Light of the World (Dave Robicheaux 20)

She saw Surrette hit Felicity, and she tightened the stock against her shoulder again, sure that this time she had a clean shot. She didn’t. Surrette grabbed Felicity as he would a slab of beef and wrestled her to his vehicle, blood leaking from his mouth. He opened the driver’s door and began stuffing her inside, at the same time driving his right fist into her ribs and the side of her head.

He’s going to kill her, the voice said. Do it while there’s still time. Have you grown weak?

I don’t have the right to risk someone else’s life.

You want to feel good about yourself at the woman’s expense?

If you were in the SUV with Surrette, what would you want me to do?

Take the shot.

I see. Just spit into the wind and see what happens? Oh, I hit you in the brisket? Sorry about that.

Take the shot, Gretchen.

You’re not inside the vehicle. You’re one of those who like to use terms like “collateral damage.”

He’ll torture her to death. Try to imagine the level of pain she’ll suffer in just one minute. Then multiply that by several hours.

I can’t do it.

Take the shot now, bitch, or stop pretending you’re a player. Sign up with the titty-baby brigade and burn candles for the person you could have saved.

Gretchen rose to her feet, lifting the rifle, trying to refocus on the target and catch the exact moment when Surrette’s image stood out in clear relief, separate from Felicity Louviere’s, framed forever inside the crosshairs, his face about to dissolve like a photograph curling over a flame.

Surrette slammed the door and turned and looked back down the slope. The sun had just broken from behind a cloud, and he had probably seen the glint on her scope. He appeared puzzled rather than alarmed, as though no one had the right to intrude upon what was clearly his province.

Eat this, Gretchen thought.

Just as she squeezed the trigger, she saw Felicity Louviere raise her bloodied head directly behind Asa Surrette’s.

THE ROUND TICKED the top of the steering wheel, an inch from Surrette’s hand, and pocked a hole the size of a nickel through the windshield, powdering the dashboard with splinters of glass. He floored the accelerator, the tires spinning on the slick logging road, and bounced over the apex of the switchback and down the far side. Felicity Louviere was thrown against the passenger door by the SUV’s momentum, her hair in her eyes, her face swollen and bleeding.

“You told Gretchen Horowitz we were out here?” he said.

“What does it matter?” Felicity replied. “She’ll hunt you down for the rodent you are. She’ll make you beg.”

“Not like you will. Wait till you see what I have planned.”

She was losing consciousness and talking at the same time. Surrette hit chuckhole after chuckhole, bouncing in the seat, looking sideways at her, his safety strap not snapped in place. “What are you mumbling about?” he asked.

“He is risen,” she replied.

He hit the brake and skidded to a stop. He lifted himself up on one knee in the seat and began beating her in the face with both fists, as though his rage could never be sated.

GRETCHEN WORKED HER way up the slope, through the tree trunks, carrying the Mauser at port arms. The bound woman had tripped over a log and fallen to the ground. Her bare legs were smeared with dirt and leaves and deer droppings and tiny twigs; a mewing sound came from the cloth bag cinched under her chin.

“Hey, it’s okay. You’re safe,” Gretchen said, kneeling beside her, propping the rifle on the log. “Surrette is gone. I’m here to help you.”

She placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder and felt her shiver as though she had been touched with a piece of dry ice. “My name is Gretchen Horowitz,” she said. “I’m going to remove the bag from your head now, then cut the tape on your wrists. Don’t be afraid.”

The woman did not reply. Gretchen loosened the drawstring and slipped the bag from her face. The woman stared into Gretchen’s eyes with the expression of an infant just emerging from its mother’s womb.

“What’s your name?” Gretchen asked.

“Rhonda. My name is Rhonda Fayhee. I live up by Lookout Pass. I work in the café. I went home from work. I don’t know what happened to me.”

“Many people have been looking for you, Rhonda. They’re all your friends. The whole world is on your side.” She opened her pocketknife and cut the tape on Rhonda Fayhee’s wrists.