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“That’s what I would think,” Gretchen said. “A lake that has a lot of trees on the shore.”
“There are lakes all over this area. Over in Idaho, too.”
“She said the wind made a rushing sound in the trees, like they grew everywhere and were thick with leaves.”
“An orchard?” Alafair said.
“Yeah, an orchard,” Gretchen said. “It’s cherry-picking season. Where would that put us?”
“Flathead Lake?” Alafair said.
“I’m glad you said that.”
“Why?”
“Because Caspian was bragging about his contacts in Vegas. He said he could have Clete shredded into fish chum. He said there would be nothing left of Clete except a bloody skim floating on Flathead Lake. What does Flathead Lake have to do with Vegas?”
“He had the lake associated with Surrette’s previous involvement with the casinos?”
“It’s a possibility,” Gretchen said.
“It’s more than that,” Alafair said.
“There’s something else. Caspian Younger told Bertha Phelps where his father was.”
“You lost me,” Alafair said.
“Wyatt Dixon is Love Younger’s illegitimate son. His stepfather treated him terribly. Who do you think Dixon blames?”
“Dixon is going to do something about it?” Alafair said.
“Maybe.”
“You’re wondering if you should warn Love Younger?”
“Yeah, I am. What would you do if you were me?” Gretchen asked.
“It’s their grief.”
“That simple?”
“Wyatt Dixon can take care of himself. Love Younger is a professional son of a bitch and would be the first to tell you that.”
Gretchen stood up. “Want to take a ride up to the lake?”
“Let me tell Dave,” Alafair replied.
WYATT DIXON WAS standing shirtless and barefoot in his kitchen up on the Blackfoot, a ring of fire glowing around one of the lids on his woodstove, where he had set his coffeepot to boil. Through the side window, he could see the boughs of the cottonwoods swelling in the wind down by the riverbank, the trout starting to rise and dimple the riffle under the steel swing bridge. Through the screen, he could smell the evening as though it were a living presence, the purple and yellow flowers in his yard and the dark green wetness of the fescue part of a song that was never supposed to die. Except he could feel things ending, coming apart at the center, and he didn’t know why.
“You went up to Younger’s place, didn’t you?” Wyatt said.
“I was looking for you. I didn’t know where you were,” Bertha said.
“Was the old man there?”
“No, he was not.”
“That twat of a son was, though, wasn’t he?”
