Fat Tuesday (36 page)

It was becoming impossible for him to ignore the desire she aroused in him, and had since the first time he laid eyes on her. That night, he'd experienced a surge of lust that hadn't abated even when he discovered that the ethereal goddess in the gazebo was the wife of Pinkie Duvall.

When he realized who she was, why hadn't he had the good sense to find some nice obliging woman and spend the night with her, just to take the edge off? The last few months of his marriage, he and Barbara hadn't been intimate, so he'd had lots of time to build up a full head of steam. He should have taken Dixie up on her offer of a freebie. Or Ruby Bouchereaux. An hour with one of her talented girls would have done him a world of good. But he'd said no thanks. What was he, nuts?

Although he feared that even an experienced whore using every carnal trick in the book wouldn't have put out this particular fire.

Where the devil was Duvall?

Was the power he reputedly wielded just so much hype, part of a promotional campaign to inspire fear in his enemies? Was his army of mercenaries fictitious? If they were in fact real, were they a bunch of incompetents? Or was Burke Basile a kidnapper without equal? Did he have a knack for it, unrealized until now?

For whatever reason, the bottom line was that he was now entering the fourth day with his hostage, and it was getting harder, not easier, to remain objective about the outcome of this situation.

He tossed the dregs of his coffee out into the rain."Are you hungry?"

"Yes. We never got around to eating dinner last night." He shot her a look that said, And whose fault is that? But what he actually said was "I'll see what we have."

Burke inventoried their stock of canned goods taken from the shelves of Dredd's Mercantile."Along with bread and crackers we have sardines, beer nuts, tuna fish, mustard greens, chili, tomato soup, potted meat, beans, Beefaroni, pineapple, more beans, and peanut butter."

"Mustard greens?"

"I guess even outdoorsmen need roughage."

"I'll have a peanut butter sandwich and some pineapple." While they were eating, he asked about the wounds on her back."I checked them in the mirror over the basin in the bathroom," she told him."I think they're healing. Do you think it's necessary to treat them again?"

"Dredd'll never let me hear the end of it if they get infected.

Better let me see to them, at least through today."

"Maybe I could do it myself."

Having reached for her empty paper plate, he dropped it back onto the table."Oh, I get it. It's not the medication you object to, it's having me touch you."

"I didn't say "

"My hands are as clean as Bardo's, and you didn't seem to mind having him paw you, so don't pull this shit on me."

"Bardo?" she exclaimed.

"Yeah, I saw you in action with him in the gazebo the night he was acquitted. Duvall hosted the party, but you and Bardo were having quite a celebration of your own."

"I don't know what you thought you saw, Mr. Basile, but you're wrong."

"I saw enough. I left before it got really embarrassing." He scraped his chair back and stood up quickly."And don't think I haven't noticed how you cross your arms over your chest like I'm going to steal a peek at your tits. I've seen them about to fall out of your dress, so I know this sudden rash of modesty is a goddamn act. It isn't going to make me feel any kinder toward you, Mrs. Duvall. In fact, it pisses me off."

Concluding his speech there, he marched from the shack. Rain or shine, he had to get that damn boat back into service.

Before opening his eyes, Gregory tried convincing himself that he'd been having one hell of a wild dream. He'd drunk too much the night before, or smoked some strong Panama red, or done something that had caused his subconscious to invent a bizarre adventure involving Burke Basile, Pinkie Duvall, a hermit who lived in the swamp and skinned alligators, a beautiful woman, and, to round out this weird ensemble of characters, he himself had played the role of a priest. Thank God the nightmare was over.

But when he opened his eyes, they weren't greeted by the louvered shutters on the windows overlooking the courtyard behind his townhouse.

Instead he saw a pair of ugly curtains hanging unevenly from an oxidized brass rod. Meager gray light leaked through the faded calico.

Raindrops as heavy as sinkers dripped from the eaves of the house in which he'd spent the night.

He had blessed his rescuers for saving him. He had thanked them profusely for their hospitality. They, in turn, had asked his blessing on their son and his pregnant second cousin. Father Gregory, having no alternative that he could see, had agreed to perform a wedding ceremony.

It was planned for today. He hoped he remembered all the words.

Seminary seemed eons ago. But then so did all his life prior to the night Basile had arrested him in that men's room in City Park.

Gregory cursed his rotten luck. What had compelled him to cruise the park that evening? Why hadn't he gone to the movies instead?

It wouldn't have mattered, he thought dismally as he pulled on his soiled clothes. Sooner or later Basile would have conscripted him to fight in his private war against Pinkie Duvall. Basile had needed someone with Gregory's unique combination of qualifications. If Basile hadn't accosted him in the park, it would have been somewhere else.

After checking his appearance in the cloudy mirror, he left the bedroom. The family were gathered in the large room where the kitchen was separated from the living area by a bar. The groom was sitting at it slurping up Lucky Charms, the bride putting curlers in her hair.

Preparations for the wedding were in full swing. A cup of coffee was pushed into his hand as he was introduced to the grandmas, aunts, and nieces who had already arrived, volunteers pitching in to get everything ready in time for the guests' arrival. The rain was goodnaturedly cursed, he was asked to intercede and ask God for sunshine later in the day. Smiling sickly, he promised to pass along the request. Delicious cooking aromas emanated from the cook stove. Cases of beer were carried in on the shoulders of burly male relatives. Being as unobtrusive as possible, Gregory moved from window to window, looking through the rain in search of an avenue of escape. Last night it had seemed that the house was built on an island. He was relieved to see that it was actually situated on the tip of a peninsula with a crushed-shell road about fifty yards long, leading from solid ground along that narrow finger of land to the house.

By noon the house had begun to fill up with friends and relatives, all bearing food gumbos and crawfish, andouille and boudin sausages, shrimp creole, red beans and rice, smoked pork, even a multitiered white coconut cake with a plastic bride and groom on top.

Gregory understood only a few words of their lively conversation.

It was obvious they were a closely knit group, and that he was definitely the sole outsider. Each new arrival regarded him with suspicion. He tried to dispel their distrust with a beatific smile, although he wasn't sure it was convincing since his face still looked like it had been trampled by a horde of linebackers. None of the family or wedding guests asked why he was willing to perform the ceremony when other priests had declined on moral grounds. When he signed the marriage license, the father mumbled thanks.

Although they didn't embrace the stranger in their midst, they thoroughly enjoyed being around each other. The walls of the house seemed to expand and recede with the racket they generated, especially when the musicians began tuning their instruments.

At two o'clock in the afternoon, the bride sheepishly entered the large room. She was wearing a long, flowered dress Gregory had seen one of the grandmas hastily altering earlier, presumably to accommodate her distended stomach. The menfolk shoved the stumbling, half-drunk groom forward to take his place at the side of his blushing bride.

Together they faced Father Gregory, who began the ceremony by invoking God's blessing on this wonderful gathering of family and friends If he boggled the sacrament, they weren't sober enough to notice.

In under five minutes, the happy couple turned to one another to seal with a kiss a marriage that was entirely fraudulent. Father Gregory didn't give a flying you-know-what. He just wanted to get the hell out of there before he was exposed as an imposter.

He ate with them. He drank one beer. They showed no such restraint and consumed seemingly endless quantities of it. The more they drank, the louder the music became and the more energetic the dancing. Two fistfights erupted but were settled with a minimum of bloodshed. As dusk fell, the interior of the house grew steamy from the simmering food, sweating people, and the passion that seemed to fuel everything they did. Someone opened the doors to help ventilate the house.

And it was through one of those doors that Father Gregory sneaked out, wearing one of the male cousin's wool jacket and cap.

Rain pelted him, but as soon as he cleared the doorway, he made a mad dash for the shed that sheltered the boat that had conveyed them there the night before. He didn't even consider getting back into the boat he'd stolen from Dredd and which was now moored beside the family's craft. No more swamp, thank you very much. From now on, he'd take his chances on land. It was rife with potential hazards, but at least they weren't quite as alien.

Looking back toward the house, he saw no sign that anyone had noticed his escape. He ducked his head against the rain and ran from the shed.

Moving along in a crouch, he ran as hard as he'd ever run in his life, exerting himself to the maximum of his limited capacity, racing until he thought his lungs would burst. He sobbed with unrestrained joy when he reached the end of the lane.

The intersecting road was a paved two-lane state highway. Bracing his hands on his knees, he sucked in huge draughts of air, then struck off walking briskly in what he hoped was the direction of the nearest town.

He couldn't go far on foot. His only hope was for a car to come along before someone at the party noticed that Father Gregory was no longer among them and came looking for him. Now that he had sanctified the sinners, he was dispensable.

When he saw headlights coming up behind him, his heart lurched. It could be someone from the party, sent to find him and bring him back.

Or it could be one of several law enforcement agencies searching for Mrs. Duvall's kidnappers. Or it could be someone on Pinkie Duvall's payroll who'd been offered a huge reward to find her abductors.

Or it could be his ride back to civilization.

Please, God, he prayed as he did an about-face and stuck out his thumb.

The pickup slowed, the driver looked him over, then passed him and showered him with muddy rainwater. (iregory was so alsconsolate he sobbed. He was still crying five minutes later when the next vehicle came along. He must have looked so wretched that he evoked pity on the driver because after passing him, the car stopped.

He jogged toward it. A teenage girl was in the passenger seat. One even younger was behind the wheel. They regarded him with interest. The passenger asked, "Where's your car, mister?"

"I dumped it in the swamp after impersonating a priest in order to kidnap the wife of a rich and famous man."

They giggled, assuming he'd just told them a whopper."Cool," the passenger said. She nodded toward the backseat."Get in."

"Where are you headed?" he asked cautiously.

"Rawlins," the passenger told him."We're going to party."

"Cool," he said, repeating her word as he got in.

The driver floored the accelerator, the car fishtailed on the rainslick pavement, then shot off into the wet darkness.

No more than fifteen if that, they were dressed in a manner that would have made Madonna blush. See-through blouses and push-up lace brassieres. Their ears, noses, and lips pierced. Dramatic makeup accented their eyes and lips.

When they reached the French Quarter, he asked them to drop him off, but they tried to wheedle him into sticking with them."We could show you a good time," one said.

"Don't think we don't know how," boasted the other.

"That's just it," he said, flashing his most engaging grin."You girls are too experienced for me."

The flattery worked. They pulled to a stop at an intersection and Gregory got out. They blew him kisses as they drove away. He was astounded by their stupid recklessness. Hadn't their parents warned them against picking up hitchhikers? Didn't they watch the nightly news?

For all they knew he was a pervert.

Then, glumly, he reminded himself that he was a pervert.

Dodging the crowds who'd defied the weather to start the Mardi Gras celebration, making eye contact with no one, he walked the few remaining blocks. His mood lifted when he reached his street. He jogged the final twenty yards to his townhouse. The latchkey was still hidden where he'd left it the morning he'd joined Basile to pick up Mrs. Duvall for an excursion to Jenny's House.

"Speaking of somebody being stupid and reckless," he muttered in self-deprecation.

His picture was probably being circulated throughout FBI offices all over the country and abroad. He was a wanted man. There was a price on his head for kidnapping and God only knew what other crimes.

This was going to send his father's blood pressure off the charts.

Gregory would be disowned and disinherited.

So, what to do? First order of business: a cold bottle of wine and a long, hot shower. He would stay here tonight. Pack in the morning.

Then get the hell out of Dodge tomorrow.

He was a little hazy on exactly how he would finance a trip without his father's help. Should he throw himself on the mean old bastard's mercy one last time? Maybe if he spoke to his mother first, he could appeal to her maternal instinct, if Batlady had one.

Deciding to sleep on it, he flipped on the light switch.

"Hello, Gregory."

He screamed. Two policemen were lounging on his living room sofa.

Like giant spiders, they'd been sitting in the dark waiting for him.

In fact, one admitted it." Bout time you showed up. For two days we've been waiting for you. Jesus," he said, scrutinizing Gregory's face up close."You look like shit. They can't call you Pretty Boy anymore." The other said, "Life as a fugitive just ain't what it's cracked up to be, huh? Well, your escapade is over. Your criminal career has been cut short, Gregory. Nipped in the bud, so to speak. Like that." He snapped his fingers an inch from Gregory's lumpy nose.