Fat Tuesday (29 page)

As soon as he had returned from Jefferson Parish, where his wife was last seen, he checked with the faculty at Blessed Heart. Without mentioning Remy's kidnapping, he inquired after Flarra and had been relieved to learn that his young sister-in-law was within the cloistered walls.

Remy wouldn't have left without taking Flarra. Which shot to hell the theory that she had run away with Basile. After all, where would she have met him? When and how could they have hatched this elaborate plan?

Pinkie shook his head in firm denial of his own misgivings. She hadn't run away, she'd been taken by force and against her will.

By Burke Basile. The son of a bitch who had laughed in his face when he'd offered him the chance of a lifetime now had his wife.

That much he knew. What he didn't know was what Basile would do with her.

But he could imagine.

Inflamed by the thought, he hurled his glass across the room, where it shattered against the wall, spattering it with expensive scotch.

Errol barged through the door to check on his safety."Get out!"

Cowed, Errol withdrew, pulling the door closed as he backed out of it.

Pinkie prowled the room as though seeking an outlet for his anger.

Since the day he'd bartered with Angel for her daughter, Remy had been his. He'd placed her in Blessed Heart to assure she would remain pure.

Her scholastic courses were necessary, but, in Pinkie's mind, secondary in importance to the other educ"Eon he had insisted upon. He demanded that she receive instruction on proper speech and etiquette, that her manners be polished, so that when he did allow her out in public she would be a glowing tribute to him.

After their marriage, he had taught her all a woman really needed to know, and that was how to please a man. He selected her clothes, her shoes, her jewelry. He had tailored her for himself, created her for his exclusive use.

The wife of Pinkie Duvall must be as perfect as his orchids, or his wine, or his career. That's why he was so angry. Remy was ruined for him now. He could never enjoy her again.

Even if Basile didn't lay a hand on her ...

But of course he would.

But even if he didn't, everyone would assume he had, which was just as bad.

How could he endure everyone assuming that his enemy had fucked his wife? He couldn't. He wouldn't. He would be a laughing stock.

No, the moment Remy was taken, she became tainted and tarnished and, as such, unacceptable.

Consequently, along with Basile, she must die.

The cabin stood on stilts, forming an island of weather-beaten wood surrounded by water the color and viscosity of pea soup "It's not the Ritz," Basile remarked as he brought the boat alongside one of the old tires attached to a piling. He climbed onto the pier tied the boat to a post, then helped her out.

"There's a pier connecting the cabin to that peninsula," he explained, motioning off to his right, "but during the winter when the water level is higher, it's submerged. It's near collapse anyway."

She looked across the channel and saw a tangled forest thick with underbrush and lined with saw grass. From where she stood, no dry ground was visible. It appeared that all the vegetation, even the trees, was growing out of water.

"How deep is the water?"

"Deep enough," he said curtly, passing up to her a brown paper bag filled with groceries."Door's unlocked. Take this in as you go."

Remy left him unloading the boat and stacking supplies onto the pier, which was about three feet above the water. Her footsteps made hollow thuds against the weathered planks as she walked toward the structure he had referred to as a cabin but which could more appropriately be called a shack. Lifting the latch, she pushed open the door. The interior was dim because all the shutters were closed. It smelled of mildew. Even in the finest homes in southern Louisiana, it was a challenge to stay ahead of the corrosive effects of living at sea level. The shack, apparently, had surrendered to them long ago.

"I warned you that it wasn't luxurious." Basile came up behind her and nudged her across the threshold."Put that sack on the table for the time being. I'll have to check for roaches before we unload."

Remy did as she was told, then gave the shack's interior a closer inspection Basically, it was one room, although there was a door onto which someone had painted a quarter moon, designating it as the toilet.

"It flushes most of the time into a septic tank over on the peninsula," he told her."And there's running water, but I suggest you drink only bottled water. To wash up, there's a cistern outside against the west wall. I don't recommend the bayou for bathing or swimming."

She shot him a dirty look over her shoulder as she went to a window and opened the louvers of the shutters. The day was still gray so the light was meager, but it alleviated the gloom somewhat.

Against one wall was an upholstered sofa that looked like a Goodwill reject. In the center of the room stood a fifties-vintage kitchen table with a laminated top and rusted chrome legs. The legs of the matching three chairs were in a similar state of corrosion, but they had bright blue vinyl seat cushions. There was a butane stove with two burners, no refrigerator.

"There's no electricity," he said, as though reading her mind.

"But we've got a heater fueled on butane and I brought a full tank from Dredd's. Are you cold?"

"Chilled."

He began tampering with the heater, she continued to get her bearings.

Beyond one chest of drawers and a few random shelves and tables, the only other significant piece of furniture was a double bed. Its exposed springs were rusty. The mattress was covered in blue and-white ticking that was hopelessly stained. Above the bed hung a wad of mosquito netting.

Even as she was looking at the bed, a stuffed pillowcase landed in the middle of it."I brought along some clean sheets," Basile told her.

"While I'm fumigating for bugs and putting this stuff away, you can make up the bed."

Grateful for the distracting chore, she shook the contents of the pillowcase onto the bed and was relieved to see that along with plain white linens, he had also included a quilted mattress cover."How long will we be here?"

"For as long as it takes your husband to find us."

"He will."

"I'm counting on it."

"Perhaps you should also count on him killing you."

He had been efficiently transferring canned foods from the brown paper sack to the crude shelving. Now he paused, placed one of the cans on the lower shelf, positioned it precisely, then slowly turned toward her.

"I think it's only fair that you know this. A few weeks ago, I held my pistol in my hand and considered blowing my brains out. The only reason I didn't is because I'm going to kill the men responsible for my friend's death. After that, I couldn't care less what happens to me."

"I think you're wrong, Mr. Basile. When it comes right down to a choice between living and dying, you'll choose to live."

"Have it your way," he said indifferently and went back to his task.

"What about your family?"

"Don't have one."

"No wife?"

"Not anymore."

"I see."

"No, you don't." He balled up the empty paper sack."I didn't tell you all that to stimulate conversation. I only told you so you would spare me and yourself any scare tactics you're planning to use. They won't work. I already know what a big bad boy your husband is.

Nothing he does will stop me from avenging Kev Stuart's death."

He tossed the sack into the corner, then walked out and returned to the boat to unload more gear. The heater was putting out a sufficient amount of warmth. Remy slipped off Dredd's plaid wool, motheaten jacket and finished making the bed. Spotting a quilt folded up in a box beneath it, she pulled out the box and removed the quilt. She sniffed it experimentally and decided that it was basically clean but could use shaking out.

She got as far as the open doorway, where she met Basile coming in, carrying a duffel bag."Where are you going?"

"To shake out the quilt."

He slung the duffel bag off his shoulder onto the pier."I'll shake it out."

He held it over the edge of the pier and shook it hard. When he was satisfied that no varmints or bugs had nested in it, he brought it back to her."It's free of vermin."

"Thank you."

When she turned away, she heard him curse beneath his breath."Put the quilt down."

'"Why, what's wrong?"

"Just do it."

Without waiting for her to comply, he took the quilt from her, tossed it onto the bed, and, in the same motion, turned her around so that her back was to him. He tugged the tail of her flannel shirt from the waistband of the pants Dredd had loaned her and, before she could protest, raised it to her shoulders, leaving her back bare.

"What are you doing?"

"The back of your shirt is spotted with blood. Some of the sores have opened up. Dredd'll have my ass if they get infected. Sit down." He pulled out one of the chrome dining chairs and, pressing her shoulder, tried to push her into the seat. She resisted."What's the matter?"

"I've been kidnapped by a man who's just stated his intention to kill several people. If I'm a little jumpy, that could be why."

He swore."I'm not going to hurt you. Okay? You can stop flinching every time I come near you. Now sit down and turn around."

She did but perched on the very edge of the seat.

Dredd had packed everything he needed in a canvas bag, which he brought to the table. Then he rolledw the back of her shirt up tightly around her neck so it would be out of his way. Remy held it in place in front by folding her arms across her chest. He dabbed the bleeding spots with a cotton ball soaked in antiseptic.

"Sting?"

"No," she lied. It stung like crazy, but she endured it stoically.

He worked methodically and in silence, first cleansing the wounds before applying Dredd's medicinal salve to each one. His movements were untrained and unsure, he didn't have Dredd's finesse or healing touch, nor did he keep up a stream of soothing chatter. The silence was more uncomfortable than the stinging.

"How often do you come here?"

"Not so often that anybody will look for me here. In case you were thinking that a friend might drop by."

"I wasn't."

"Whatever."

"Do you generally come alone?"

"Sometimes with my brother."

"It's an awfully small cabin for two men."

"We toss to see who gets the bed."

"The loser sleeps on the sofa?"

"Hmm." He snapped shut the lid on the tin of salve to signal that he was finished."The sores must've opened up when you made the bed Better take it easy for the rest of the day."

"What about me?"

"What about you?"

"Will I be tossing you for the bed?"

When he didn't answer right away, she turned her head. Her arms were still folded across her chest, but the back of her shirt remained tucked up around her neck. As she looked at him over her bare shoulder, she realized too late that her questions must have sounded to him like a provocative proposition.

"How would the wager go, Mrs. Duvall? Tails I lose and get the couch?

Heads I win and get the bed, and you?" He made a scornful sound."I guess I should be flattered, since you sell it to Duvall for much more.

But just the same, no thanks."

"Mrs. Duvall?"

Del Ray Jones thrust his face within inches of his client's."Did I stutter?"

"No, but you have a real bad habit of spraying people with your spit, Del Ray. Your mama should've put you in braces when you were little.

That overbite of yours is as good as a shower head."

Del Ray's beady eyes shrank even smaller."I'm sure if you put your mind to it and think real hard, you'll come up with some information about Mrs. Duvall."

"Mrs. Pinkie Duvall?"

"See, you already know more than you thought you did."

"Lucky guess," the other man said, making a motion with his shoulders as though to loosen them."If it's Pinkie's old lady you're referring to, I've never laid eyes on her, and don't know what the hell you're talking about."

The loan shark tilted his head and grinned in a goading way."Aw, now, come on. Don't be lying to ol' Del Ray. We've been friends for too long."

"Friends, my ass. You're not my friend. You're a pestilence."

"I'm wounded," Del Ray said, placing his hand over his heart."Do you promise you don't know anything about Mr. Duvall's wife?"

'"I promise."

"You haven't heard that she's missing?"

"Missing?"

"Good, good. That was real good. Real sincere. If I didn't know better I might actually believe that you were surprised by that piece of news."

The other man's shoulders were still tense. He fessed up."Okay, I've heard some rumors, but I don't know any facts. Now, get out of my face.

We have an appointment on Friday. I don't want to see your ugly self until then."

As his client turned away, Del Ray's hand shot out. In it was a switchblade. He pressed the tip of it against the other man's cheek.

No longer smiling not even his evil grin Del Ray said, "You could go for your gun, but your face would get fucked up before you could shoot me."

"You gave me till Friday," the man said, barely moving his lips.

"You'll get your money then."

"You've lied to me before."

"Not this time. I've already got the cash lined up."

"No shit?"

"Swear to God."

"Tell you what." Del Ray withdrew the blade and tapped the flat edge of it against his palm as though mulling over a fresh thought."If you come with me now, I might persuade someone to pay your debt for you."

"Pay my debt for me?"

"And you said I wasn't your friend. Ain't you ashamed?" The loan shark motioned his client toward a Cadillac parked at the curb."Mr. Duvall wants to talk to you."

"Pinkie Duvall wants to talk to me?"

"Yeah. And weren't it nice of him to invite you, personal like?"

"I'm glad you could make it on such short notice, Mr. Mccuen."