Read Online DR08 - Burning Angel by James Lee Burke - Free Book Online
Authors: James Lee Burke
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electric illusion of middle-aged health down in the Sunbelt.
For Julia Bertrand was at the club every day, played a mean eighteen as well as game of bridge, was always charming, and was often the only woman remaining among the male crowd who stayed at the bar through supper time. Her capacity was awesome; she never slurred her words or used profane or coarse language; but her driver's license had been suspended twice, and years ago, before I was with the sheriff's department, a Negro child had been killed in a hit-and-run accident out in the parish. Julia Bertrand had been held briefly in custody. But later a witness changed his story, and the parents dropped charges and moved out of state.
She bent over the ball, the breeze ruffling her pleated skirt against her muscular thighs, and putted a ten-footer, plunk, neatly into the cup. From the wood bench she picked up her drink, which was filled with fruit and shaved ice and wrapped with a paper napkin and rubber band, and walked toward me with her hand extended. Her smile was dazzling, her tinted contacts a chemical blue-green.
“How are you, Dave? I hope we're not in trouble,” she said. Her voice was husky and playful, her breath heavy with nicotine.
“Not with me. How you doing, Julia?”
“I'm afraid Dave's doing pro bono for Bertie Fontenot,” Moleen said.
“Dave, not really?” she said.
“It's gone a little bit beyond that,” I said. “Some peculiar things seem to be happening out at your plantation, Moleen.”
“Oh?” he said.
“I went jogging on your place Friday night. I hope you don't mind.”
“Anytime,” he said.
“Somebody dropped a rusted leg iron on my truck seat.”
“A leg iron? Well, that's interesting, isn't it?” Moleen said, and drank from his glass. His long legs were crossed, his eyes impossible to read behind his sunglasses.
“Somebody was running a dozer blade through that grove of gum trees at the end of Bertie Fontenot's lane. It looks to me like there might have been some old graves in there.”
“I'm not quite sure what you're telling me or why, but I can tell you, with some degree of certainty, what was in there. My great grandfather leased convicts as laborers after the Civil War. Supposedly there was a prison stockade right where those gum trees are today.”
“No kidding?” I said.
“A bad chapter in the family history, I'm afraid.”
“Oh, it was not. You liberals love collective guilt,” Julia said.
“Why would somebody want to put a leg iron in my truck?”
“Search me.” He took off his sunglasses, folded them on his knee, yawned, and looked at a distant, moss-hung oak by the fairway. “It was probably just my night for strange memorabilia. Somebody left a dog tag on the windowsill of my bait shop. It belonged to a guy who flew a slick into a hot LZ when I was wounded.”
“That's quite a story,” he said. He gazed down the fairway, seemingly uninterested in my conversation, but for just a moment there had been a brightening of color in his hazel eyes, a hidden thought working behind the iris like a busy insect. “This guy got left behind in Laos,” I said. “You know what, Dave?” he said. “I wish I'd behaved badly toward people of color. Been a member of the Klan or a white citizens council, something like that. Then somehow this conversation would seem more warranted.”
“Dave's not out here for any personal reason, Moleen,” his wife said, smiling. “Are you, Dave?”
“Dave's a serious man. He doesn't expend his workday casually with the idle rich,” Moleen said.
He put a cigar in his mouth and picked a match out of a thin box from the Pontchartrain Hotel. “Police officers ask questions, Moleen,” I said. “I'm sorry we have no answers for you.”
“Thanks for your time.
Say, your man Luke is stand-up, isn't he?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Bertie Fontenot's nephew. He's loyal. I'd swear he was willing to see his sister and aunt and himself evicted rather than
For Julia Bertrand was at the club every day, played a mean eighteen as well as game of bridge, was always charming, and was often the only woman remaining among the male crowd who stayed at the bar through supper time. Her capacity was awesome; she never slurred her words or used profane or coarse language; but her driver's license had been suspended twice, and years ago, before I was with the sheriff's department, a Negro child had been killed in a hit-and-run accident out in the parish. Julia Bertrand had been held briefly in custody. But later a witness changed his story, and the parents dropped charges and moved out of state.
She bent over the ball, the breeze ruffling her pleated skirt against her muscular thighs, and putted a ten-footer, plunk, neatly into the cup. From the wood bench she picked up her drink, which was filled with fruit and shaved ice and wrapped with a paper napkin and rubber band, and walked toward me with her hand extended. Her smile was dazzling, her tinted contacts a chemical blue-green.
“How are you, Dave? I hope we're not in trouble,” she said. Her voice was husky and playful, her breath heavy with nicotine.
“Not with me. How you doing, Julia?”
“I'm afraid Dave's doing pro bono for Bertie Fontenot,” Moleen said.
“Dave, not really?” she said.
“It's gone a little bit beyond that,” I said. “Some peculiar things seem to be happening out at your plantation, Moleen.”
“Oh?” he said.
“I went jogging on your place Friday night. I hope you don't mind.”
“Anytime,” he said.
“Somebody dropped a rusted leg iron on my truck seat.”
“A leg iron? Well, that's interesting, isn't it?” Moleen said, and drank from his glass. His long legs were crossed, his eyes impossible to read behind his sunglasses.
“Somebody was running a dozer blade through that grove of gum trees at the end of Bertie Fontenot's lane. It looks to me like there might have been some old graves in there.”
“I'm not quite sure what you're telling me or why, but I can tell you, with some degree of certainty, what was in there. My great grandfather leased convicts as laborers after the Civil War. Supposedly there was a prison stockade right where those gum trees are today.”
“No kidding?” I said.
“A bad chapter in the family history, I'm afraid.”
“Oh, it was not. You liberals love collective guilt,” Julia said.
“Why would somebody want to put a leg iron in my truck?”
“Search me.” He took off his sunglasses, folded them on his knee, yawned, and looked at a distant, moss-hung oak by the fairway. “It was probably just my night for strange memorabilia. Somebody left a dog tag on the windowsill of my bait shop. It belonged to a guy who flew a slick into a hot LZ when I was wounded.”
“That's quite a story,” he said. He gazed down the fairway, seemingly uninterested in my conversation, but for just a moment there had been a brightening of color in his hazel eyes, a hidden thought working behind the iris like a busy insect. “This guy got left behind in Laos,” I said. “You know what, Dave?” he said. “I wish I'd behaved badly toward people of color. Been a member of the Klan or a white citizens council, something like that. Then somehow this conversation would seem more warranted.”
“Dave's not out here for any personal reason, Moleen,” his wife said, smiling. “Are you, Dave?”
“Dave's a serious man. He doesn't expend his workday casually with the idle rich,” Moleen said.
He put a cigar in his mouth and picked a match out of a thin box from the Pontchartrain Hotel. “Police officers ask questions, Moleen,” I said. “I'm sorry we have no answers for you.”
“Thanks for your time.
Say, your man Luke is stand-up, isn't he?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Bertie Fontenot's nephew. He's loyal. I'd swear he was willing to see his sister and aunt and himself evicted rather than
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