The Glass Rainbow (Dave Robicheaux 18)

“So the Iberia Department is trying to put his death on you?”

“Not exactly. But they can’t ignore the evidence, either. My name is inscribed on the pen.”

“You’re asking me about it?”

“Dave won’t get off my back about it. I had to give him the names of everybody who’d had access to my cottage and office. I mentioned your name, among others. I felt rotten about it. I felt rotten not telling you.”

“You think I stole from you?”

“No.”

“Or that I tried to set you up?”

“No, I don’t think that.”

“Then why’d you give Dave Robicheaux my name? Why’d you tell him about us?”

“You care whether people know we’re seeing each other?”

“It’s not their business.”

“I was just wondering if maybe you saw the pen. I’m always dropping things or lending or handing people stuff and fo

rgetting it.”

He could feel her draw away from him, her hands receding back into the bedcovers, her body somehow growing smaller. “You just said one of the shittiest things anyone has ever said to me.”

“I didn’t mean to. I was trying to tell you I felt guilty about mentioning your name to Dave. I felt I was disloyal not telling you about it.”

She sat up on the side of the bed, the sheet and blanket humped over her shoulders. “You don’t trust me, Clete. It’s that simple. Don’t make it worse by lying.”

“I think you’re swell. I’m crazy about you.”

“But maybe I’m a Jezebel, right? I’ll see you around. Look the other way while I dress.”

“Come on, Emma. You’re reading this all wrong.”

“Boy, can I pick them. Yuck,” she said.

After she went out to her car, he slipped on his trousers and followed her, barefoot and bareheaded and wearing a strap undershirt in the rain. “One last try: Come back inside,” he said.

“I let people hurt me only once, then I get even. With you, I don’t have to. You’ll never know the opportunity you just threw away. Bye-bye, big boy.”

She got in her car and started the engine, her face still pinched with anger through the beaded glass. He watched her taillights disappear in a vortex of rain on East Main Street. Then he went back inside and took off his wet clothes and sat naked on the side of his bed in the dark, staring at nothing, his hands like empty skillets at his sides.

THE CALL CAME in from the sheriff in St. Mary Parish at 10:17 the same morning. Helen was out of the office, and the call was rerouted to my extension. The sheriff’s name was Tony Judice. He was a firm-bodied, rotund, and congenial man, less political than most public servants here, and was known for his integrity as a sugar farmer and manager of the local sugar co-op.

“Did y’all have Layton Blanchet in custody yesterday?” he asked.

“Not exactly. He and his wife were in an accident. We took them in for an interview, primarily because they were giving the responding officers a lot of trouble and trying to leave the scene. How’d you know about it?”

“One of my deputies was over there. This is out of your jurisdiction, Dave, so I don’t know if y’all want to be bothered with it or not,” he said. “A guy running a trotline in the Basin called on his cell and said he found a dead man in a rowboat. The description of the dead man sounds like Blanchet. The rowboat is close by the fish camp he owns. I’m about to head out there in a few minutes. I’ll wait for you if you’re interested in Blanchet for reasons other than traffic accidents, or I can call you when I get out there.”

“Why would you think I’d have a special interest in Layton?”

“The guy’s businesses are unraveling. I think every law enforcement agency in the government is taking a look at him.”

It took me under a half hour to meet the sheriff at an airboat dock on the edge of the great watery expanse known as the Atchafalaya Basin, and it took even less time to cross a wide, flat bay dimpled with raindrops and enter a bayou that wound between flooded gum and willow trees from which flocks of egrets rose clattering into the sky. The Basin isn’t one entity but instead an enormous geographical composite, bigger than the Florida Everglades, containing rivers, bayous, industrial canals, flooded woods, hummocks, and wetlands that bleed as far as the eye can see into the Gulf of Mexico. It is also a cultural redoubt, one where people still speak French and live off the computer. It’s a place where, if need be, you can escape through a hole in the dimension and say au revoir to the complexities of modern times.