were what made him the brave man he was. He saw the truth but never pushed the burden onto someone else.
He drove his Caddy in the rain to the boatyard on East Cote Blanche Bay where he kept his eighteen-footer and his Evinrude seventy-five-horsepower engine. He went into the tin-roofed shed where his boat was moored to a post and winched it up on a trailer and hooked the trailer to his Caddy. The bay was chain-ringed with raindrops, the branches of the gum and willow trees along the shore flattening in the wind. He filled two five-gallon plastic containers with gasoline and hefted them inside the boat. Then he opened a steel lockbox he rented from the owner and removed two road flares, an entrenching tool, a KA-BAR knife attached to a web belt, a military-issue flashlight, an AK-47 modified into a semi-auto, and a scoped ’03 Springfield rifle that was heavily oiled and snugged up inside a canvas bag. Under the shed, he removed the Springfield from the bag and opened the bolt and placed his thumb in the empty chamber and closed the bolt. He wiped the excess oil from the stock and the steel surfaces of the rifle and placed it and a box of. 30–06 rounds in the bag and put the bag in the trunk of the Caddy.
By 4:15 A.M. he had off-loaded his boat into Bayou Teche and, with no lights on, had gone downstream ten miles to the back of Croix du Sud Plantation. The rain had stopped and the moon was up, and an elevated carriage lamp glowed inside the humidity in the backyard. When the wind blew, the yard was filled with moving shadows and rainwater that shone like crystal sprinkling from the trees. Clete had cut his engine upstream and allowed his boat to float silently through the shallows, past the cypress and oak trees and flooded canebrakes that bordered the back of the Dupree property. He picked up his anchor and lowered it over the gunwale and let the rope slide through his palm until the anchor sank in the mud and the rope tightened and the stern swung around and hung stationary in the current.
Someone turned on a light in the kitchen. Clete removed the Springfield from its canvas bag and opened the bolt and began thumb-loading a handful of soft-nosed rounds into the magazine. After he had locked down the bolt, feeding a bullet into the chamber, he set the safety and wiped his hand free of oil on his shirt and looked through the telescopic sight into the kitchen. The clarity of detail inside the lenses was stunning.
Alexis Dupree was eating a piece of cobbler and drinking a glass of milk at the kitchen table. He was wearing a striped robe, one that, paradoxically, might be confused with the striped pattern on the work uniforms of the inmates in Dachau and Buchenwald. His eyes were deep-set, his jowls flecked with tiny veins, his throat as coarse and wrinkled as a turtle’s. Hair grew out of his nose. His eyebrows looked feral; he scratched at a dark, crusty mole inside one sideburn. His tall frame had the stiffness of coat hangers. He ate with small bites, as though the process of eating were a joyless activity and should be undertaken only with measure and control. He gazed through the window at the backyard and at the giant trees that swelled with wind and scattered leaves on the bayou, and dabbed at a smear of cobbler on his chin.
Clete wondered if Alexis Dupree saw things inside the darkness that others did not. Had Dupree not only looked into the abyss but immersed himself in it, exchanging his soul for the black arts he unleashed on helpless people behind barbed wire? Or had he been little more than a cipher, a mindless bureaucrat carrying out the orders of other people, a man with the wingspan of a blowfly rather than a condor?
A flip of the safety mechanism, a squeeze of the trigger, and Clete could make all these questions moot. How would the world be the less? One squeeze, one bullet, and a few of Dupree’s victims would not have to wander the earth seeking justice.
Just do it and think about it later, Clete told himself.
Then he saw Pierre Dupree enter the kitchen, followed by a woman who remained in the background, her face obscured by the knives and skillets and cooking pans that hung from an iron rack suspended above a butcher block. Pierre was dressed in slacks and a snow-white shirt, and the woman wore a maroon skirt cinched with a gold belt. Clete suspected they were going on a trip or they would not have been up this early. He could not see the woman’s face or even the color of her hair, and he wondered who she could be.
He realized he had devoted too much attention to the scene and the people in the kitchen. In the corner of his vision, he saw the shape of a man by the gazebo on the left side of the backyard. Clete shifted his position in the boat and looked through the telescopic sight at the gazebo and the shadows in the yard, but the man who had been standing on the lawn seconds ago had disappeared. The wind gusted out of the north, blowing hundreds of unraked leaves across the Saint Augustine grass. While all the other shadows in the yard swayed back and forth, one remained starkly immobile. Then the figure lit a cigarette, the flame from his lighter flaring on his face. There was no mistaking the bump on his nose, the greased hair, or the scalp job around his ears. He was one of the men Clete had seen in Lafayette with Lamont Woolsey and the British oilman Hubert Donnelly.
Clete’s eyes were beginning to burn in the humidity. He lowered the rifle and wiped his eyes clear on his sleeve, then raised the telescopic sight again and scanned the area around the gazebo. The man with the bump on his nose was gone. His disappearance made no sense. Clete had a view of the entire yard, which was terraced like three stair steps, with gardens on each step. The gazebo and the latticework on it were silhouetted against the moonlit reflection of the house. In no more than three or four seconds, the Duprees’ sentinel had walked either to the house or out to a sugarcane field, neither of which seemed possible.
Clete moved the telescopic sight back onto the kitchen. Pierre Dupree was seated with his grandfather, dipping a powdered beignet into a cup of coffee, a napkin tucked into his collar. Clete could not see the woman. Then he realized she had gone out the French doors and was standing on a patio overhung by the limbs of a live oak. The light from the kitchen fell across her hips and lower back and calves but not her upper body or face. She turned briefly, and Clete caught sight of her hands and her broad, laminated gold belt and the plate and fork she was eating with. Fog had started to form on the bayou and drift through the trees, wrapping around her, almost as though she enjoyed a symbiotic relationship with it.
Downstream he heard the drawbridge closing, then the droning sounds of a tugboat pushing a huge barge against the tidal inflow, the wake slapping loudly in the trees along the bank. The woman walked out in the mist and gazed at the tug and barge passing beyond the tree trunks. Did the boat represent escape? Was it a reminder of a working-class world she had abandoned for the ambience the Duprees could provide her? Did she long for a better and simpler world than the one she lived inside? Was she Tee Jolie Melton? Or Varina Leboeuf? Or someone else?
Clete would not learn the answer to his questions, at least not that night. The woman went back into the house and fastened the French doors and disappeared into the room beyond the kitchen.
Clete pulled up the anchor and let the boat drift south of the Dupree property before he fired up his engine. He worked his way upstream toward New Iberia, the running lights off, keeping to the far side of the bayou so he would not be seen from the Dupree home.
He rounded a bend and angled his boat toward a spot at the extreme end of the Dupree property, then cut the gas feed and tilted the propeller out of the water. His bow slid up on the mudflat between two cypress trees, and he stepped into the shallows and pulled the boat’s hull farther up the bank. Through the trees, he could see the lights in the Dupree kitchen and a porch light that someone had turned on. He lifted the five-gallon gasoline containers out of his boat and set them on the mudflat, then retrieved his E-tool and dug a loamy hole on the edge of a wild blackberry bush spiked with thorns. He wrapped the containers and the road flares inside a plastic tarp and buried them in the hole, sweating inside his clothes, his breath coming hard in his chest. He spat in his palm and looked at it, then rubbed his palm clean on his pants and tried not to think about the pink tinge in his saliva.
He stared through the darkness at the house, his head as light as a helium balloon. “Tomorrow or the next day or the day after that or maybe a month down the road, I’m going to get you,” he said.
To whom was he speaking? The Duprees and their hired gumballs? Or the men who would probably try to kill Gretchen? No, Clete’s real enemy had been with him much longer. He had seen him the first time he lay in a battalion aid station in the Central Highlands, dehydrated from blood expander, his face white from the concussion of a grenade, his neck beaded with dirt rings, his utilities fouled by his own urine. A corpsman had closed off an artery with his thumb, and suddenly the light had come back into Clete’s eyes and air had flowed into his lungs, as cool as if it were blowing across open water. That was when he saw the cloaked and hooded figure with the white face and thin lips and sunken cheeks. The figure smiled and leaned over and pressed his mouth to Clete’s ear, as though no one else were in the tent. His breath smelled like nightshade and lichen on damp stone and ponded water gone sour in a forest whose canopy seldom admits light. I can wait, the hooded figure whispered. But no matter where you go, you’re mine.
