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Where was Rhonda Fayhee held prisoner? In all probability, it was the same place Felicity Louviere was being held now.
“Rhonda, do you think there was an airstrip close by? Did you hear planes coming in overhead?” Gretchen asked.
The girl said the sound of the plane had been down below somewhere.
“Below the level of the basement?” Gretchen asked.
“Yes,” the girl replied. “It droned a long time before it took off. It sounded like it was turning. It made a fluttering sound.”
The details about the place of captivity did not fit together.
For Gretchen, the answer to the riddle probably lay with Caspian Younger, a man whose whole life had been one of entitlement, a man who may have been complicit in the murder of his adopted daughter. Should lines be an issue? Should a man like Caspian Younger be protected from accountability while his wife was tortured to death? What a stupid question to ask, Gretchen thought.
She drove to the Younger compound, expecting to be confronted with security personnel who would do everything in their power to turn her away. That’s what should have happened. Instead, she would learn that the Younger family drama was not the stuff of Macbeth or Oedipus Rex or King Arthur and Mordred or the horns blowing along the road to Roncevaux. Rather, it was the same material to be found in soap opera, as sordid and saccharine and petty as the behavior of the players in any work of pathos. The portrayal of the patrician protagonist and his tragic descent from grace made for lovely entertainment, but it seldom had anything to do with reality.
Gretchen parked her truck in front of the Younger compound and walked down the flagstones to the front door. The only vehicle she could see was a faded compact parked by the carriage house. It had dents in one fender and silver duct tape wrapped around a broken side mirror. The yard was empty, the heavy oak door ajar. She could hear voices inside and a sound like someone diving off a springboard into a swimming pool. With the tips of her fingers, she eased the door wider and walked through the foyer into the living room. Down a hallway, she could see Caspian Younger in swim trunks and a bathrobe, standing by French doors that gave onto a patio. He was pouring from a bottle of Cold Duck into a wineglass. He was unshaved and his robe was open, the mat of hair on his bony chest glistening with water. In the background, a girl not over nineteen climbed out of the pool, her bikini clinging to her body with little more density than wet Kleenex. Jack Boyd put his cigar in an ashtray on top of a glass table and handed her a towel.
Caspian took a sip from his wineglass, his gaze roving over Gretchen’s face and throat and breasts. “You again,” he said.
“You look like you’re pretty busted up over your wife’s abduction,” she said.
“I have no control over Felicity’s fate. She goes her own way. I go mine. You should know that by this time,” he replied.
“Where’s your father?”
“I’m not sure. Out and about, I guess. It’s what he does best,” he replied. “He’s never been a homebody. Do you know I can read your thoughts?”
“I doubt that.”
“Try this. You think I know where Felicity is. You’re going to do horrible things to me until I tell you.”
“How’s it feel?” she asked.
“How does what feel?”
“To be controlled by a guy like Surrette. The man who suffocated your daughter.”
He brushed at one eye as though a lash had caught in the lid. He was standing by a black granite–topped wet bar. A piece of stationery containing a note written in flowing blue calligraphy was positioned neatly under a paperweight on the granite.
“I know about your illegitimate birth, Ms. Horowitz,” he said. “I know that your mother was a whore and a heroin addict, and I know that you’ve murdered people for hire. So I’m going to share some things with you that might help you to understand a situation I’ve lived with most of my life.” He picked up the piece of stationery from the wet bar. The paper was thick, the color of French-vanilla ice cream. A family coat of arms was embossed delicately in the grain. “I’ll give you the highlights,” he said. “I took a nap earlier, and when I woke up, I discovered that my father had decided to tell me of his fear that Wyatt Dixon was his son. This is something I’d known for many years, primarily because my father has screwed women all over the world and used to brag about it. In his note, he said he has proof that Dixon is not his son, and for that he is thankful. He also says I am his only surviving son and that he loves me. Isn’t that sweet? It’s a bit like my father drinking a glass of champagne and pissing it into a cup, then handing it to me to drink.” He paused and studied her face, perhaps waiting to see what effect his words would have. “A little too complex?” he said. “To explain: If Dixon were my father’s offspring, his affections might be divided. Isn’t that a grand compliment to receive? You get it now?”
“What kind of day do you think your wife is having?” Gretchen asked.
“I’ve had that kind of guilt heaped on me all my life, Ms. Horowitz. You still didn’t get the gist of my story, did you? I thought the Mob hired intelligent people to do the kind of work you do.”
“I got in through affirmative action,” she replied.
“My father got it all wrong. Wyatt Dixon is his bastard son. His girlfriend was here and told me. Dixon is my half brother. That’s a little hard to deal with. How would you like to find out your half sister is the bride of Dracula?”
“Bertha Phelps was here?” Gretchen said.
“An hour ago. I sent her down the road with a kick in her fat rump. I suspect she ran back to her cowboy.”
“You kicked Wyatt Dixon’s girlfriend in the butt?”
“I’m about to do it to you, too. And I’ll do it to him if he comes around here again.”
“You’re going to do a beat-down on Wyatt Dixon?”
