, after giving him every chance to surrender. Is there something about the words that you don’t understand?”

“You seem to have a built-in defense mechanism that kicks into gear whenever you’re asked a question,” the sheriff said.

“I told you what occurred. You can characterize it in any fashion you like.”

“The pickup truck driven by the other man trying to kill you was stolen from a farmer in Kansas. The farmer may have been murdered. Or maybe you already know that.”

“Clete and Dave told me.”

“Do you believe the driver could be Asa Surrette?”

“How would I know who he is? Maybe I saw him last night in the airport.”

“Would you repeat that?”

“At the airport, I might have seen a guy who tried to hit on me at the Depot. Maybe he was the guy in the stolen truck. Maybe he was following me yesterday. My friend Percy Wolcott died in his plane last night, right after dropping me at the airport. Have you been to the site yet?”

“That’s the jurisdiction of the National Transportation Safety Board. Let’s not change the subject. From what we could learn, Emile Schmitt’s clients as a PI included several attorneys who represent the Mafia in South Florida and New Jersey. I think you knew the same people. Except you claim to have no knowledge of this man, that your life and his intersected by coincidence in a small city in western Montana.”

“I’m not making a claim about anything,” she said. “I’m telling you what happened. Percy’s plane was parked several hours on an airstrip east of Marias Pass. The airstrip was next to a general store owned by the great-uncle of Angel Deer Heart. Think that’s coincidence, Sheriff? I think somebody put a bomb on that plane and the timer went off late.”

“I’m not making the connection.”

“All of this has something to do with Angel Deer Heart. But your investigation never gets beyond an ex-convict rodeo clown.”

The sheriff started to speak, but Gretchen cut him off. “Bill Pepper abducted me after he violated every inch of my body he could rub his dick on. If I could have gotten to him before someone else did, I would have clicked off his switch. So

would my father. We didn’t have the chance. If that doesn’t sit too good with you, go fuck yourself.”

“You’re an angry woman, Ms. Horowitz, and sometimes angry women do irrational things.”

I could hear Clete breathing through his nose, almost feel the heat radiating from his body. “Sheriff, this isn’t getting us anywhere,” I said.

“Stay out of this, Mr. Robicheaux.”