shack."Mrs. Duvall?" he called. She didn't respond. He listened for the
sound of splashing water, but heard nothing. He didn't detect any sound
or movement at all."Mrs. Duvall?"
When she failed to answer a second time, he looked around the corner,
but he needn't have worried about being a Peeping Tom. She was still
dressed, sitting on a low stool against the wall, her head bowed, her
hands lying listlessly in her lap. The bar of soap, Burke noticed, was
still in her right hand.
"What's the matter?" He approached warily. Her seeming disassociation
with her surroundings could be another trick. When he got closer, he saw
that she was shivering."I know it's cold out here, but you really should
be washing that stuff off you. The sooner the better."
"I wanted to die."
"What?"
"I wanted to "
"I heard what you said," he said testily."It's just a hell of a way to
go, drowning in that shit."
"No," she said, shaking her head, which was still tangled and wet and
matted with duckweed."When I was a little girl, I prayed every night
before I went to sleep that angels would come down and carry me to
heaven before I woke up."
He realized now that her laughter on the pier had been a symptom of
hysteria. This was phase two of it. She'd been terrified of the swamp,
of drowning, maybe of him. Should he shake her, slap her, or humor her?
He decided on the last."At one time or another, all kids pray that.
Usually when they're pissed off at their parents and want to teach them
a lesson for being so strict."
"I was ashamed."
"Of wanting to die?"
"No, of the things Angel did and made me do."
If this was an act designed to spark pity, it was a damn good
performance. She spoke in a faraway voice, sounding very much as she
must have as a child, curled up beneath the covers, imploring angels to
come down for her.
"I think that's why God took my baby. To punish me for praying for the
wrong things."
Burke had heard enough."Come on, stand up."
He pulled her to her feet and began undoing her belt buckle. If the
fabric had been dry, the oversized pants would have dropped the moment
the belt was loosened. Instead the heavy material clung wetly to her
thighs.
He dropped to his knees and pulled the pants down her legs.
"Listen, it doesn't work that way." Taking hold of one ankle, he guided
her foot from the pants leg. He did the same with the other foot.
,"God's too busy running the planet to keep scorecards on everybody.
He tossed the pants aside and went for the buttons on Dredd's old shirt,
undoing the bottom one first and working his way up. He talked to
distract himself from the smooth belly he was addressing."All that guilt
shit, it'll eat you up. Believe me, I know. So you've got to stop
thinking that you're to blame for losing your kid, or you'll get as
crazy as me. It was biology. That's all."
"You don't have to do that."
He raised his head and looked hard into her eyes and saw that she was
lucid. Her malaise had passed. He came to his feet, but his hands
remained resting lightly on her waist."You were losing it."
"I'm okay now."
"Are you sure?"
"Are you afraid to leave me alone after what I said about wanting to
die?"
"Maybe."
"If I still wanted to die, I could have let myself drown. I didn't want
to."
"I didn't want you to either. If you had, it would have been my fault
for not believing you when you told me you couldn't swim."
"And your conscience is overloaded as it is?"
He lost track of the seconds that ticked by, because he had her
undivided attention at least her gaze didn't waver from his and he was
acutely aware of her skin warming beneath his palms.
Apparently she became aware of it too, because she glanced down at his
hands, and, when she did, he released her and stepped back.
"That muck is beginning to dry," he said."It'll be hard to get off.
Lean over the railing and I'll help you wash your hair."
She looked hesitant, uneasy with that idea. A little vexed over her
diffidence, he added, "A bucket of water is heavy, especially if you're
trying to pour it over your head. Okay?"
Without any more discussion, she moved to the edge of the pier and
leaned across the railing. Burke emptied half a bucket of clean water
over her head, then worked shampoo into a good lather, scrubbing her
hair from roots to ends. He rinsed out the worst of the filth, then
shampooed a second time.
Soap suds foamed over his hands as his fingers slid up through her hair
to massage her scalp. Lava flows of bubbles ran down her nape and into
the valleys behind her ears. A strand of soapy pearls slid down her
throat, over the gold chain of her cross, and beyond, into the collar of
Dredd's ugly flannel shirt and onto what Burke knew were beautiful
breasts.
He didn't stop shampooing until the lather completely gave out, and then
reluctantly. He filled the water bucket again. Dialogue seemed
inappropriate, somehow, so he reached around and cupped her chin in his
hand and tipped it down. Slowly he poured the rainwater over her head,
moving it first to one side, then the other, guiding it by applying the
slightest pressure to her chin.
Finally the last drops trickled from the bucket.
Burke backed away. For a moment, he just stood there, staring at the
back of her bowed head, then he filled the bucket again and set it on
the pier near her feet."There's a towel behind you there on the stool.
You'll be cold when you finish. Might want to wrap up in the quilt."
Then he left her.
Inside the cabin, he stood in the center of the room, breathing hard and
pressing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. His headache had
migrated from the knot on his head to the backs of his eyeballs, where
it pulsed like a gangsta rap beat. He was sweating like it was July
instead of February.
Clumsily, he assembled the first-aid items on the table. He was
repositioning the table and one of the chairs nearer the heater when she
appeared in the doorway wrapped Indian-fashion in the quilt, a towel
turban around her head."I left my clothes soaking in the bucket.
I'll rinse them out in the morning."
He motioned for her to sit down."We might just as well do this before
you get dressed."
"All right."
When she was seated with her back to him, he pushed the quilt off her
shoulders, exposing her back. He examined the wounds and was relieved to
see that all looked closed and none showed signs of recent bleeding.
With as much detachment as possible, he dabbed each one with antiseptic,
then reapplied the salve.
They didn't speak. Nor was there any white noise to fill the
claustrophobic silence no radio or TV or traffic sounds. Nothing
alleviated the absolute quiet except their breathing.
When he was finished, he awkwardly raised the quilt
to cover her
shoulders and patted it into place."Warm enough?"
"Yes."
"I, uh, brought some stuff along. Things I thought you might need while
we're here. You'll find them in a totebag in the bathroom."
He'd known to pack for a few days when he left New Orleans for the tour
of Jenny's House. She hadn't.
"Thank you."
"Sure."
She went into the bathroom and closed the door. Burke uncapped a bottle
of water and drank nearly all of it. His arms and legs felt shaky, he
was still slightly dizzy and his ears were ringing. He blamed his
light-headedness on taking aspirin on an empty stomach, on the exertion
of saving his hostage from drowning and a boat from sinking, on the blow
to his head. He attributed it to everything except the actual cause.
When she came out of the bathroom, the towel around her head was gone,
but her hair was still wet, tucked behind her ears. She was wearing a
gray sweat suit. It was one he had bought for her before leaving New
Orleans."I would've given you that to wear this morning," he said, "but
Dredd already had you up and dressed. He wasn't in any mood for me to
undo something he'd done."
She was looking directly at him, but he got the impression that his
words weren't registering. At first he thought she might have lapsed
into another semicatatonic state, but he understood her speechless
dismay when he glanced down at her outstretched hand.
The box of body powder wasn't crystal and it didn't have a silver lid.
It wasn't nearly as fancy as the one he'd seen on her dressing table,
but it was the same fragrance, the scent he'd detected on her in the
French Market and in the confessional.
Reading the question in her eyes, he shrugged slightly and said, "The
day Father Gregory and I came calling, I snooped around."
She set the box of powder on the table and continued to stare down at it
while tracing the familiar embossed logo on the lid with the tip of her
finger."How did I ever mistake you for a priest?" Was he supposed to
answer that? He didn't know, so he said noth Still staring at the box,
she said, "That day in the confessional ..."
"Umm?"
She made a small motion of dismissal with her shoulder."Nothing."
"What?"
"Never mind."
"Go ahead. What?"
"Did you ..." She paused to take a deep breath."Did you touch my hand?"
It seemed to take a long time for her eyes to reach his. In fact, time
slowed to a standstill. Her last word hung in the air for several
secondss like the final vibrating note from a violin. When it finally
died, the silence was palpable and sweetly oppressive.
Burke's heart was beating hard and fast. Something delicate was hanging
in the balance, but he didn't dare define it. The distance between them
had miraculously dwindled, although he couldn't remember stepping closer
to her. Nor had she moved. Her hand was still on the lid of the powder
box, while the other remained motionless at her side.
It was that hand that the back of his brushed against. Barely
Withdrew. Hesitated. Touched again, and this time stayed. Hands turned
simultaneously. Palms slid against each other. Held. Held, then pressed.
Fingers slowly interlaced.
Burke bent his elbow, raising his right hand, her left. Then he rotated
his wrist, bringing her hand topside. He looked down at it marveling
over the delicacy of her skin, the slenderness of her fingers. Her third
finger in particular.
"Your wedding ring is gone," he remarked.
"It slipped off in the water."
Her wedding ring was gone. But she was still another man's wife.
Not just any man's wife, but his bitterest enemy's. If Duvall felt like
kissing her neck where a vein pulsed against the slender gold chain,
then he was entitled to do so. If he wanted to see and touch and fuck
her, he could do that, too. And that pissed Burke off, so he took it out
on her.
"You can buy yourself another diamond. With Duvall's life insurance
settlement."
"That's a horrible thing to say," she cried, jerking her hand free.
"If I really wanted to get horrible, you know what I'd do."
To her credit, she didn't recoil in fear. Rather, she tilted her chin
defiantly."Am I supposed to thank you for not raping me?"
"You're not supposed to do anything. This isn't about you. It's between
Duvall and me. All you are is bait to draw him out."
"You're doomed to fail, Mr. Basile." She shook her head and gave him a
sad smile."I understand the reasoning behind your plan, but you've
miscalculated my husband. He won't take the bait. He won't come for me.
After I've spent several days and nights alone with you, my husband
won't want me back."
He laughed shortly."Nice try." Reaching into his back pocket with one
hand, he took hers with the other.
"What are you doing?"
"Handcuffing you." He locked the manacles around her wrist with a
decisive click.
"To what?"
"To me."
Pinkie left the remainder of his muffuletta sandwich on his desk and
moved to the window of his office. Through the slats of the blinds, he
looked out across the nighttime skyline."Why in hell can't somebody find
them? They couldn't have simply vanished."
"Looks like they did," Bardo mumbled around a mouthful of his carryout
dinner.
Since the discovery of the abandoned van, there'd been no further
development in locating Basile and Remy. People monitoring public
transportation into and out of New Orleans had seen nothing. The
helicopter pilot had spotted nothing worth investigating. None of
Duvall's informants anywhere in southern Louisiana had anything to
report.
"You're sure that whore was straight with you? She didn't know
anything?"
Bardo belched behind his hand."Dixie? When I found out she'd helped
Basile, I worked her over pretty good." Pinkie turned and gave him a
pointed look. Bardo grinned."No, I didn't go that far. She's probably
back on the street by now. But I did a good enough job on her, if
she'd've known something, she would've told."
Pinkie went back to staring out the window. The city lights were
diffused by fog and mist, but he didn't really see them anyway. He was
wholly given over to his dilemma. The moment Errol called him from the
Crossroads, his perfect, structured life had toppled. His clients had
been put on hold. Judges had granted him postponements because of an
"illness in his family." His calendar had been cleared of all
appointments and social engagements. Telephone calls went unreturned
unless they related specifically to the crisis.
Goddamn Burke Basile for reducing his well-programmed life to chaos.
The bastard was going to pay, and pay huge. But where in hell was he?
Pinkie had put the fear of God into Doug Pat, but his only contribution
so far had been to report that Burke Basile's wife was out of the
country with her boyfriend, and Pinkie's people had already determined
that.
His b
uilt-in lie detector indicated that Doug Pat was telling the truth
when he said he didn't know where Basile was. Even so, Pinkie might
suspect Pat of abetting Basile, except for one thing: Pat's love for his
position transcended the high regard he had for each man in his
division, and that included his favorite, Basile. Pat wanted to advance
into the upper echelons of the N.O.P.D. He was no milquetoast, but he
wasn't stupid, either. He recognized the hazards of making Pinkie Duvall
unhappy.
After the scare they'd given Mac Mccuen, Pinkie predicted he would play
on their team. But, who knew? He might turn out to be as loyal and
trustworthy a friend to Basile as Basile had been to Kev Stuart.
"Fucking cops," he muttered.
"Come again?" Bardo asked.
"Never mind." After a moment, Bardo said, "You know, I've been
thinking."
"About what?"
"About how much Mrs. Duvall knows about our business."
Pinkie came around slowly."Meaning?"