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“I don’t know if that’s always a virtue.”
“You’ve published a novel. You were Phi Beta Kappa at Reed. You had a four-point average at Stanford Law. Everybody in New Iberia respects you.”
“People respect you, too, Gretchen.”
“Because they fear me. They know I have blood on my hands. You know what’s even worse?”
Alafair shook her head, her eyes lowered, not wanting to hear more.
“I’m glad they know,” Gretchen said. “I want them to know what blood smells like. I want them to know what it’s like to live with the kind of anger that can make you kill people. You know how I feel today, even though I think I’ve changed? I wish I could dig up every person who ever hurt me and kill them all over again. What do you think of me now, Alafair?”
“I love you. You’re one of the best people I’ve ever known. I?
?d do anything for you.”
Gretchen grasped her by the back of the neck and kissed her on the mouth. “You rip me up, girl,” she said.
Then she got out of the pickup and started toward the train station, her bag swinging from her shoulder. Alafair stared through the windshield at the river and at the water sliding over the boulders and eddying in deep pools that were dark with shadow and strung with foam. Her face was tingling as though it had been stung by bees. She let out her breath and blinked and followed Gretchen inside.
A meeting was under way in a spacious room hung with rustic paintings containing scenes from America’s national parks. Perhaps ten men were seated at a long hardwood table set with a silver service and a decanter and glasses and a silver bowl with red flowers floating in the water. Love and Caspian Younger were seated at the head of the table. A well-dressed man with gray hair was in the midst of introducing Love Younger to the group. He was a pleasant-looking man whose manner was deferential and whose sentiments seemed genuine. He had probably labored for hours on his introductory remarks.
“Mr. Younger formed an early and protective attachment to the woods and rivers and streams and mountains of his East Kentucky home,” he said. “The cabin in which he was born was not far from the Revolutionary fort built on the Cumberland River by Daniel Boone. His ties to American history, however, are not simply geographical in nature. He’s a descendant of Tecumseh, the great Shawnee leader, and proud of his relationship to Cole Younger, who fought for his beliefs during the Civil War and was admired by both friend and foe. Mr. Younger’s donation of ten thousand acres to the Conservancy is not only an act of great generosity but of vision.”
The gray-haired man turned to Love Younger and continued, “I cannot tell you how appreciative we are of your support. Your investment in wind and solar power has set an example for everyone committed to finding a better way to supply energy for the twenty-first century. You’ve demonstrated that the rancher and the sportsman and the conservationist and the industrialist can work together for the common good. It’s a great honor to have you here today, sir.”
Love Younger studied the tumbler of whiskey in his hand, tilting the glass slightly, as though more praise had been given him than was his due. He rose from his chair. “The honor is mine,” he said. “You gentlemen have invested a lifetime in a higher cause. I have not. People such as me are bystanders. Tecumseh was a man with a noble vision, one far greater than mine has been. Cole Younger led a violent life but became a Christian before his death. He was a business partner in the operation of a traveling Wild West show with Frank James. The two men were not cut out of the same cloth. I say this not to judge or condemn Frank James but to remind myself of the biblical admonition that many are invited and yet only a few are chosen. I believe my ancestor redeemed himself. The donation I make to your cause is my small attempt at righting some wrong choices in my own life.” Younger raised his whiskey glass. “Here’s to each and every one of you,” he said, and drank it to the bottom. Only then did he seem to notice Alafair and Gretchen standing in the doorway. “Would you ladies like to come in?” he asked.
“That’s Robicheaux’s daughter,” Caspian said, looking up from his chair at his father’s side. There was an ugly scab across the bridge of his nose from the beating Clete had given him, and a bruise couched like a tiny blue-black mouse under one eye.
Alafair waited for Gretchen to answer, then said, “We can speak with you later, Mr. Younger.”
“No, if you have something to say to me, do it now,” Love Younger replied.
“Your son is being blackmailed by Asa Surrette,” Gretchen said. “Your granddaughter’s death might make your son an independently wealthy man. I’m saying your son may have paid Asa Surrette to kill your granddaughter.”
“Who sent you here?” Younger said.
“No one. I called your office and was told this is where I could find you. I think your daughter-in-law is in danger, Mr. Younger,” Gretchen said. “I think she may be trying to contact Surrette.”
The gray-haired man leaned toward Younger. “I’m sorry about this, Mr. Younger. I’ll take care of it,” he said.
Younger placed his hand on the man’s shoulder so he couldn’t rise from his chair, his gaze never leaving Gretchen’s face. “Felicity is trying to contact this killer?” he said.
“She thinks she’s responsible for Angel’s death,” Gretchen replied.
“And out of goodwill, you’ve come here to discuss my family’s personal tragedy in public? You use my granddaughter’s first name as though you knew her?”
“Maybe you’d rather see your daughter-in-law dead?” Gretchen said.
“I know all about you. You’re a contract killer from Miami. I think you’re working with Albert Hollister to blacken my name in any way you can.”
“I came here to prevent your daughter-in-law from being killed. I don’t see you as a victim, Mr. Younger.”
The other men at the table were silent, without expression, hands motionless on the tabletop. One man cleared his throat, then picked up his water glass and drank from it and set it down as quietly as he could.
“I think you ladies have come here to cause a scene and to further the agenda of Albert Hollister and the ecoterrorists who are his proxies,” Younger said.
“I’ve told you the truth,” Gretchen said. “I think your son has done everything in his power to provoke Wyatt Dixon into harming you. Why would he want to do that, Mr. Younger? Dixon said you were out on his property. Why do you and your son have all this interest in a rodeo cowboy?”
