looking first at Del Ray, then at Bardo, raising his eyebrows to show
how impressed he was by the importance of this meeting. Coming back
around to Duvall, he said, "Kidnapping's a federal rap. What do you want
me to do about it?"
"It's not a mystery to be solved. I know who kidnapped her. Burke
Basile."
Even though Mac had seen it coming, had braced himself for it, even had
foretold it himself, hearing it straight from Duvall made it official
Doug Pat had been edgy since he read the newspaper account of the
strange incident at the Crossroads. He practically had snapped Mac's
head off when he asked what Pat had learned in Jefferson Parish.
Mac had plied him with questions, but Pat had refused to elaborate,
insisting that it had turned out not to be a police matter. Maybe not an
official police matter, but there was no mystery now why Pat had been
upset his fear of Basile's involvement had been confirmed.
Basile had a good reason to get revenge on Duvall. But he'd gone about
it in a damned dramatic way. Was revenge his only motive, Mac wondered.
It was disturbing to think there might be more to it than what was
obvious. But he reasoned that the best way to get information from
Duvall was to continue playing dumb.
"What makes you think Basile's got your wife? What would he want with
her? Ah," he said, feigning sudden enlightenment."Revenge for Kev
Stuart, I bet."
Duvall looked up at Bardo and shrugged in a way that made Mac nervous.
The gesture implied, I've tried to be a nice guy and it's not working.
"Mccuen, I'm tired, worried, and angry. So I'm going to come straight to
the point."
"Fine. I've got better things to do, too."
"Despite your lucrative sideline, you owe Del Ray in the vicinity of
fifty thousand dollars, isn't that right?"
Mac had found himself in a bind when the bank-card companies threatened
to cut off his credit if the outstanding balances weren't paid. He
couldn't tell Toni that he'd been gambling away his income instead of
taking care of their debts. Nor could he tell her to stop using the
overextended credit cards.
Desperate for cash, he'd sought help, which had manifested itself in the
revolting form of Del Ray Jones. Del Ray had lent him some money, which
he'd lost on the Super Bowl. Since he couldn't pay back the first loan,
Del Ray had lent him more. Then more.
He pledged now that if he left this building under his own power, with
all his limbs intact, he would never gamble again as long as he lived.
He wouldn't bet the ponies or the major sporting events. He would swear
off blackjack, craps, and poker. He'd quit cold turkey. Hell, he
wouldn't even toss a coin.
Since Duvall obviously knew about his debt already, he might just as
well own up to it."It's more like thirty-five thousand."
"After tonight it goes up to fifty," Duvall informed him."And tomorrow
it'll be more. Or ..." Here he paused to make sure Mac was listening.
"Or your debt could be canceled. Paid in full. It's your choice."
Knowing how Duvall operated, he knew the offer was too good to be true.
His heart didn't even pitter-patter with glee."In exchange for what?"
"Basile."
Mac laughed with incredulity."I don't know where he is!"
"You must have some idea."
"He didn't confide in me when we worked together," Mac said, hearing his
own voice grow thin with nervousness."He sure as hell doesn't now."
"He had dinner at your house the night before he kidnapped my wife."
Mac swallowed. Jesus, the man knew everything."It was a gesture on my
part, a goodbye dinner. That's all."
"He didn't outline his kidnap plan to you?"
"Hell, no! Look, Mr. Duvall, Basile confides in nobody. Especially since
Stuart died, he's a goddamn clam. Nobody's close to him. Not even Pat,
really. Basile's mbliner."
"Yes," Duvall snarled."And right now he's alone with my wife."
"Well, I don't know anything about it. You've wasted your time."
Mac stood and turned to leave but came face to face with Del Ray."You
could have saved yourself a trip uptown, asshole. I told you I didn't
know anything about this. You'll get your money on Friday, just like I
said."
He shoved the loan shark aside and headed for the door.
Behind him, Duvall said, "Sleep on it, Mccuen. Search your memory.
Perhaps Basile dropped a clue you don't readily remember."
Mac seized the doorknob and pulled the door open."I don't know where
Basile is. Don't bother me about it anymore."
"Mr. Mccuen?"
"What?" Mac was angry and scared. How the hell was he going to come up
with fifty thousand dollars? By Friday, no less. Even if he could talk
Del Ray into an extension, Duvall was another matter entirely. He turned
and faced the attorney with a cockiness he didn't feel."What is it,
Duvall?"
"Give my regards to your wife."
Mac's heart nearly leaped from his chest."My wife?" he rasped in a voice
as dry as mbhusk.
"Toni is such a lovely girl."
Mac shifted his gaze to Bardo, who made an obscene smacking sound with
his lips and tongue that caused Del Ray to giggle.
When Mac slowly closed the door to Pinkie Duvall's office, he was still
on the inside.
for a moment Gregory thought that he was on stage again, although the
spotlight was dim and its beam diffused. He heard applause. It seemed
different from a normal ovation, but it was sustained and that was
gratifying.
But when he blinked the spotlight into focus, he discovered that it
wasn't a theater light shining down on him after all, it was a watery
moon. What he'd mistaken for applause was actually the rhythmic thumping
of the boat as it rocked against a solid object in the water.
That obstruction could be a submerged tree trunk or the body of a
leviathan.
Gregory didn't know and was close to not caring. Paradoxically, terror
had dulled his fear.
The swamp had a timeless quality, particularly on overcast days, when
the light was the same from dawn till dusk and the only subtle variance
was the degree of the grayness. He estimated that thirty-six hours had
transpired since he'd sneaked out of Dredd's Mercantile, leaving the
bearded proprietor of that macabre place snoring in his Barc"Lounger.
Basile had been in the back room, sleeping at Mrs. Duvall's bedside
sitting upright in a chair, his chin resting on his chest. Gregory had
seen him through a window as he crept past on his way to the end of the
pier. He feared Basile even when he was sleeping, and justifiably so.
In Basile's relaxed right hand was the pistol he'd used during the
kidnapping.
Swallowing a whimper of distress, Gregory had tiptoed to the end of the
pier and stepped down into the boat, which he'd spotted earlier tied to
one of the slimy piles. He hadn't realized how small the boat was until
he unwound the rope and pushed the craft away from the pier.
In a moment of panic, he realized that he didn't even know if the damn
thing would
float. He wouldn't put it past Basile to go to the extreme
of European explorers to new worlds. To prevent their frightened and
superstitious crews from fleeing, they'd destroyed their own ships.
He considered turning back at least mbhundred times during those first
few anxious minutes in the water. Ultimately, however, he feared Basile
more than he feared the swamp. He'd chosen an unknown terror in which he
might perish over Basile, whom he knew for certain was capable of
killing him.
After about a half hour, he allowed himself to believe that Basile
hadn't punched holes in the boat and that he wasn't going to sink into
the miasma. The boat had no motor, so he propelled it through the water
with an oar until his shoulder and back muscles burned. Every strange
sound spooked him. Each moving shadow struck terror in him.
He wanted to surrender to tears and despair, but he kept rowing, blindly
pushing the boat through the alien waterways, without destination or
direction, telling himself that he would become oriented as soon as dawn
broke.
But sunrise only heightened his anxiety. Daylight revealed all the
hazards kindly concealed by darkness. Each ripple in the water caused
him to envision poisonous serpents and malevolent alligators watching
him from beneath the surface. Birds with monstrous wingspans swooped
low, squawking in vexation.
And the constancy of the terrain was enough to drive one mad. He moved
forward in the hope that just beyond the near horizon he would find an
alteration in the infernal sameness. But he put what seemed like miles
behind him, and saw no change in the landscape, only slight shifts of
light and shadow.
By noon the first day, he acknowledged that he was hopelessly lost. He
was exhausted from not having slept the night before. He felt the
effects of the beating more than right after it had happened. One of his
eyes was swollen almost shut. His breath whistled through displaced
nostrils that every once in a while dripped fresh blood. A tentative
exploration of his lips with his fingertips assured him that they were
grotesquely swollen.
Bruised inside and out, he would have given a million dollars for an
aspirin tablet, but even if he'd had one, he would have had to swallow
it dry. Thinking that within an hour or two he would find a place to go
ashore where he could revive himself with food and drink l and then hire
transportation back to New Orleans, he hadn't brought along any
provisions, including water.
Nor did he have any food, although that seemed of little consequence
when compared to the misery of knowing that he was going to die alone
and unloved in the wilderness. What an ignoble end for a boy who'd grown
up with every advantage America afforded its rich and beautiful.
Even when he happened upon what appeared to be solid ground, he never
even considered disembarking. The most horrible time of his life prior
to this past week had been a summer camp he'd been forced to attend to
toughen him up. He had failed to master even the most elementary camping
skills. After two weeks, the frustrated camp faculty called his parents
and promised to rebate the tuition if they would come and get him.
Even seasoned hunters and fishermen had become victims of the swamp,
killed either by the hostile terrain or the beasts that inhabited it.
He'd read accounts of appalling deaths. Some luckless souls had
disappeared without their families ever knowing exactly what brutal fate
had befallen them. If Gregory James couldn't hack it at summer camp, he
certainly wasn't equipped emotionally, mentally, or physically to
survive the swamp, and it would be suicidal to attempt slogging through
it on foot.
As long as he remained in the boat, he might stand a chance. It wasn't
much of a craft, but it served as a floating island of relative safety.
It protected him from direct contact with the elements, and carnivores,
and poisonous fangs.
But as the hours stretched out, his chances for survival became slimmer
and his meager hopes faded. He didn't remember at what point he
surrendered, set the oar aside, and lay down in the foulsmelling hull of
the boat to wait for Death. It might have been yesterday, because he
vaguely remembered passing another night. Had the low clouds finally
produced rain today or was that the day before? He'd lost track.
Now it was night again. The weak moon was trying to penetrate the
clouds. That was nice. A va10rous moon contributed a touch of romance to
his demise. If he went back to sleep, maybe he would dream again that he
performing to rave reviews before audiences that adored him and gave him
hour-long standing ovations.
Suddenly Gregory's dreamy doze was shattered by a light so bright it
seemed to pierce his skull. Reflexively, he threw up a hand to shade his
eyes. Words were hurled down at him, but he didn't understand them.
He tried to speak but discovered he had no voice.
Huge hands reached from beyond the glare of light and caught him beneath
his arms, hauling him up and out of the boat, then unceremoniously
dumping him onto spongy, wet earth. The mud felt blessedly soft. He
wanted to lie in the mud, pillow his cheek against it, and return to his
dream.
But he was rolled onto his back and yanked to a sitting position An
object was thrust against his lips, and he cried out in fear and pain.
Then a trickle of water filled his mouth and slid down his throat
Greedily, he began drinking, until he choked.
When his coughs subsided, he tried again to speak."Th ... thank you."
His lips felt large and rubbery, like he'd spent the day in a dentist's
chair. He ran his tongue over them and tasted blood.
The light that had awakened him had thankfully been extinguished, but
there was enough natural light for him to see that his good Samaritans
wore mud-caked boots that came to their knees. The legs of their pants
had been stuffed into them. Nonsensically it occurred to him that he'd
never worn his pants tucked into boots of any kind.
He worked the difficult equation in his head: Four boots equals two men.
They were talking together in low voices, but Gregory still couldn't
distinguish the words. He angled his head back, wishing to thank them
again for saving him, but when he saw their faces, the words died on his
swollen lips and he fainted.
"What time is it?"
At the sound of her voice? Burke turned from the stove. She was sitting
on the edge of the bed, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
"Going on six."
"I've been asleep that long?"
"Some of Dredd's medicine is still in your system."
She went into the toilet. When she came out, she poured herself a glass
of water and drank from it slowly. After a moment, she said, "Your
grease is too hot."
Admittedly, he was no master chef, but he'd fried fish before, and it
had been edible."Who made you a cook?" he asked peevishly.
"I'm self-taug
ht."
He harrumphed.
"I'm a little rusty. I don't have many occasions to cook anymore, but
I certainly know how, and if you don't turn down that flame, the
breading is going to burn before the fish is done. I'd be glad to take
over for you."
"I'm sure you would. And I'd wind up with a face full of hot grease."
"Actually, Mr. Basile, I'm hungry. I'd like something to eat before I
stage my daring escape attempt. Besides, I doubt I could lift that iron
pot using both hands."
Inside the sizzling grease, two fillets of fish were becoming way too
crisp, way too fast. He glanced down at her and reasoned that she
probably did lack the strength to disable him without also disabling
herself. So he moved aside and motioned for her to take his place.
"Did you catch the fish?"
"This afternoon."
"If you don't mind, I'll start over. Would you please take the pot off
the burner?" He did as she asked, she turned down the flame.
Using a wire spatula, she removed the charred fillets from the smoking
grease.
While it was cooling, she sifted his flour and cornmeal breading mixture