Fat Tuesday (28 page)

He'd been introduced to it during college when he and his fraternity brothers spent beer-blurred weekends exploring its matchless miles of bayous and bogs. Looking back, he realized they'd been reckless and stupid on these adventures, but somehow they had survived with no more serious repercussions than hangovers, sunburns, and insect bites.

He had promised himself that if he ever scraped together enough cash, he'd buy a getaway place. As it turned out, his brother had split the cost of the fishing camp with him. Joe enjoyed the weekends they spent there together, but he had never acquired Burke's worshipful regard for the swamp's primitive mystique.

This morning, it looked particularly foreboding, a surreal, monochromatic landscape of water, mist, and stark, moss-laden trees, their gnarled, bare branches raised in imploring attitudes toward glowering clouds of gunmetal gray.

Through the eyes of someone who'd never been exposed to its peculiar beauty, the swamp must seem like the landscape of a nightmare.

Especially if that initiate were alone with someone she mistrusted and feared.

He glanced at her and was disconcerted to catch her staring at him.

"How did you know about my baby?"

Last night he'd been able to avoid answering. She had gazed at him for only a few wordless moments before Dredd's potion worked its magic.

Then her eyes closed, she wilted into the pillows, and fell instantly into a deep slumber.

Sometime yesterday, it had occurred to him that maybe she shouldn't be medicated so soon after a miscarriage. Could Dredd's elixirs cause cramping, more spontaneous bleeding? The possibilities were alarming.

What happened to a woman when she lost a child? How long did it take to recover, and what was involved? Damned if he knew.

Since his first consummated sexual experience at sixteen, he had charted the terrain of the female body many times. He knew his way around it very well. Certainly years of marriage had increased his knowledge. By osmosis he had acquired, and had a fair understanding of, the vocabulary. He had a rudimentary knowledge of cycles and tubal ligations and estrogen and D and Cs and hysterectomies.

He didn't want to know more. Beyond medical professionals, did any man really want to know and understand the intricacies of a woman's body?

The mysteries confined within that relatively small space had tantalized and fascinated Man since Creation. The countless galaxies hadn't inspired as much speculation, or wonder, or awe.

The secrecy was intrinsic to the allure. At least to Burke Basile it was. He didn't want his illusions dispelled. He didn't want to tamper with the poetic imagery that femininity aroused in him.

Nevertheless, he'd had to ask about her miscarriage last night.

For his own peace of mind, he had to know that Dredd's remedies wouldn't harm her.

"Answer me," she demanded now."How did you know about my baby? No one knew, except my doctor. I didn't tell a single soul."

"You told someone."

He watched her face while she puzzled through it, and knew the instant she arrived at the answer. Her lips parted on a silent gasp. Then, looking at him as though he were the Antichrist, her eyes filled with tears. One slipped over her eyelid and rolled down her cheek. He remembered the blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. This single tear was more poignant.

"You heard my confession?"

He averted his head, unable to look at her.

"How is that possible?"

"Does that matter now?"

"No. I guess it doesn't matter how you did it, you did it." After a moment, she added, "You're evil, Mr. Basile."

He didn't feel very proud of himself about it. But his guilty conscience only made him want to lash out."Casting stones, Mrs. Duvall?

That's funny. Coming from a woman who whored herself into marrying a rich man."

"What do you know about it? What do you know about me? Nothing!"

"Shh!" Burke held up his hand for quiet.

"I don't know what you think about me. I don't care "

"Shut up," he barked. He quickly turned off the boat's motor and listened.

The sound of an approaching chopper was unmistakable. Cursing, he restarted the motor, and, opening up the throttle, headed for the thickest grove of bald cypresses. The hull bumped against the knobby roots of the trees, which broke the surface like stalagmites.

Placing his hand on Remy's head, he pushed it forward and down toward her lap so she wouldn't be struck by the low branches. As soon as they were beneath the limbs, he stopped the engine again and caught hold of one of the cypress knees to keep the craft from drifting. Luckily the mist camouflaged their wake.

Remy strained against his hand, trying to raise her head.

"Be still."

He kept his palm firmly in place on the back of her head, his eyes on the sky. As he'd guessed, a helicopter appeared above the treetops, flying low. It was too small to be one of the choppers that transported oil workers to offshore rigs, and not distinctive enough to be a police helicopter. If it was a traffic helicopter, the pilot was lost because there wasn't a car for miles. It could be an instructor giving his student a bird's-eye view of the swamp, but on a foggy day what was the likelihood of that?

A closer guess was that it was a rogue outfit hired by Pinkie Duvall to look for his wife and her captor.

Reaching above her head, Mrs. Duvall tried to dislodge his hand.

"It's gone now. Let me up." She made herself heard even though her voice was muffled by the fabric of the shapeless clothes Dredd had given her.

"Stay put." He strained his ears to hear if the chopper was retreating, or if it might be coming back for a second pass.

"I can't breathe." She began to struggle in earnest."I said stay put. Just for " ...

"Let me up."

Sensing her panic, Burke released her. She tried to stand but bumped her head on a tree limb and fell back. The boat rocked dangerously, which only caused her to grab for the sides and increase the danger.

Burke took her by the shoulders."Be still, damn it. Unless you want to capsize. And I don't think you do."

He pointed his chin and she turned. A gator was gliding past not ten yards from the boat, cleaving the mist silently and malevolently, only the reptilian slits of his eyes visible above the surface.

She stopped struggling but sucked in short, rapid gasps."I couldn't breathe."

"I'm sorry."

"Let go of my arms."

Watching her warily, Burke gradually withdrew. She stacked her hands on her chest as though trying to contain its rapid rise and fall."Do. do anything else to me, but don't smother me."

"I wasn't trying to smother you. Only to keep you from hitting your head on a branch."

She looked at him retiringly."You were trying to keep me from signaling the helicopter. I'm not stupid, Mr. Basile."

"Okay, true. I pushed your head down to keep you from signaling the chopper. But don't fight me like that again. You nearly caused this damn thing to capsize. Next time we might not be so lucky."

"The last thing I want to do is wind up in the water. I can't swim."

He snorted skeptically."I'm not stupid either, Mrs. Duvall."

"That's him! That's the one. Father Gregory." Smiling triumphantly, Errol tapped his finger against the mug shot of Gregory James. For hours, he had been looking through the illegally obtained files of the N.O.P.D.

Pinkie was still skeptical, believing that Errol might have invented that part of the story to reinstate himself."Gregory James," he read from the file."No aliases. A history of arrests for public indecency.

One plea bargain and one probation." He turned to an idle gofer.

"Find out what his status is now."

"He's with Burke Basile and Mrs. Duvall," Errol said when the clerk left to do Pinkie's bidding.

"You didn't recognize Basile from the Bardo trial. Why should I think you can identify Father Gregory?"

"I'd only seen Basile from a distance. And anyway, he looked different as Father Kevin. I'm positive that's Father Gregory. He even used his own name."

Pinkie remained noncommittal."We'll see."

Errol sweated buckets before the gofer returned."It checks out Mr. Duvall. Gregory James served some jail time a few months ago. He's on probation."

"See, I told you!"

"Well, I guess I owe you an apology, Errol. Thanks to you, it seems that Father Gregory's identity is no longer a mystery."

Errol cast smiles all around. Pinkie dismissed him, but asked him to hang around in case he was needed. Errol practically bowed on his way out of the inner office, just as Bardo came in."Del Ray is driving everybody nuts. He's been here for an hour. Says he's got some vital information, but he'll only talk to you directly. Can you see him now?"

Unenthusiastically, Pinkie told Bardo to send him in.

Del Ray Jones was a crook of all trades, but his main gig was loansharking. With the advent of riverboat gambling in New Orleans, his business had boomed, elevating an ego that was already disproportionate to the man's worth.

He was a vicious, mean, weaselly little bastard who was very handy with a knife. One night he'd gotten a little carried away with one of his clients who was late on a payment and had slit his throat. That was his first and, to date, only murder. Scared spitless, he'd run to his lawyer for advice.

Pinkie had told him to keep out of sight for a few weeks, assuring him that the disappearance of one small-time gambler would create hardly a ripple in New Orleans' underworld. He'd been right. The crime remained unsolved. Meanwhile, Pinkie knew where the body was buried.

Literally.

Now that Pinkie's life was in upheaval, Del Ray was eager to return the favor and to demonstrate his loyalty and usefulness. Bardo escorted him in. Cutting to the chase, Pinkie said, "You'd better not be wasting my time."

Del Ray licked his small, sharp teeth."No, sir, Mr. Duvall.

You're gonna love this."

Pinkie doubted that. Del Ray was a self-serving hustler, a slick operator a Sachel without the panache. He would pimp for his mother if there was a dollar to be made.

But surprisingly, Pinkie's interest mounted as he listened to Del Rayss story, related in an ingratiating, high-pitched voice. When he concluded, Pinkie glanced at Bardo, who said, "Sounds good."

"It is good, Mr. Duvall," said Del Ray.

"Get on it then."

"Yes, sir." Smiling like a happy rat, Del Ray scuttled from the room.

Bardo followed him out.

Left alone, Pinkie got up and stretched his aching lower back.

Early this morning, he'd showered in his office bathroom. Roman had brought him a change of clothes from home. He was refreshed but far from rested.

His eyes were gritty from lack of sleep.

He poured himself a drink. Scorching the palate he'd cultivated for vintage wines, he quaffed some of Scotland's best export, straight up.

He sipped the second drink while thoughtfully pacing his office.

What had he overlooked? What else could he do? What favor could he call in that might expedite finding Remy and killing the son of a bitch who'd taken her?

He had utilized every available resource. He had galvanized a considerable number of men. Working with the precision of stealthy, well-trained commandos, they were combing the city and surrounding parishes, asking questions, listening to gossip. None had turned up a single clue as to his wife's whereabouts. Others were working solely on gathering information about Burke Basile, his interests, strengths, weaknesses. A helicopter had been chartered to fly low over the swamps in search of them, but so far all that had turned up was the abandoned van.

With blood in it.

Gregory James's? Probably. According to witnesses who would talk, the rednecks had hammered him good. But the van's rear window had also been shattered. Bird shot had been found imbedded in the upholstery.

It was possible Remy's blood had been shed, too. But Pinkie couldn't risk the investigation it would require to determine that. To prevent the authorities, federal and local, from becoming involved, he'd had the van destroyed.

If Remy was alive but hurt, if she was in the swamp, she would be terrified.

Or would she?

Another possibility had insidiously wormed its way into Pinkie's consciousnesst At first it had been nothing more than a tickle of a thought like the first twinges of a discomfort that couldn't be identified or localized, merely a vague uneasiness that all was not right and a premonition that it was going to get worse before it got better As the hours passed without yielding any information about Remy or her kidnapper, without receiving a call or a ransom note, the idea had begun to eat at him slowly like a cancer.

What if Remy hadn't been kidnapped? What if she had run away with Basile?

It was an absurd idea. He was appalled that his subconscious could have produced such a bizarre alternative to what seemed obvious There was no basis for it. None whatsoever. She had no cause to leave him.

He doted on her. He'd given her everything she wanted No, that wasn't entirely true.

She had wanted to be married in the Church by a priest, and he had refused. Marriage was a sacrament, a big deal to someone as religious as Remy. Pinkie had declared that was nonsense, as was most Catholicism.

Religion was for women and weak men. So they'd been married in a judge's chambers without any folderol.

To this day, in Remy's mind, they were living in sin.

Also, she'd wanted a child. Pinkie frowned with distaste at the thought of her ballooned up like a blimp. At the end of nine miserable months of puking every morning, assorted disfigurements, and lousy sex, what did you have? A baby. Jesus.

It was bad enough he had to share Remy with her kid sister. Their mutual affection was a constant source of annoyance and inconvenience.

He felt about family much as he did about religion. No selfreliant man needed it.

But the sisters' devotion to each other also worked to his advantage.

He used it like a rudder to redirect Remy whenever she veered off the course he'd set for her.