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“Who kidnapped me?” Rhonda asked.
“You don’t know?”
“I never saw anyone. I felt the needles someone put in me. Somebody fed me, too. A man did. The same one who put his—” She couldn’t finish.
“It’s all right,” Gretchen said. “I’m going to take you to the hospital in Missoula.”
“I don’t want to go there.”
Gretchen sat down next to her. “Why don’t you want to go to the hospital?”
“He did things to me.”
“We’re going to fix him for that. I promise you,” Gretchen said.
“I want someone to kill him.”
Gretchen put her arm around Rhonda and kissed her on the cheek. “You’re going to be all right,” she said. “Not all at once but with time. Do you hear me? All of this will pass. None of it is your fault. All of the things that were done to you happened outside of you and have nothing to do with your soul or who you are.”
“He had a smell. It will never go away.”
“Yes, it will. I promise. Terrible things were done to me when I was a child, and also when I was an adult. But I’m still here. I’m here for you, too. Are you listening, Rhonda? I give you my word: We’re going to blow up this guy’s shit.” She pressed Rhonda Fayhee’s head against her breast and kissed her hair. “We’ve got to go now,” she said.
“Not yet.”
“He has another hostage, Rhonda. She traded herself for you. Her name is Felicity Louviere.”
“I don’t know anyone by that name. Who is she?”
I don’t know. I’m not sure anyone does.
Gretchen did not share her thoughts and simply said, “We don’t have any phone service here. Let me help you up. There you go. Just put one foot after the other. See? You’re doing fine.”
GRETCHEN DID NOT return to Albert’s ranch until almost dark. The news media cooperated with the sheriff’s department and released a minimum amount of information about the rescue of Rhonda Fayhee, to avoid telling Surrette that he’d been identified as her kidnapper. However, the redacted story was troubling on another level. There was no mention that Felicity Louviere had been abducted.
I still had Love Younger’s unlisted number. I called it at 10:17 P.M. I thought he might screen the call, but he didn’t. When he picked up, I was treated to another instance of his irritability. “Why have you called my home?” he said.
“I suspect by now you know that Surrette has abducted your daughter-in-law,” I said.
“Why is that your business?”
“Where’s your son?”
“You’re probably the most presumptuous man I’ve ever met, Mr. Robicheaux.”
“Sir, what in the name of suffering God is wrong with you? This isn’t about me or you. It’s about Felicity Louviere and my daughter, Alafair. It’s also about Gretchen Horowitz, who was almost killed by Asa Surrette.”
“Yes, the same woman who shot at him and may have wounded my daughter-in-law.”
He was a master at deflecting any reasonable form of redress for a problem
that involved his agenda and his pride. Or in this instance, his profligate son. I asked again if he knew Caspian’s whereabouts.
“I have no idea,” he said. His voice had dropped in register. “He’s drinking or using drugs. He’s been gone all day. Why do you torment us so?”
“Every perp I ever met feigned the role of victim, Mr. Younger. A role like that is unworthy of you.”
I did not expect what he said next. “My son may have become deranged. He’s always been frightened, ever since he was a little boy. Caspian, Caspian, my poor son Caspian. What else can I say, sir? His sins are mine. It’s I who planted the seeds of doubt and self-hatred in him. Do you know what it’s like for a father to accept the fact he has ruined his son, Mr. Robicheaux? Do you have any idea what that is like?”
