“Our supper is probably burned up. Let’s go to the Patio for some étouffée. A guy couldn’t have a better daughter than you. You have character and you’re not afraid. Anybody who says different is going to have to answer to me.”
Her hands were propped on her knees, and her head was bent forward so he could no longer see her face. She pushed the wetness out of her eyes with the back of her wrist. “There’s a hit on you. You and Dave Robicheaux and Alafair and maybe Mrs. Robicheaux. They’ve got my mother, Clete. I was offered the choice of doing the hit or letting my mother be tortured to death.”
“Who gave you the contract?” he asked.
“A guy named Marco. He’s not important. The contract can come from anywhere or anybody. It gets processed through Jersey or Miami or San Diego. The middle guys do business through drop boxes and electronic relays. Right now they’re shooting up my mother with some high-grade smack that could kill her.”
She waited for him to speak. Instead, he sat down on the couch and stared at the floor. “Where’d they grab Candy?”
“Probably at her house in Coconut Grove. Are you going to tell Dave Robicheaux and Alafair?” she asked. “I can’t stand the thought of that. Alafair stood up for me. She hit Varina Leboeuf in the face.”
He lifted his eyes to hers. There was a level of sadness in them that seemed to have no bottom.
AT THE DEPARTMENT I had started my Internet search into the history of the cycle track in Paris in hopes of discovering a connection with the Nazi SS officer Karl Engels. Some of the search was easy, some of it elusive, some of it a dead end. The name of the racetrack in Paris was Vel’ d’Hiv, a place that had become infamous as the first stop for French Jews on their way to a camp at Drancy and the freight cars that would take them to Auschwitz. Many of the photos were horrific, the eyewitness accounts so gruesome and cruel that you wondered if there was not a demonic agent at work in human beings. There was nothing to link the name of Karl Engels with the cycle track in Paris or the camp at Drancy or the chimneys at Auschwitz.
When I got home that night, I continued the search on our home computer via a different avenue. I didn’t put in a search for Karl Engels but for the people he might have known or worked under. I brought up photos of Adolf Eichmann and Reinhard Heydrich and the people in their entourage. I searched the lists of those who had been tried at Nuremberg and those who had escaped justice and fled to South America. I read seemingly endless accounts of their backgrounds. Most of them had come from middle-class homes and been raised by Lutheran or Catholic parents. Their previous lives, before their admission to the SS, had been characterized by mediocrity and failure. That they would pose before cameras in front of the barbed wire holding their victims was mind-numbing. That they would allow themselves to be photographed shooting unarmed people on their knees or a woman with a child in her arms would probably be incomprehensible to a sociopath. The world these men created might exist today only in cyberspace, but to visit it even as a virtual reality makes the stomach crawl.
By eleven P.M. my eyes were burning, and I was ready to give it up. Then I looked again at a photo I had not lingered on, possibly because of the way the individuals were dressed. The photo showed Heinrich Himmler and three other men talking, all of them wearing business suits. They looked like men who might have gathered at a piece of cleared land in anticipation of a shared business venture. They did not look evil or cunning or remarkable in any fashion. In the cutline, Himmler and two of the other men were named; the fourth man was not. His face was turned at an angle, his posture both confident and regal. There was a dimple in his chin, a pleasant smile on his mouth. The profile was a replica of Alexis Dupree’s.
I went back to the firsthand accounts given by survivors of Auschwitz. Many of them mentioned a junior SS officer who was singularly cruel and took obvious delight in conducting the selections. Some called him “the light bearer” because of the way his eyes brightened when he let his riding crop hover above an inmate’s head, asking innocuous questions about his place of birth or the work he did, just before touching him on the brow and condemning him to the ovens.
Other inmates were less poetic in their choice of terms for the light bearer. They simply called him Lucifer.
“Why don’t you come to bed?” Molly said.
“I found a guy who might be Alexis Dupree. He was an SS officer by the name of Karl Engels. Look at this photo. That’s Himmler on the left. The guy on the far right looks like Dupree. At least the profile does.”
She rested her hand on my shoulder as she gazed at the screen. Then she sat down next to me and looked more closely. “He even has the dimple in his chin, doesn’t he?”
This was the first time Molly had agreed with me about the darker possibilities of Alexis Dupree’s background. “The root of the name Engels means ‘angel.’ The guy who tried to kill me in Lafayette, Chad Patin, said this island where there’s an iron maiden is run by someone named Angel or Angelle.”
“So Alexis Dupree is the guy running things?”
“You don’t think that’s possible?”
“Too big a stretch,” she replied.
I couldn’t argue with her. Dupree was close to ninety and did not have the emotional stability it would take to run a well-organized criminal enterprise. And even if he were Karl Engels, there was no way to confirm that Karl Engels was the man known as the light bearer at Auschwitz.
“Look at it this way,” Molly said. “You were right about Alexis Dupree, and I was wrong. He’s probably a war criminal. He’s also at the end of his days. The fate that’s waiting for him is one we can only imagine. I think he’ll find that hell is just like Auschwitz, except this time he’ll be wearing a striped uniform.”
I hadn’t thought of it in those terms. That night I opened the bedroom window and turned on the attic fan and let the breeze blow across the bed. As I fell asleep, I could hear the wind in the trees and the squirrels running on the roof and a dredge boat deepening the main channel in the bayou. I slept all the way to morning without dreaming.
IT WAS LATE the next afternoon when Clete showed up at the house, just after a sun shower and the return of Gretchen Horowitz from New Orleans. He was chewing breath mints and had shaved and combed his hair and put on shades and a crisp Hawaiian shirt to hide his dissipation and the increasing pain his hangovers caused him. But when he came into the house and removed his shades, the skin around his eyes was a whitish-green, the lids constantly blinking, as though someone had shone a flashlight directly into the pupils. “Where are Molly and Alafair?” he asked.
“At Winn-Dixie,” I said.
“I’ve got to tell you something.”
“It can’t be that bad, can it?”
“You got anything to drink? I feel like I’m passing a gallstone.”
I pour
ed him a glass of milk in the kitchen and put a raw egg and some vanilla extract in it. He sat at the breakfast table and drank it. The windows were open to let in the coolness of the evening, and fireflies were starting to spark in the trees. None of that did anything to relieve the turmoil that was obviously roiling inside Clete Purcel.
He told me everything about Gretchen Horowitz’s confession to him—the hit on Bix Golightly, her career as an assassin, the kidnapping of her mother, and the contract Gretchen was supposed to carry out on me and my family.