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I looked at him, my heart seizing up, my breath coming short. Maybe Clete was right and I was creating my own illusions about getting back my daughter. This whole case had been characterized by illusion. The St. Jude Project, Robert Weingart as reformed recidivist, Kermit Abelard as egalitarian poet, Timothy Abelard as the tragic oligarch stricken by a divine hand for defying the natural order, Layton Blanchet as the working-class entrepreneur who amassed millions of dollars through his intelligence and his desire to help small investors, a historic Acadian cottage that hid a barracoon. The Abelards had paneled their sunporch with stained-glass images of unicorns and satyrs and monks at prayer and knights in armor that shone like quicksilver, turning the interior of their home into a kaleidoscopic medieval tapestry. Or perhaps, better said, they had created a glass rainbow that awakened memories of goodness and childhood innocence, all of it to hide the ruination they had brought to the Caribbean-like fairyland they had inherited.
If she was not already dead, my daughter was in the hands of men who were among the most cowardly and cruel members of the male species, namely those who would take out their rage and self-loathing on the body of a child or a woman. I wanted to kill them. I felt a level of bloodthirst I had never experienced.
Clete seemed to read my thoughts. “Dave, just do what your judgment tells you. I don’t have any answers. But whatever we do, it’s under a black flag.”
I didn’t reply.
“No quarter, Streak. Say it. We kill every one of these bastards.”
“Whatever it takes,” I said.
He put an unlit Lucky Strike in his mouth, his porkpie hat slanted down, the scar tissue through his eyebrow as pink as a rose. My cell phone vibrated on the dashboard. I opened it and placed it to my ear. “Dave Robicheaux,” I said.
“Molly gave me your number,” a woman’s voice said. “Where are you?”
“Carolyn?” I said.
“I have to talk to you. We have to put a stop to this.”
“To what?”
“To Alafair’s abduction.”
“You have some information for me?”
“Maybe. I’m not sure. I don’t know how helpful it is.”
“What are you trying to tell me?”
“I’ve found out some things about Weingart. I know some of the places he goes. I have to talk to you on a landline or in person. They can pull transmissions out of the air.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“The people who tried to kill you. Where are you?”
“Just outside New Iberia.”
“I’ll meet you at your house.”
I thought about it. Carolyn Blanchet was not about to go down to the department. “All right,” I said. “But in the meantime, get on a landline and call Helen Soileau.”
“Are you serious? I wouldn’t allow that bitch to wash my panties.” She clicked off.
I hit the speed dial and called home. “Carolyn Blanchet said you gave her my number. Is that true?” I said.
“Yeah, did I do something wrong?” Molly said.
“No, Molly, you’ve done everything right. Is the cruiser still out front?”
“Yes.”
“If Carolyn Blanchet shows up, tell her to wait outside. We’re on our way.”
I closed the cell phone and replaced it on the dashboard. We crossed the city limits into New Iberia. Yellow pools of electricity spilled through the clouds and spread across the sky and died without making a sound.
“Carolyn Blanchet was talking about a mysterious group of some kind that can pull cell-phone transmissions out of the air,” I said.
“Who knows?” Clete said. He removed the cigarette from his mouth and widened his eyes, unable to conceal his fatigue. “Know what I’m going to do?”
