Fat Tuesday (32 page)

She looked back at him and saw the gun, but it didn't faze her.

"No you won't, Mr. Basile."

"Why not?"

"Because gunshots would alert someone that we're here, and you don't want that."

"Ever hear of silencers?"

That got her attention. She dropped the oar."You're no murderer.

If you sink the boat, I'll drown."

"Pick up the oar and start rowing back."

She did neither."Remember, I told you I can't swim."

"And remember I told you that I'm not stupid."

He fired the pistol, deliberately missing her, but lining up a row of perfect holes in the side of the boat an inch below the waterline.

Later, it occurred to him that she didn't scream as one might expect.

Or if she did, he didn't hear it above the squawking of birds that had already roosted for the evening in their nests in the upper branches of surrounding trees. They staged a noisy protest. Even with the silencer, the spitting sounds of the gun had seemed loud in the cottony silence of descending night.

The water leaking into the craft panicked her immediately. She tried to stop the flooding by pressing her hands against the bullet holes, but, of course, to no avail.

"You might just as well jump on in and swim back, Mrs. Duvall. Tow the boat back while you're at it."

"I can't."

"Sure you can. Just take hold of the rope and pull it behind you."

She was becoming increasingly more frantic, which looked convincing from a distance. Burke suspected a trick. She looked about as dangerous and cunning as a butterfly, but she'd fooled him too many times lunging for the side door of the van during the highspeed chase, trying to pull the key from the ignition, throwing a spatula dripping hot grease at him, and damn near braining him with a club when he came through the door of the cabin. He wasn't going to be taken in by her fragile and guileless facade anymore.

He had to admit, though, that this was her best performance yet.

She seemed in the throes of panic when she stood up, dangerously rocking the boat."Please, Mr. Basile. I'll drown."

"You're not going to drown."

"Please! " It happened when she stretched out her arm as though to grasp his hand from that distance. The boat tipped, then flipped over, spilling her into the viscous water. She splashed crazily, but sank.

And stayed under. Burke couldn't see her. Holding his breath, he anxiously scanned the water until he saw her head break the surface.

He exhaled. Another of her tricks.

But she was visible only for a second before disappearing again, gasping and thrashing on her way down. This time she didn't reappear.

"Shit," Burke whispered. Then louder: "Shit!"

Forgetting about his burning eyes, disregarding the possible concussion he'd sustained, taking no time to tug off his shoes, he dropped his pistol onto the pier and dove into the water.

It was like trying to swim through a bowl of breakfast grits. Like in a nightmare, the longer his strokes and the stronger his kicks, the less progress he seemed to make. By the time he reached the capsized boat, his muscles and lungs were on fire. Throwing his arms across the upended hull, he sucked in several huge breaths, then let go and slid beneath the surface.

He swam in widening circles, groping blindly, until he had to come up for air. When he did, he saw air bubbles breaking the surface about ten yards away. Fortifying himself with another deep breath, he lunged in that direction.

He felt her hair brush his arm like silky seaweed, but when he reached for her, his fist closed around nothing except water. His hands searched wildly until they found her. Lungs near to bursting, he wrapped his arms around her and used the slippery bottom of the bayou to give himself a push-off. The water wasn't that deep, but it was dense, and it seemed that he would never reach the surface.

When he did, he gulped air, but long before he regained his breath, he began swimming for the pier, pulling Remy Duvall behind him. She hadn't moved or resisted his lifesaving attempts as people on the verge of drowning customarily do. He was afraid to learn why. Forcing himself to look, he glanced down at her face. It was as still and white as death, covered with filth.

When he reached the pier, he was presented with another problem: how to climb up onto the pier while holding onto her. Haste was a priority.

She lay limply across his bent left arm. How long since she'd been without oxygen?

Urgency gave him the strength to reach up and grip one of the cleats with his right hand. He tried twice, unsuccessfully, to chin himself up far enough to get his right leg onto the pier. On the third try, when he swung his leg up, his heel struck the plank and he dug it in, then hung there for several seconds, trying to summon strength and convince his muscles that they could do what he was about to demand of them.

With Herculean effort, he worked his right foot along the pier until it, too, could be used as leverage. Eventually, using his right hand and elbow, right foot and knee, he pulled himself up. When his belly touched the planks, he expelled a near-laugh of relief.

He pulled Remy Duvall up and stretched her out on the pier.

Strands of hair clung to her lips. These he pushed aside and began immediately to administer CPR. Push push push, rest. One two three rest. Close the nostrils, breathe into the mouth. Push push push, rest. How long had it been? She had been under no more than twenty seconds when he jumped in. Okay, maybe thirty. Add the forty-five seconds, maybe more, for him to swim to the boat. One minute beneath the surface.

That added up to, how long?

Push push push, rest. Push push She coughed up water. Laying his hand along her cheek, he turned her head to the side so she wouldn't choke as she heaved up the water she'd swallowed. It took several minutes for her breathing to return to normal and the bluish tint on her lips to fade.

When she opened her eyes, he was in her direct line of vision.

There was no way she could avoid looking at him, no way he could avoid the accusation in her gaze."I'm sorry. I didn't believe you. I thought it was a trick." He couldn't think of anything else to say, so he repeated, "I'm sorry."

Wearily, he pushed himself to his feet and looked across the dark water. Because it had capsized, the boat was still afloat. If it wasn't retrieved, they'd be in trouble. He had to do something now, before total exhaustion set in and he was incapable of moving. For the second time, he dove into the water.

The milk of human kindness wasn't exactly flowing through every vein, but at least they hadn't killed him. Yet.

Gregory made every attempt to appear harmless, which wasn't difficult, because he wasn't only harmless, he was utterly helpless.

Besides, he doubted Old Nick himself could have intimidated these folks.

They might slit his throat for entertainment, but not because they felt threatened.

As for himself, his bowels were quaking with terror. They could probably smell his fear over the tantalizing aroma of the gumbo that bubbled in a pot on the cook stove. The woman of the house brought him a bowl of it, ungraciously setting the crockery down on the table with a decisive thunk.

She was no friendlier than the menfolks her husband and teenage son, Gregory surmised who'd virtually dragged him through the woods to this house where the woman and two younger girls had subjected him to suspicious scrutiny. He supposed he should be grateful that he'd been rescued before he became gator chow, or succumbed to hunger, thirst, or exposure.

They'd saved him from the perils of the swamp, but their hospitality left much to be desired. At any moment their misgivings could give rise to menace. These were the kind of people you did not mess with.

The movie Deliverance came to mind.

Trying to establish a friendlier mood, he smiled up at his hostess.

"This looks delicious. Thank you, ma'am."

She practically snarled, revealing a gap where several teeth should have been. She said something to her husband in Cajun French. He grunted a surly response. The children were as taciturn as their parents.

They stood by silently and watched Gregory spoon the gumbo into his mouth.

He was ravenous, but after a couple of bites, he realized that he should have given the gumbo a trial run before gobbling. It was dark and thick with various shellfish, onion, tomatoes, okra, and rice, but the cook had been liberal with spices that seared his esophagus.

After taking a long drink of water, he ate more slowly. His stomach had shrunk over the last couple of days, so he got full quickly and finished only half the portion."Thank you very much," he said, patting his tummy."It was delicious, but I'm full."

Without comment, the woman removed the bowl and his utensils but left his glass of water. The man sat down across from him. He was a hairy cuss. Coarse black hair sprouted from his nostrils and ears and knuckles. The hair on his head had been plastered down by his dozer cap, but his chin was obscured by a thick beard that extended all the way down his neck to meld with the pelt that filled the V of his collar.

"What's your name?"

Gregory, upon hearing him speak English for the first time, stammered, "Uh, Gregory."

"Father Gregory?"

Momentarily taken aback, Gregory then remembered that he was still wearing the reversed collar."Uh, yes. Yes. Father Gregory." A priest might be treated with deference. For instance, his death might be quick and painless as opposed to slow and torturous.

His lie evoked the hoped-for response. Impressed to have a man of God in their midst, they began talking excitedly among themselves.

Eventually the head of the house whistled shrilly and the others fell immediately silent.

He eyed Gregory with blatant distrust."What happened to your face?"

"Tree branch."

Two eyebrows that looked like caterpillars glued to his forehead came together to form a suspicious furry frown.

"See, I got lost," Gregory said. Their expressions remained immutable.

He elaborated."I, uh, a friend and I were camping. He went on ahead in the car with our supplies. I was supposed to take the boat and meet him at a designated spot. But I got lost. Wasn't watching where I was going and plowed right into a tree. Knocked myself silly. I drifted for I don't know how long until the boat got caught up where you found me." He formed the sign of the cross between them."Bless you, my friend."

Then, to cap off the monologue, he added, "My fellow priest is probably worried sick by now. He's probably organized a search party."

The hirsute man looked up at his wife and grunted noncommittally, she sucked the empty space where an incisor should have been.

Gregory took their rejection hard. He felt like crying. He'd reached rock bottom, leaving him only one viable option throwing himself on the mercy of his parents. They'd washed their hands of him a dozen times, but they always came through when the situation was desperate, and he couldn't imagine a situation more desperate than this.

Surely he could think of something to tell them that would strike a chord of parental concern, or, short of that, obligation. After all, they'd spawned him. They would gladly finance a trip. Maybe to Europe or the Orient. They would send him far, far away just to get rid of him and avoid any embarrassment his presence in New Orleans might cause them.

He would leave tomorrow. His daddy could make it happen. In a matter of hours, he would be safely away from Burke Basile and Pinkie Duvall and the whole damnable mess. He rued the day he had become involved, but now he'd seen the light and salvation was only a telephone call away.

"You've been awfully kind. Now, if I could please use your phone "

"No phone," the man said brusquely.

"Oh, okay." There was a telephone in plain sight not ten feet away on the kitchen wall, but Gregory thought it prudent not to point that out, especially since another heated family discussion was underway. He knew a smattering of French, but none he'd studied sounded like this, so he was unable to follow the debate that continued until, again, the father motioned for silence.

"You'll marry that boy there."

Gregory stared at him with misapprehension."I beg your pardon?"

He pointed to the stocky youth who had assisted in the rescue."He wants to get married. You'll marry him, oui?"

The gumbo was bubbling again, this time in Gregory's stomach. He'd eaten too much after days of fasting. He was sweating as profusely as the lady of the house, who kept mopping her upper lip with the dish towel slung over her shoulder.

This situation was becoming trickier by the minute. To get out of it alive would require all his acting skills. The boy looked about eighteen and promised to be as hairy as his father in a few years.

Gregory smiled at him benevolently."You want to get married, my son?"

The boy glanced at his father to answer for him.

The bearded man startled Gregory by barking an order in Cajun French.

A door off the main room opened and an impossibly young girl emerged That is, impossibly young to have her belly swollen by an advanced pregnancy.

"Oh, Jesus," Gregory groaned, and not in prayer.

Burke towed the boat back to the pier, swimming about as agilely as a man with an anvil tied to his neck. His head felt like it had been pounded with a meat mallet. When he reached the pier, it cost him reserve amounts of energy to pull the boat from the water. He retrieved the pistol he'd emptied into the hull, but he didn't immediately assess the damage. Right now he was less concerned about Dredd's boat than Duvall's wife.

She was where he'd left her, but she had turned onto her side and drawn her knees up to her chest, probably for warmth. When he leaned over her, his clothes dripped water onto her face. She didn't move. He pushed his hand into her shirt and touched her throat to assure himself there was a pulse.

"Why didn't you make it easy on yourself and let me drown?" Only after she had spoken did she open her eyes.

"You're no good to me dead," he said in a husky voice. Now, having had time to think about how close she'd come to dying, he was weak with relief.