Unfortunately he'd miscalculated. It was now apparent that the
Crossroads was a happy-hour watering hole for blue-collar workers who
knocked off early and stopped here for a brew or two on their way home.
The cafe was far more crowded than he had planned on it being.
Cajun music blared from the jukebox that hadn't even been playing when
he was here yesterday. Every table and booth was occupied, as well as
every stool at the counter. Another problem was the demographics of the
clientele. With the exception of the two priests, the babe, and the
bodyguard, they were testosterone-powered, redneck regulars.
The center of their attention was Pinkie Duvall's wife.
Every man in the place was licking his chops, some literally, some
figuratively, but all seemed to be pondering what a crotch-throb like
her was doing in the company of two men of God and a meathead.
However, Errol wasn't as stupid as he looked."Mr. Duvall isn't gonna
like this," he said, glaring back at one of the gawking rednecks "I
called the house. Roman was out on an errand, but he's expected back in
about ..." he checked his wristwatch "twenty more minutes."
"We'll be able to drive the van by then."
Burke's reassurance did nothing to assuage Errol's apprehension or to
calm Gregory's jitters. Beneath the table his leg was bouncing up and
down as rapidly as the motorized needle on a Singer. The nervous motion
was driving Burke to distraction, and he was on the verge of telling him
to cut it out when Gregory scooted his chair back and stood up.
"Excuse me." He left the table and headed for the men's room.
"Maybe I ought to call Mr. Duvall?" Errol ventured, putting it to Mrs.
Duvall in the form of a question."He could send Bardo or somebody after
us."
"I'd rather not bother him," she said.
"You're worrying for nothing, Errol." Burke's facial muscles strained to
smile like a benevolent cleric."The mechanic promised it wouldn't take
more than ten minutes to patch the hose. As soon as Mrs. Duvall finishes
that second cup of coffee, we can be on our way. All right?"
"I guess," Errol grumbled."All I know is, Mr. Duvall isn't going to
"Goddamn faggot!"
The shout was underscored by shattering glass. Like everyone else in the
cafe, Remy Duvall and Errol turned to see what had caused such an
outburst. Burke shot to his feet."Shit!"
Gregory lay whimpering on the floor, doused in spilled beer, and
cowering from the man who reached down and grabbed him by the nape of
his neck and his belt and jerked him to his feet.
In a rough, uncultured, and unmerciful voice, he told the room at large,
"There I am, taking a piss, and I look over, and this twisted fuck is
waving it at me." He planted his boot on Gregory's backside and sent him
crashing into another table."I'm gonna make the little fucker wish he
was dead."
The three men into whose table Gregory had careened were now on their
feet. They grabbed him in turn, throwing punches and hurling insults.
Before long, two others had joined in.
Over his shoulder, Burke said to Errol, "Get her out of here. I'll meet
you at the van."
Then he elbowed his way through the homophobic crowd. Everyone was on
their feet, some standing in chairs, yelling encouragement to the men
who were pummeling Gregory. When Burke reached the epicenter of the
melee, he plunged in and managed to do some damage to most of the
attackers until he came face to face with the object of Gregory's
desire. Love must truly be blind, Burke thought, because this was one
ugly son of a bitch and every solid, bulky inch of him was bristling
with rage.
His fist connected with Burke's chin and sent him flying backward.
"You another one?" He bore down on Burke."You goddamn perverts that hide
behind your backward collars make me want to puke."
He bent down to pick up Burke and deliver more. But when his red,
temper-congested face was mere inches away from Burke's, his progress
and land on top of Burke.
He'd been halted by Burke's pistol, the barrel of which was digging
into the beefy forehead, which Burke used as leverage as he came to his
feet.
"Back off, asshole."
"Wha "
"Call off your friends, or the next sacrament you receive will be
last rites."
By now several of the others had noticed that the priest was holding
their friend at gunpoint. Shock, more than fear, immobilized them.
Within moments, all activity ceased, and the only sound in the room,
except for the lively music coming from the jukebox, was Gregory's
blubbering.
"Move over there." The redneck obeyed Burke instantly, stumbling over
his own big feet, his arms raised. Speaking calmly to the ring of
hostile faces, Burke said, "Don't anybody do anything stupid." He inched
toward Gregory and nudged him with his foot."Get up."
Gregory covered his head with his arms and began to sob even louder.
Burke was tempted to lay into the young man himself.
Instead he gritted his teeth and said, "So help me God, if you don't get
up and move toward the door, I'm going to leave you here for them to do
with as they please. Before they're finished you'll be begging to go
back to jail."
The warning worked. Still whimpering, Gregory pulled himself to his
feet."I'm sorry. I "
"Shut up."
"Okay, just don't leave me." He wiped his bleeding face on his sleeve
and staggered toward the exit.
- Burke, sweeping the room with his extended gun arm, moved backward
toward the door."We're leaving now. We don't want any more trouble No
harm was done. Just go on about your business."
When he reached the door, he shoved Gregory through it, then followed
him out. He was relieved to see the van, engine running.
"Get in the
van," he shouted as he jogged toward the office of the filling station
where he could see Errol speaking into the telephone and gesturing
broadly.
Burke charged through the door and plucked the telephone receiver from
the bodyguard's hand, then knocked him on the temple with it. The blow
wouldn't do much damage, but it stunned Errol long enough for Burke to
grab Remy Duvall's arm and pull her after him toward the door.
She struggled to free her arm."What are you doing?"
A woman customer, who'd been paying for her gas, let go an earpiercing
scream. The attendant reached behind the counter for what Burke knew
must be a weapon."Don't!" he shouted. The attendant froze. The aging
hippie mechanic, standing in the open doorway that connected the office
to the garage, was wiping his hand on a shop rag and saying repeatedly,
"Far out."
Burke backed out of the office. Pinkie Duvall's wife was fighting to get
free. He wrapped his arm around her waist and hauled her backward toward
the van. She dug in her heels and flailed her arms, but she was no match
for him, although her high heels connected solidly with his shins
several times and caused him to curse in pain. She raked her long
fingernails over the back of his hand "Stop it!" Tightening his grip
around her midriff, he said close to her ear, "You can fight all you
want, but it won't do any good. You're coming with me."
"Why are you doing this? Let go of me."
"Not a chance."
"My husband will kill you."
"More than likely. But not today."
He opened the driver's door of the van and boosted her up, then
scrambled in behind her. As he pulled the door shut, he shifted into
drive and stamped the accelerator to the floor. The tires laid rubber on
the pavement as the van lurched forward. Burke took a hard right turn
onto one of the state roads and directly into the path of an oncoming
tanker. The rig missed the van by a hair.
Gregory was screaming, praying, and cursing in noisy cycles. Burke
shouted at him to shut up."Goddamn it! What were you thinking? You could
have gotten us all killed!"
"This is your fault, not mine," Gregory sobbed."What are you doing with
a gun? You didn't say anything about a gun."
"You should be damned glad I had it so I could save your sorry ass.
Although why I did, I don't know."
Suddenly Mrs. Duvall, who was still sharing the driver's seat with
Burke, raised the armrest and dove between the two captain's chairs.
She lunged for the handle of the sliding-panel door on the right side of
the backseat."Stop her," Burke yelled.
Gregory was in bad shape, but too afraid of Burke not to do as he was
told. He plunged between the seats and threw himself on top of Remy,
grabbing a handful of her hair."U'm thorry, U'm thorry." His lips were
already grotesquely swollen, and his nose was a bleeding, pulpy mess.
"He's mean. I don't want to hurt you. But if I don't do what he says,
I'm afraid he'll kill me."
"I understand," she said with amazing
composure."Just please let go of my hair."
Burke addressed her over his shoulder."Nobody's going to hurt you if you
cooperate. Okay?" She gave him a terse nod, but he doubted her
sincerity."At this speed, you'd kill yourself," he said, warning her of
the danger if she tried to leap from the van.
"I understand."
"Good. Gregory, let her go and get back in your seat. You," he said to
her, "sit here between us on the floor."
Gregory clambered back into his seat. Burke was tense until she was
safely between the captain's chairs."Who are you?" she asked.
Her eyes were teary and wide with fear. Her face had been leached of
color. To further emphasize her paleness, there was a trickle of blood
in the corner of her lips. Had she bitten them? Or had he accidentally
hit her during their scuffle?
Uncomfortable with the thought, Burke returned his eyes to the road, and
it was a good thing he did, because in the rearview mirror he saw a
pickup truck racing toward them.
"Damn it!" What else could possibly go wrong? Both Gregory and Mrs.
Duvall were bleeding, and he had a pickup full of pissed-off rednecks
about to climb up the van's exhaust pipe."Gregory, take the gun."
"Huh? Why?"
"Look behind us."
Gregory glanced at the side mirror on the door and shrieked when he saw
the pickup barreling toward them. The man from the rest room was
standing up in the bed of the pickup, leaning forward against the cab.
He was using the roof of it to support a shotgun, which was aimed at the
van. He warbled a blood-curdling yell. Several cronies were riding in
the back of the pickup with him, and the cab was packed full of
fire-breathing fag-bashers.
"Oh, Jesus. Oh, God," Gregory wailed."I'm going to die."
"I'm going to kill you myself if you don't pull yourself together,"
Burke shouted."Take the gun!" He stretched his arm across Mrs. Duvall and
pushed the pistol into Gregory's trembling hands.
"I've never fired a gun before."
"All you have to do is point it and pull the trigger." Burke was hoping
this ridiculous chase wouldn't result in an exchange of gunfire.
He was hoping he could stay far enough ahead of the pickup to avoid
that. The van was no speed machine, and at any minute the hasty patch
job on the radiator hose could become a critical factor. But the pickup
was heavy. With its extra load, it wouldn't be performing at maximum
capacity, either.
Eventually the angry mob might grow tired of the chase and figure that
their time was better spent back at the cafe drinking another round of
beers. Or Burke might be able to elude them once it got dark.
Or they might chase them until they caught them and kill them all.
The pickup continued to gain until it seemed it was riding on their rear
bumper. Burke swerved in front of it to keep it from pulling up
alongside. Then he swerved to the other side of the road when they
approached from that direction. It soon became a contest to see which
driver could outmaneuver the other. Burke concentrated on staying ahead
of the pickup while keeping the van on the narrow road. One mistake and
they would plunge into the foreboding swamp that extended away from the
road on either side.
He was concentrating so hard on his driving that he didn't notice Mrs.
Duvall's outstretched hand until it was almost too late to stop her from
pulling the key from the ignition. His hand shot out and covered hers.
She yelped in surprise and pain as the key ring dug into her palm.
"Let it go," Burke ordered. He was now driving with only one hand, and
the van veered onto the shoulder, sending up a shower of gravel and
almost making him lose control. Gregory screamed in fright.
"You're going to get us killed!" Mrs. Duvall shouted."Stop the van.
I'm sure they'll reason with us."
"Are you crazy, lady? Him and me they'll kill and feed to the
alligators. You they won't kill until they've all taken a turn. Now let
go of the goddamn key, and we might just stand a " A blast from the
shotgun shattered the rear window. Gregory screamed again and dove to
the floor, although the shot was widely scattered and the high backs on
the seats served as protection from flying glass. To Mrs. Duvall's
credit, she didn't scream, but she immediately released the ignition key
and ducked to the floor.
Burke ground his foot against the accelerator, although it was already
on the floor. The van wouldn't go any faster, so it surprised him to see
the pickup receding in his mirror. It took a moment for him to realize
that it was slowing down. Firing the shotgun had been their last parry.
The rednecks were calling it quits.
The truck shrank to a pencil dot in his mirrors, but Burke didn't let up
on the accelerator. When he reached his turnoff, he took it on two
wheels. His eyes stayed on the mirrors for another few minutes, but when
it became apparent that the pursuit was over, he said, "You can get up
now. They've decided we're not worth the effort."
Moaning, Gregory pulled himself back into his seat. He hardly resembled
the handsome man who'd started out that day impersonating
a priest. His
bruised features were distorted with swelling and covered with clotted
blood.
By contrast, the blood on the back of Mrs. Duvall's jacket was bright
red.
Pinkie opened the passenger door of Wayne Bardo's car before it came to
a complete stop. A sheriff's unit had already arrived, he noticed, and
that was unfortunate but he would deal with it. He spotted Errol
standing against an exterior wall with his shoulders hunched, hands deep
in his trouser pockets, looking like he might burst into tears at any
moment.
He didn't see Remy anywhere about and hoped that meant she had been
given refuge in a private office inside the building. That his wife had
been even remotely involved in a barroom brawl was unthinkable.
The newspapers would have a field day.
As he made his way toward Errol, he ordered Bardo to locate Remy and get
her to the car."The sooner we're out of here, the better."
Bardo angled off in the direction of the filling-station office, where
the sheriff was questioning witnesses. Pinkie confronted Errol.
"What happened?"
"The ... the ... the van broke down. I told him to stop here "