Light of the World (Dave Robicheaux 20)

“No, I don’t. But I know you’ll tell me,” she replied.

“Christmastime is the two weeks before and after the Fourth of July,” he said. “That’s when all the prize money gets won.”

“You’re not going to put on greasepaint, are you?”

“I might.”

“The years take their toll on all of us, Wyatt. You should think about that.”

“I say ride it to the buzzer. I say don’t give an inch.”

She put her hand on his.

“What?” he said.

“Nothing,” she replied. “You’re just a special kind of man, that’s all.”

The breeze came up, and the leaves in the cottonwood tree seemed to take on a life of their own and flicker faster than the eye could record their movement. Their sound reminded Wyatt of a matchbook cover in the spokes of a bicycle wheel. He started in on his chili dogs, then stopped and stared at the mountains in the west. In minutes the sun had become a reddish-purple melt above a canyon already dark with shadow. He stared at the sun until his eyes watered

and he saw a woman separate herself from its radiance and walk toward him in silhouette, her chestnut hair blowing on her cheeks, her legs longer than was natural, her posture like that of a man.

“Is something wrong?” Bertha asked.

“I get these lapses in my head. Time goes by, and I don’t have no memory of where it went or what I done. My head gets like it was before I drank all them chemical cocktails. It’s been happening to me of late, and it gives me feelings of anxiety I don’t have no name for.”

“You’ve been right here,” she said. “With me. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“You see yonder?”

“See what?”

“The woman walking out of the sun. She’s coming straight to our table. I already know what she’s gonna say and why she’s here. How come her words are already in my head?”

“The sun is too bright. I can’t see her. Wyatt, you’re not making sense.”

“She’s been sent.”

“You’re scaring me.”

“Her name is Gretchen Horowitz. She’s come to tell me about him. I knew it was gonna happen.”

“I can’t follow what you’re saying. Let’s eat our food. Don’t pay attention to that woman or these crazy thoughts. Pick up your fork and eat.”

“People don’t want to believe he’s here. That Lou’sana detective, Robicheaux, he knows it, too. So does the woman. He did your brother in. Stop pretending, Bertha.”

“You were raised among primitive and violent people. The superstition and fear they taught you is not your fault. But you cannot let their poison continue to cause injury in your life. Are you listening to me, Wyatt Dixon?”

He stood up from his folding chair. He was wearing garters on his sleeves, his gold-and-silver national championship buckle, a spur with a tiny rowel on one boot, and an oversize cowboy shirt that wouldn’t bind when he rode a horse. He was wearing all the things that told him who he was and who he was not. Except now these things seemed to mean nothing at all.

Gretchen Horowitz stepped out of the sun’s brilliance so Bertha Phelps and Wyatt could see her clearly. Behind her, the Kamikaze rose into the air, teetering against the sky as the teenagers inside the wire cage screamed in delight, then rushed toward the earth. “Hello, cowboy,” she said. “I won’t take but a minute.”

“I know why you’re here,” he replied. “This here is Miss Bertha. I ain’t sure I want to get involved.”

“Asa Surrette says someone wants to see you hurt. I think he means to do it himself,” she said. “You know who Surrette is, don’t you?”

“It don’t matter what he calls hisself. His real name is in the Book of Revelation.”

“No, it isn’t. He’s a serial killer from Kansas. He’s not a mythological figure. He’s a sack of garbage. He killed Angel Deer Heart, and he may try to kill you.”