“That’s why she’s handcuffed to a pipe in the utility room,” he said. He glanced toward the house. “I see someone has started a fire there. How nice of you.”
Through the fog, I heard the starter on the plane grind again, but this time the engine caught and I could see the fog thinning from the back draft of the propeller, the tail and fuselage standing out in relief against the water and flooded elephant ears on the far bank.
Dupree walked to a spot by the corner of the cabin so he had a clear view of us and the house and the yard and the plane. He looked at us as if placing us inside a frame, or perhaps as though he were staring at us through a peephole in a door beyond which was a shower room full of disrobed people who had been told they would be spared if they were willing to murder their fellow prisoners.
I had no doubt he was about to shoot the four of us, and Gretchen was to be first. His left hand joined his right on the Walther’s grips; his tongue slid across his bottom lip. His teeth looked small and crooked inside his mouth as he raised the gun to eye level and sighted it on Gretchen’s throat. “It’s too bad to waste such a nice specimen,” he said. “But that’s the way it is.”
Then Clete Purcel performed one of the bravest acts that any human being is capable of. He ran forward, his feet churning in the leaves, his arms widespread, and threw himself on Alexis Dupree, hooking his hands behind the other man’s back, crushing Dupree’s body against his.
I heard a single shot and saw a flash of light between their bodies. I saw Clete stagger and lift Dupree into the air, then the two of them toppling backward into the leaves. I heard the gun fire a second time and saw Clete getting to his feet, ripping the Walther from Dupree’s hand, holding it by the barrel, pressing his other hand against his side, turning toward me, his mouth forming a large round O, his breath wheezing out of his throat.
“Clete!” I said. I said it again: “Clete!”
I was on my feet, and the world was tilting sideways, and I could hear a sound like a train whistle screaming inside a tunnel.
Gretchen took the Walther from Clete’s hand and set the safety on it and gave it to Alafair. She put Clete’s arm over her shoulder. “Sit down on the edge of the coulee,” she said.
“No,” he replied. “Give me the gun.”
“What for?” Alafair said.
“I’m going to kill him.”
“No,” Gretchen said.
“Then you do it.”
“What?” Gretchen said.
“Smoke him,” he said. “Do it now. Don’t think about it. He should have died a long time ago. Don’t give this guy a chance to come back.” Clete was holding on to the side of the cabin like a long-distance runner catching his breath.
“I can’t do it,” Gretchen said.
“Listen to me. A guy like this re-creates his evil over and over again. And nobody cares. He put thousands of people in gas ovens. He sent children to Josef Mengele’s medical labs. You’re not snuffing a man. You’re killing a bug.”
“I don’t care what he did. I’m not going to do these things anymore, Clete. Not unless I have to. I’m through with this forever,” she said.
Dupree was sitting up, brushing broken leaves and grains of black dirt off his hands. “Could I have a lock of your hair as a souvenir?” he said to Gretchen. “You wouldn’t mind, would you? Ask Daddy if he would mind. You two are wonderful at melodrama. The little half-kike telling Daddy she’s going to be a good little girl now.”
Clete removed the plastic bottle from the pocket of his trousers and eased himself down on one knee, the leaves crackling under him, his face draining with the effort. The left side of his shirt was soaked with blood above the place where it tucked into his belt. He steadied himself, unscrewing the small cap on the bottle with his thumb, the bottle concealed below his thigh. “How many did you kill in that camp?” he asked.
“The people who died in the camps were killed by the Reich. A soldier only carries out orders. A good soldier serves his prince. An unfortunate soldier is one who doesn’t have a good prince.”
“I got it,” Clete said. “You’re a victim yourself.”
“Not really. But I’m not a villain, either. Your government killed more than one hundred thousand civilians in Iraq. How can you think of yourself as my moral superior?”
“You’ve got a point there. I’m not superior to anybody or anything. That’s why I’m the guy who’s going to give you what you deserve and make sure you never hurt anyone again.”
I realized what Clete was holding in his hand. “Clete, rethink this. He’s not worth it,” I said.
“You got to do something for kicks,” he replied.
Clete pushed Alexis Dupree on his back and pinned him in the leaves with one hand. Dupree’s face was filled with shock and disbelief as he realized what was about to happen.
“Auf Wiedersehen,” Clete said. He forced the spout on the bottle past Dupree’s lips and over his teeth and pushed it deep into his mouth until the liquid Drano was pouring smoothly and without obstruction down his throat.
The consequence was immediate. A terrible odor not unlike the smell from an incinerator at a rendering plant rose from Dupree’s mouth. He made a gurgling sound like an air hose bubbling underwater. His legs stiffened and his feet thrashed wildly in the leaves, and his face contorted and seemed to age a century in seconds. Then a dry click came from his throat, as though someone had flicked off a light switch, and it was over.