Fat Tuesday (30 page)

Mac stepped into Pinkie Duvall's high-rent inner sanctum. Del Ray Jones and Wayne Bardo followed at his heels. If this wasn't the lion's den, he didn't know what was. And guess who was Daniel. The odds were definitely with the house.

Trying to appear nonchalant, he sat down in the chair indicated.

Bardo and Del Ray took up posts at each of his shoulders. He looked the attorney squarely in the eye."Well, here I am, Duvall. What do you want?"

"I want my wife back."

"Back?" Mac forced a laugh."You've lost her? Huh? Well, I don't have her, but you're welcome to frisk me."

He could tell Duvall didn't appreciate his sense of humor."It's no laughing matter, Mccuen. She's been kidnapped."

"The hell you say?" he exclaimed. He swiveled his head up and around, 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 was in the spotlight, starring in the hottest new play on Broadway, 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?"