Delusion Page 29

  Well, of course; he hadn’t known he was going to die. “That’s so sad,” Pirate said. He went closer, looked over her shoulder.

  “See,” she said, pointing to a page with horizontal lines, all blocked out in chunks of time. Pirate had never had a book like this. He read: call Prof. Myers re cone theory; dentist, 1:30; Sallie Mae re questions; lunch with Nellie.

  “What’s cone theory?” Pirate said.

  “I don’t know,” said Norah. “He was brilliant.” She turned the page, spoke again, very softly. “This is the day he died.”

  Pool 7–8, intervals; revise cat. 3 model; call Kirk Bastien—last chance; dinner w/Nellie. She turned the page. “And here’s the next day.”

  Bastien? “Wait,” said Pirate. “Turn back.”

  “Turn back?”

  Pirate seized the book, turned the page himself, pointed. “How do you say that?”

  “Originally it must have been French, like Bastienne. But they say Bastin.”

  “Bastin? They say Bastin?”

  Was he shouting? She looked a little scared. “Yes,” she said. “Bastin. They’re friends of my par—of my mother and stepfather. More my stepfather’s, really. He and the other brother—”

  “Bastin? Like that? You say it like Bastin?”

  “Kind of. But why—”

  “Are there lots of them in town—Bastiens?”

  “Just the two, as far as I know. Kirk’s the mayor.”

  Pirate had a faint memory: You’re on a bit of a roll, Mr. DuPree. But before it could sharpen—something about that fancy Italian restaurant?—it got pushed aside by bigger thoughts.

  Bastard. That wasn’t what Lee Ann had said, dying on the floor of her closet, blood trickling between her lips. It was what he’d heard, not knowing this strange name. But she’d said Bastin, Pirate was sure of that. Lee Ann had been trying to tell him the name of her killer. A dying person naming her killer: that was practically a message from God. Would he ever have a better partner? He owed her, big-time. And then it hit him, a revelation like an earthquake, strong enough to make him shake. There was a big difference between these two false accusations in his life. The first time, with Johnny Blanton, he hadn’t known the identity of the real killer, in fact, still did not. But this time, now, with Lee Ann, he knew. A lifeline! Bastien was the killer: he had the victim’s dying word.

  “Where is he?”

  “Who?”

  “Bastien.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Does he live around here?”

  “They’ve got a big place up at the lake.”

  “Show me.”

  “Show you?”

  “Now.”

  “But why? Why is it so important?” She reached for the address book, read out loud, “‘call Kirk Bastien—last chance.’” She looked up, a thought dawning in her eyes. “Does it have something to do with my father’s death?”

  “Yeah,” Pirate said, just to get her cooperation. He grabbed the Rick on the way out.

  “What are you doing?” Norah said.

  “Joe Don wanted me to bring it.”

  “Bring it where?”

  “Didn’t say. He’ll call.” Pirate almost said the music business one more time, decided not to bother.

  “Okay,” Norah said. “I’ve got my cell.”

  “Let’s rock and roll,” said Pirate.

  CHAPTER 33

  Nell gazed out the window. Rain pounded down on the cruiser, Timmy invisible inside, sitting in the dark. She’d called Clay three times, been told he was on the case, wanted her to stay right there, would be in touch soon. But everything was speeding away from everything, as Johnny had taught her. Her mind was speeding most of all. It left a trail of disturbing images: Kirk, mask pushed up on his forehead, holding his free-diving trophy; Clay and Duke, both thirteen, at the riflery championships: the winner, not shown, was Duke’s eleven-year-old brother, Kirk Bastien; and just yesterday, Kirk getting out of his SUV up at Lake Versailles, and limping up to his house. She could hardly breathe. The sensation of being trapped under the reef off Little Parrot Cay came back to her, real enough that she opened the window wide, let in the wind and rain. The rain was so loud she almost didn’t hear the phone.

  Nell ran to the desk, grabbed it. “Clay?”

  But not Clay: some man’s voice she didn’t recognize: “Norah?” he said. “That you?”

  “No. This is her mother.”

  “Mrs. Jarreau? Yeller here. You seen her anywheres, Norah, that is?”

  “No. I’ve been calling and calling. Is something wrong?” She knew the answer to that already, from the sound of his voice.

  “Yes, ma’am, you could say that. Joe Don’s in a bad way.”

  “What happened?”

  “They found him laying in the middle of the street. Princess Street. All messed up, like some boys put the boots to him pretty good.”

  “Is he going to be all right?”

  “Doc’s goin’ to be operating anytime now. Got him down at Mercy, where I am at this moment, Mrs. Jarreau.”

  “Operating?”

  “Bleeding on the brain, doc says. They got to go in, plug it all up. But why I called, there’s this report of maybe that l’il Miata gettin’ seen nearby.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “I sent someone up to that old barn of Joe Don’s—she weren’t there, the car neither.”

  “I don’t know where she is. Are the police involved?”

  “They’s what found him. Thing is, ma’am, they got some eyewitness says a man was at the wheel of the car, an’ he was by hisself. Not Norah in her own ride, what I’m saying. Any idea who that man could be?”

  “No. None.”

  There was a little pause. Nell could hear some machine beeping in the background, and a voice on a speaker. “Sure about that?” Yeller said.

  “Yes,” Nell said. “What are you saying?”

  “Joe Don said he was harmless, and all, and ’course with him bein’ innocent in the end, there shouldn’t be a problem, but still I—”

  “Mr. Yeller? Who are you talking about?”

  “Alvin DuPree,” Yeller said. “Turns out he’s a music lover. Been hangin’ out at the Red Rooster, maybe even paid a visit or two to the barn.”

  “Are you telling me DuPree has met my daughter?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am. Pretty sure of that.”

  Nell ran out into the rain, slanting down now in icy sheets, and tried the cruiser’s passenger-side door. Locked. She banged on it. The inside of the car was all fogged up, but she could see Timmy flinch. The window slid down.

  “Ma’am?” he said.

  “Let me in.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t argue. Norah’s in trouble.” The lock popped up. Nell got in.

  “What kind of trouble?” Timmy said.

  “I don’t know,” Nell said. “And she’s not the only one.”

  “Not the only one in trouble?” Timmy said.

  “Drive,” said Nell.

  “Where?” But he turned the key, hand not quite steady, as though her inner state had invaded his.

  Where? Only one idea came to mind, not very promising. “The Red Rooster,” she said.

  “That dive over on Rideau?” said Timmy. “Doubt someone like her—”

  “Drive.”

  Timmy slid the car in gear, turned onto Sandhill Way. Water was sluicing down both sides of the road in thick, writhing streams. Timmy radioed in, gave his number. “Proceeding east on Crosstown, destination Red Rooster club on Rideau. Have Mrs. Jarreau.”

  “I want to speak to Clay,” Nell said.

  “Wants to speak to the chief,” Timmy said. “Soon as possible. Over.”

  They came to the upper end of Rideau, turned south. A half mile or so down there was water in the street, three or four inches. And a few blocks later? Flood conditions, with abandoned cars, all buildings dark, wreckage from Bernardine floating in from the back alleys, like a recurring nigh
tmare.

  “Jesus,” said Timmy, stopping the car. Voices crackled on the radio, one of them Clay’s.

  “There he is,” Nell said.

  Timmy called in, gave his number. “Got Mrs. Jarreau here. Any way you can patch the chief in for her?”

  “On his way to a reported disturbance,” the dispatcher said. “Trying for you now.”

  Nell heard static, and then nothing. “Ask her where the disturbance is,” she said.

  “They’d call me if—” A hanging traffic light came loose on the next corner, fell with a big splash. Timmy radioed in, asked the question.

  “Lake Versailles,” said the dispatcher, adding the street address. But Nell already knew.

  “Timmy?” she said. “You won’t do much good here.”

  He nodded and backed the car.

  “It’s really raining,” Norah said.

  “Yeah,” said Pirate, behind the wheel. She’d told him she didn’t like driving in the rain, so he’d done the gentlemanly thing. But he found, after so many years off the road, that he didn’t like it either. He had the wipers cranked to the max, a rhythm that bothered him, something going way too fast, deep in his brain, but there was no choice if he wanted to see. And he wasn’t seeing too great, some new night thing with the one eye, another pisser. Plus in between giving him directions, Norah kept making calls on her cell phone and getting no answer. Why did that piss him off even more? He got a funny sensation in his right elbow, like it wanted action, maybe do like the left one could do.

  “Who’re you calling?” he said.

  “Joe Don,” she said. “It’s not like him not to answer.”

  “Maybe him and Big Ernie are talking business.”

  “Big Ernie?”

  What the hell? “With the droopy mustache.”

  “Big Ed, you mean.”

  “Yeah. Fuckin’ Big Ed.” Uh-oh. She was looking at him kind of funny. He made his voice nice and gentle, like he was some favorite uncle. “The music business is tough, Norah, got to warn you.”

  “But even so,” Norah said, “he always answers my calls, every single time.”

  Maybe he doesn’t love you anymore. A clever little joke, since Pirate was pretty sure of its truth, but best kept to himself. “He said he’d call. He wants the Rick, after all. Don’t he just love that old guitar?”

  “It means a lot to him.”

  “He’ll be playing it soon,” Pirate said. “Like with the angels up in heaven.”

  “Huh?” said Norah.

  “Just saying he plays like an angel,” Pirate said. “One of those expressions—just means he plays real good.”

  “Yeah, I know. You, uh, play nicely, too.”

  “Shucks,” said Pirate.

  Lightning cracked across the sky, a big thick crevice, like a glimpse of a place where everything was white-hot. Pirate saw a lake in the distance, all black, and two big houses, lights in the windows. They rolled up to a closed gate.

  “This is it,” Norah said.

  “They got a gate?”

  “Maybe there’s someone in the gatehouse,” Norah said. “Try honking.”

  Honking didn’t seem like a good idea. Pirate just sat there, thinking, the wipers going way too fast. Norah interrupted, not his chain of thought, because there were no links yet, but still: it put him on edge.

  “What are we doing here, again?” she said.

  Pirate turned to her. “A little stoned?”

  “Not much.”

  “But some,” Pirate said. “Maybe I better do the thinking for both of us. I got you your dad’s address book, remember?”

  “Of course. Thanks.”

  “Then we’re square, right?”

  She answered correctly. “Right.”

  “And that address book—we can’t just do nothing.”

  She looked confused. “I guess not.”

  The rain banged on the roof, drumrolls piled on drumrolls. Lee Ann had tried so hard to tell him the name of her killer: first actually naming him, and then—how horrified she must have been at his Goddamn right, we’ll get the bastard—even then, with just a few more breaths to go, she’d tried again, telling him to bring the address book. Why? So he could see that name, Kirk Bastien, on Johnny Blanton’s calendar; see that name and take vengeance. Why else? He would never have another partner like Lee Ann. Vengeance was his: Who had a better right?

  Pirate pulled the car over a little, angling the headlights on the gatehouse. Dark inside, unoccupied, but he saw a small sign: WHEN GUARD OFF DUTY BUZZ FOR ADMISSION. Pirate swung the car around, bringing the buzzer in reach from Norah’s side.

  “Buzz,” he said.

  “Me?”

  “You know him, right?”

  “Who?”

  He wanted to smack her. And what’s more, Pirate realized at that moment how in some way Norah’s beauty had gotten in the way of Lee Ann and him being what they could have been. But that was for later. He took a deep breath. “Kirk Bastien, who we’ve been talking about.”

  “Not really,” Norah said. “I know his brother better, but I haven’t seen him either in a few years. There are no kids up here and—”

  “How about we just buzz and see what happens?”

  Norah laughed, her mood changing quickly. “Sounds like a plan.” She slid down her window. Rain pelted in. “What do I say?”

  “Who you are.” And if that didn’t work? Pirate had no idea.

  “That’s easy,” said Norah. She buzzed.

  A woman came on the speaker, almost right away. “Yes?” she said.

  “Hi, this is Norah Jarreau.”

  There was a little pause. “Oh, hi. Not sure, but I don’t think your father’s here right now.”

  “Huh?” said Norah.

  “Were you expecting him, or—” the woman began. “Anyway, I’ll buzz you in. I’m Mindy, Duke’s, um, fiancée.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Norah said.

  Both women laughed. The buzzer buzzed. The gate swung open. Pirate, who’d had trouble following the back-and-forth, drove through.

  The driveway curved toward the lake. There were lots of buildings, but two real big ones. One had a tower at the top, the other did not. It was raining so hard Pirate couldn’t make out more than that.

  “Where?” he said.

  “Not exactly sure,” said Norah.

  “But you’ve been here.” Uh-oh. Too loud?

  Norah’s eyes were wide, like she was scared or something. “I told you—it’s been a long time. But he’s the younger brother.”

  “So?”

  “So wouldn’t the older one get the tower?” Norah said.

  “Yeah.” Norah was smart enough, when she was straight.

  “Weed has some negative effects,” Pirate said. That came without a thought, proving that he would have been a pretty good uncle after all—maybe still could be.

  “Thanks for the advice.”

  He didn’t like her tone, but a question arose in his mind, more important. “Uncles,” he said.

  “What about them?”

  “Need a brother or sister for that, correct?”

  “I guess so.”

  Pirate did have a sister, much older, unheard from in years. She lived in New Mexico, or possibly Alaska. He’d never liked her.

  Pirate drove into the parking area near the house with no tower. All at once it stopped raining, just like that.

  “Wow,” Norah.

  Had to be a good sign. They got out of the car. Pirate went around to the trunk, opened up.

  “What are you looking for?” Norah said.

  “Flashlight.”

  “I don’t think there is one.”

  “No problem,” Pirate said, closing the trunk; but not before, real quick, he grabbed the tire iron and stuck it down his pant leg.

  They walked up a seashell path to the front door. Sounds of rushing water came from everywhere. Pirate got distracted by them, was barely aware of Norah, a step or two behind him, dial
ing her cell phone.

  “Hello?” she said.

  Hello? She’d reached someone? How was that possible?

  “I’m calling for Joe Don Yeller,” she said. “Who’s this?” She listened for a few seconds and spoke again. “You’re a nurse at Mercy Hospital? I don’t—”

  The next moment, Norah was lying facedown on the seashell path, the cell phone a few feet away. Pirate stamped on the cell phone, but not on Norah. On the other hand, what to do with her? This wasn’t fair.

  Norah rolled over, sat up. She groaned in pain, but didn’t look worse for wear to Pirate; she did look scared, though, maybe even terrified.

  “Why’d you do that?” she said, her voice rising. Pirate had no experience handling hysteria, knew he’d be useless.

  He knelt down, took her by the hair, not too hard. “Have to be partners now,” he said. “Don’t fuck up.”

  But she did fuck up, big-time, screaming the loudest scream he’d ever heard. He jerked her upright and raised his free hand high. At that moment, the door of the house with no tower opened. A man stood in the doorway, lit mostly from the back, but Pirate recognized him, this blond rich guy, from that brief meeting at Vito’s—the fanciest restaurant he’d ever been in. Maybe he’d lost some weight, but Pirate knew his enemy: Kirk Bastien, mayor of Belle Ville.

  “What’s going on out there?” he said, shielding his eyes. “Norah? Is that you?” He stepped outside.

  No time for more questions, nothing left but action. Pirate let go of Norah, charged forward, reaching for the tire iron. “This is for Lee Ann,” he cried out at the top of his lungs. Bastien took a step back, raising his hands. Behind him, a tall tanned woman appeared. By that time, Pirate was in range. He swung the gleaming wet tire iron with all his might—the great rain of his strength!—and just as he did, the tall woman shouted, “Duke!”

  Duke, not Kirk? Did that mean this was the brother, and therefore the wrong guy? Why was he finding this out now, too late? Meaning too late to stop the tire iron, although Pirate was able to slow it down and alter the path a little, bringing it lower, keeping the hard steel from connecting with his forehead. Instead, it caught him somewhere in the middle of the face. Christ, what a mess. Norah had fucked up the whole tower analysis, her logic all wrong. Pirate almost threw up.