"The same place you left it, but I spent a couple hours in the sheriff's office. Out of professional courtesy, they let me read the statements of the eyewitnesses. I talked to the deputies who were first on the scene. Although you convinced them that the incident was nothing more than a bizarre sequence of misinterpreted events, it appears to me that your wife has been kidnapped." He finished by asking testily, "Don't you think the FBI should know about it?"
"No. Because when I catch Burke Basile, I'm going to kill him myself."
His arrogance appalled and angered Doug Pat."You've got your goddamn nerve, coming into my office and announcing that." He yanked open his bottom drawer and took out a bottle of Jack Daniel's. He poured the oily dregs of his forgotten morning coffee into the plastic liner of his trash can, then refilled the cup with whiskey."There's an extra cup around here somewhere."
"No thanks. I don't drink with cops."
"Arrogance and insults." Pat raised his cup to Duvall, fortified himself with a shot of whiskey, poured another, drank it, then addressed himself to the most powerful attorney in the city who had just boldly declared that he was going to kill a cop former cop for kidnapping his wife.
I "How'd Mrs. Duvall become involved with these so-called priests?"
Duvall told him everything he knew about the Jenny's House scam, and admitted to his own detective work earlier that day, which had led him to the flophouse. When Pat heard about the cemetery, he smiled wryly.
"That sounds like Basile. That also explains his motive for doing this."
Shaking his head with remorse, he muttered, "Jesus, he must be crazy."
"No, he isn't crazy," Duvall said."If he were crazy, I might feel sorry for him and kill him quickly. But since he's a devious bastard who knows precisely what he's doing, I'm going to tear out his fucking heart while it's still beating."
"I advise you to watch yourself, Duvall. Remember where you are."
"I know where I am, and I don't care. Nothing I say will go beyond this desk. You don't want that lame-brained sheriff or the feds in on this any more than I do, because you want to protect the reputation of the N.O.P.D and your friend Basile."
"Who quit. He's no longer affiliated with the department, and therefore, no longer my responsibility."
"No, not officially. But if he's gone this far round the bend so soon after his resignation, people are going to start wondering how come somebody didn't read the signs before he cracked. Why wasn't psychological counseling mandated after he shot Stuart? Why wasn't the head of his division aware of his emotional decline? You see what I'm getting at, Pat? If I don't get to Basile before the authorities do, you'll end up with a pile of shit on your head."
"Stop shouting threats at me, Duvall."
"I'm just telling you like it is."
"If Burke has broken the law, he'll be punished accordingly."
"You're damn right he will be."
Doug wished Burke were here. He would enjoy seeing Pinkie Duvall reduced to a common man's temper tantrum. It sure as hell was gratifying to Doug to see Duvall this unhinged. Mentally, he saluted his friend for bringing it about.
"Killing Basile might not be as easy as you think," he said."Do you realize the kind of individual you're up against? He's got integrity coming out the kazoo. Honor is his middle name."
"Really?" Duvall snorted with contempt."Apparently you don't know him as well as you think you do."
"Maybe not," Pat admitted."I never thought he'd go for broke and do something this dramatic, but he has, which makes the situation even more perilous for you. Basile doesn't expect this to end peaceably.
He won't harm your wife. I'm not afraid for her safety. But I am for yours."
"I'm not scared of this burnout who goes around masquerading as a priest, for chrissake."
"You should be. Basile is smart. A whole lot smarter than me, and maybe even smarter than you, Duvall, although I know you don't believe that's possible. And he's motivated by revenge. That's strong stuff.
You'd be a fool not to fear him."
Duvall glared at him, but he didn't challenge either the insult or the character reference he'd given Basile."Who's this other fellow?"
"The second priest? I don't know."
"Where do I start looking for Basile?"
"I don't know that either. But he won't get far in that van. From the description, it can't be hard to spot."
"The van has been found."
That news startled Pat."Where? Who found it?"
"I had some people looking. It was found two hours ago, abandoned and half-submerged in six feet of water in a bayou between here and Houma."
"Where is it now?"
"You'll never know."
"Duvall, I insist that it be turned over to the authorities as evidence."
"You insist?" he taunted."Forget it, Pat. Even if you insist, the van's history by now."
Pat gaped at Duvall, shaking his head in bafflement."You're as nuts as Burke is. I can't let this unravel any further." He reached for his telephone, but Duvall knocked the receiver from his hand.
Pat shot to his feet and angrily confronted the lawyer."This has already gone too far, Duvall, even for you. You've got to notify the FBI."
"Pinkie Duvall doesn't need the FBI."
"Doesn't need, or doesn't want?" Pat poked Duvall in the chest with his index finger."You don't want the FBI involved because you've got too much to hide. If they started investigating your affairs, they might forget all about the kidnapping of your wife and go after something really big."
Although Pat realized that he was gazing into the eyes of a monster without a conscience, the monster was grinning. Duvall's voice was cool, silky, and sinister."Careful, Pat. You don't want me to get upset, do you?"
He pushed aside Pat's hand."I know how well you like your present position with the N.O.P.D. I also know you have your heart set on a deputy superintendent's position. Therefore, I suggest that you start looking for your boy Basile immediately, and that you not stop looking until he's found, or your career prospects end here."
Pat's world revolved around his career. He'd decided early on that his aspirations were incompatible with a successful home life, so he had sacrificed having a marriage and children to living singly and devoting himself wholeheartedly to his work. With no regrets, he'd made his career the center of his life. He sure as hell didn't want to lose it.
Knowing how well connected Duvall was, he couldn't laugh off his threats. He also knew that for every threat Duvall uttered, there were a dozen more implied, and it was those unspoken warnings that worried him most."If I can find them," Pat said slowly, "and if Basile agrees to end this insane vendetta here and now, you've got to give me your word that you won't touch him."
Duvall thought about it for a moment, then reached across the desk and shook Pat's hand, as though they had struck a bargain. But he said, "No fucking way, Pat. The bastard took my wife. He dies."
"Everything's ready," Burke said, ignoring the silent reproach of his two companions. Remy Duvall was sitting in a rusty metal lawn chair on the galerie. The exterior wall behind her was armored with ancient license plates.
Dredd was baiting a fishing pole, a cigarette anchored in the corner of his mouth. The smoke curling from it mingled with the mist rising off the surface of the swamp."If you go through with this, you're a damn fool," he mumbled as he skewered a live crawfish onto his fishhook.
"So you've told me about a thousand times." Burke motioned Remy out onto the pier and toward the small boat, which he had loaded with supplies from Dredd' wstore.
"Can't you see she's weak as a kitten?" Dredd dropped his fishing apparatus and went over to her, placing his knotty hand beneath her arm and assisting her to her feet. He guided her around the white porcelain commode that served as a planter in the summertime but which now was used as a receptacle for trash and cigarette butts. Together they made their way along the pier to the piling where the boat was tied up.
Burke got into the boat first and offered his hand up to her. He noticed that she hesitated before placing her hand in his, but she did, and gingerly stepped into the wobbly craft. Burke steadied her as she lowered herself onto the rough plank that spanned the shallow metal hull to form a crude, uncomfortable seat. She placed her hands on either side of her hips and gripped the board hard while staring into the swirling mist and the murky water beneath it.
"In a day or two, I'll come around for more supplies," Burke said as he unwound the line from the short piling.
"You're sure you won't get lost?"
"I'm sure."
"If you do "
"I won't!"
"Okay, okay." Looking down at Remy, Dredd said, "See that he takes care of you, cher'. If he doesn't, he'll have me to answer to."
"You've been very kind, Dredd. Thank you."
The softness of her voice made Burke feel like he was the fifth wheel in a very tender tableau.
Dredd said to him, "If any of her wounds open up "
"You already told me what to do," he interrupted impatiently.
The older man muttered something beneath his breath that Burke didn't catch, and he figured it was just as well that he hadn't. He'd heard it all, chapter and verse, until he could recite Dredd' wsermon by memory.
Dredd was practically a recluse. He didn't form attachments to anyone.
But he had developed a dim-witted devotion to Remy Duvall that Burke would have considered amusing if it wasn't so damned irritating.
She seemed to have an effect on every man she met, a different effect for each man, but an effect that was similar in degree.
However, not wanting to leave Dredd on bad terms, he called up to him, "Thanks for everything, Dredd."
The old man spat into the water, missing Burke by mere inches.
"Keep your hands inside the boat. It's a little early for em yet, but they'll be good and hungry in a week or two."
Burke had heard of the two old alligators that Dredd was too fond of to kill and which he in fact treated like pets. Whether it was fact or fiction created by Dredd to keep intruders away, Burke wasn't sure, but he waved acknowledgment of the warning as he shoved off.
Giving the trolling motor more gas, he angled the rudder and the craft cut through the fog. Just before rounding a bend in the bayou, he glanced back. Dredd was seated on the edge of the pier, fishing, his gray braid reposing in the groove of his spine, bare feet dangling above the water invisible in the fog, the mist swirling around his calves.
"Doesn't he get cold?" Remy Duvall was also looking back at the old man.
"His skin's too tough. Since he moved out here, that's all the clothes I've seen him in. Are you cold?"
"No."
'"Let me know. I'll get you a blanket." Swaddled as she was in some of Dredd's castoffs and draped in a vinyl poncho, he didn't see how she could be cold, but something was wrong with her. She sat as rigid as a post, gripping the board beneath her as though her life depended on it.
"You'll get splinters."
"Pardon?"
"If you keep holding onto that board like that, you might get splinters in your hands. You can relax. We've reached top speed. You don't need a high-performance boat to navigate these bayous."
"I wouldn't know the difference. This is the first time I've ever been in one."
"In a swamp?"
"In a boat."
He laughed with misapprehension."You live in a city that practically floats and you've never been in a boat?"
"No," she shot back."I've never been in a boat. How much clearer can I say it?"
Her sharp retort caused a pelican to take flight. It left its roost with a great, noisy flapping of wings that caused Mrs. Duvall to start.
"Steady," Burke said.
The large bird skimmed the surface of the water only yards from them but apparently decided there might be better hunting elsewhere. He rose up out of the mist like the symbolic specter from a myth and disappeared above the treetops.
Depending on one's point of view, the swamp could be either a temple or a terror. Burke was respectful of its dangers, but he loved it.
He'd been introduced to it during college when he and his fraternity brothers spent beer-blurred weekends exploring its matchless miles of bayous and bogs. Looking back, he realized they'd been reckless and stupid on these adventures, but somehow they had survived with no more serious repercussions than hangovers, sunburns, and insect bites.
He had promised himself that if he ever scraped together enough cash, he'd buy a getaway place. As it turned out, his brother had split the cost of the fishing camp with him. Joe enjoyed the weekends they spent there together, but he had never acquired Burke's worshipful regard for the swamp's primitive mystique.
This morning, it looked particularly foreboding, a surreal, monochromatic landscape of water, mist, and stark, moss-laden trees, their gnarled, bare branches raised in imploring attitudes toward glowering clouds of gunmetal gray.
Through the eyes of someone who'd never been exposed to its peculiar beauty, the swamp must seem like the landscape of a nightmare.
Especially if that initiate were alone with someone she mistrusted and feared.
He glanced at her and was disconcerted to catch her staring at him.
"How did you know about my baby?"
Last night he'd been able to avoid answering. She had gazed at him for only a few wordless moments before Dredd's potion worked its magic.
Then her eyes closed, she wilted into the pillows, and fell instantly into a deep slumber.
Sometime yesterday, it had occurred to him that maybe she shouldn't be medicated so soon after a miscarriage. Could Dredd's elixirs cause cramping, more spontaneous bleeding? The possibilities were alarming.
What happened to a woman when she lost a child? How long did it take to recover, and what was involved? Damned if he knew.
Since his first consummated sexual experience at sixteen, he had charted the terrain of the female body many times. He knew his way around it very well. Certainly years of marriage had increased his knowledge. By osmosis he had acquired, and had a fair understanding of, the vocabulary. He had a rudimentary knowledge of cycles and tubal ligations and estrogen and D and Cs and hysterectomies.
He didn't want to know more. Beyond medical professionals, did any man really want to know and understand the intricacies of a woman's body?
The mysteries confined within that relatively small space had tantalized and fascinated Man since Creation. The countless galaxies hadn't inspired as much speculation, or wonder, or awe.
The secrecy was intrinsic to the allure. At least to Burke Basile it was. He didn't want his illusions dispelled. He didn't want to tamper with the poetic imagery that femininity aroused in him.
Nevertheless, he'd had to ask about her miscarriage last night.
For his own peace of mind, he had to know that Dredd's remedies wouldn't harm her.
"Answer me," she demanded now."How did you know about my baby? No one knew, except my doctor. I didn't tell a single soul."
"You told someone."
He watched her face while she puzzled through it, and knew the instant she arrived at the answer. Her lips parted on a silent gasp. Then, looking at him as though he were the Antichrist, her eyes filled with tears. One slipped over her eyelid and rolled down her cheek. He remembered the blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. This single tear was more poignant.
"You heard my confession?"
He averted his head, unable to look at her.
"How is that possible?"
"Does that matter now?"
"No. I guess it doesn't matter how you did it, you did it." After a moment, she added, "You're evil, Mr. Basile."
He didn't feel very proud of himself about it. But his guilty conscience only made him want to lash out."Casting stones, Mrs. Duvall?
That's funny. Coming from a woman who whored herself into marrying a rich man."
"What do you know about it? What do you know about me? Nothing!"
"Shh!" Burke held up his hand for quiet.
"I don't know what you think about me. I don't care "
"Shut up," he barked. He quickly turned off the boat's motor and listened.
The sound of an approaching chopper was unmistakable. Cursing, he restarted the motor, and, opening up the throttle, headed for the thickest grove of bald cypresses. The hull bumped against the knobby roots of the trees, which broke the surface like stalagmites.
Placing his hand on Remy's head, he pushed it forward and down toward her lap so she wouldn't be struck by the low branches. As soon as they were beneath the limbs, he stopped the engine again and caught hold of one of the cypress knees to keep the craft from drifting. Luckily the mist camouflaged their wake.
Remy strained against his hand, trying to raise her head.
"Be still."
He kept his palm firmly in place on the back of her head, his eyes on the sky. As he'd guessed, a helicopter appeared above the treetops, flying low. It was too small to be one of the choppers that transported oil workers to offshore rigs, and not distinctive enough to be a police helicopter. If it was a traffic helicopter, the pilot was lost because there wasn't a car for miles. It could be an instructor giving his student a bird's-eye view of the swamp, but on a foggy day what was the likelihood of that?
A closer guess was that it was a rogue outfit hired by Pinkie Duvall to look for his wife and her captor.
Reaching above her head, Mrs. Duvall tried to dislodge his hand.
"It's gone now. Let me up." She made herself heard even though her voice was muffled by the fabric of the shapeless clothes Dredd had given her.
"Stay put." He strained his ears to hear if the chopper was retreating, or if it might be coming back for a second pass.
"I can't breathe." She began to struggle in earnest."I said stay put. Just for " ...
"Let me up."
Sensing her panic, Burke released her. She tried to stand but bumped her head on a tree limb and fell back. The boat rocked dangerously, which only caused her to grab for the sides and increase the danger.
Burke took her by the shoulders."Be still, damn it. Unless you want to capsize. And I don't think you do."
He pointed his chin and she turned. A gator was gliding past not ten yards from the boat, cleaving the mist silently and malevolently, only the reptilian slits of his eyes visible above the surface.
She stopped struggling but sucked in short, rapid gasps."I couldn't breathe."
"I'm sorry."
"Let go of my arms."
Watching her warily, Burke gradually withdrew. She stacked her hands on her chest as though trying to contain its rapid rise and fall."Do. do anything else to me, but don't smother me."
"I wasn't trying to smother you. Only to keep you from hitting your head on a branch."
She looked at him retiringly."You were trying to keep me from signaling the helicopter. I'm not stupid, Mr. Basile."
"Okay, true. I pushed your head down to keep you from signaling the chopper. But don't fight me like that again. You nearly caused this damn thing to capsize. Next time we might not be so lucky."
"The last thing I want to do is wind up in the water. I can't swim."
He snorted skeptically."I'm not stupid either, Mrs. Duvall."
"That's him! That's the one. Father Gregory." Smiling triumphantly, Errol tapped his finger against the mug shot of Gregory James. For hours, he had been looking through the illegally obtained files of the N.O.P.D.
Pinkie was still skeptical, believing that Errol might have invented that part of the story to reinstate himself."Gregory James," he read from the file."No aliases. A history of arrests for public indecency.
One plea bargain and one probation." He turned to an idle gofer.
"Find out what his status is now."
"He's with Burke Basile and Mrs. Duvall," Errol said when the clerk left to do Pinkie's bidding.
"You didn't recognize Basile from the Bardo trial. Why should I think you can identify Father Gregory?"
"I'd only seen Basile from a distance. And anyway, he looked different as Father Kevin. I'm positive that's Father Gregory. He even used his own name."
Pinkie remained noncommittal."We'll see."
Errol sweated buckets before the gofer returned."It checks out Mr. Duvall. Gregory James served some jail time a few months ago. He's on probation."
"See, I told you!"
"Well, I guess I owe you an apology, Errol. Thanks to you, it seems that Father Gregory's identity is no longer a mystery."
Errol cast smiles all around. Pinkie dismissed him, but asked him to hang around in case he was needed. Errol practically bowed on his way out of the inner office, just as Bardo came in."Del Ray is driving everybody nuts. He's been here for an hour. Says he's got some vital information, but he'll only talk to you directly. Can you see him now?"
Unenthusiastically, Pinkie told Bardo to send him in.
Del Ray Jones was a crook of all trades, but his main gig was loansharking. With the advent of riverboat gambling in New Orleans, his business had boomed, elevating an ego that was already disproportionate to the man's worth.
He was a vicious, mean, weaselly little bastard who was very handy with a knife. One night he'd gotten a little carried away with one of his clients who was late on a payment and had slit his throat. That was his first and, to date, only murder. Scared spitless, he'd run to his lawyer for advice.
Pinkie had told him to keep out of sight for a few weeks, assuring him that the disappearance of one small-time gambler would create hardly a ripple in New Orleans' underworld. He'd been right. The crime remained unsolved. Meanwhile, Pinkie knew where the body was buried.
Literally.
Now that Pinkie's life was in upheaval, Del Ray was eager to return the favor and to demonstrate his loyalty and usefulness. Bardo escorted him in. Cutting to the chase, Pinkie said, "You'd better not be wasting my time."
Del Ray licked his small, sharp teeth."No, sir, Mr. Duvall.
You're gonna love this."
Pinkie doubted that. Del Ray was a self-serving hustler, a slick operator a Sachel without the panache. He would pimp for his mother if there was a dollar to be made.
But surprisingly, Pinkie's interest mounted as he listened to Del Rayss story, related in an ingratiating, high-pitched voice. When he concluded, Pinkie glanced at Bardo, who said, "Sounds good."
"It is good, Mr. Duvall," said Del Ray.
"Get on it then."
"Yes, sir." Smiling like a happy rat, Del Ray scuttled from the room.
Bardo followed him out.
Left alone, Pinkie got up and stretched his aching lower back.
Early this morning, he'd showered in his office bathroom. Roman had brought him a change of clothes from home. He was refreshed but far from rested.
His eyes were gritty from lack of sleep.
He poured himself a drink. Scorching the palate he'd cultivated for vintage wines, he quaffed some of Scotland's best export, straight up.
He sipped the second drink while thoughtfully pacing his office.
What had he overlooked? What else could he do? What favor could he call in that might expedite finding Remy and killing the son of a bitch who'd taken her?
He had utilized every available resource. He had galvanized a considerable number of men. Working with the precision of stealthy, well-trained commandos, they were combing the city and surrounding parishes, asking questions, listening to gossip. None had turned up a single clue as to his wife's whereabouts. Others were working solely on gathering information about Burke Basile, his interests, strengths, weaknesses. A helicopter had been chartered to fly low over the swamps in search of them, but so far all that had turned up was the abandoned van.
With blood in it.
Gregory James's? Probably. According to witnesses who would talk, the rednecks had hammered him good. But the van's rear window had also been shattered. Bird shot had been found imbedded in the upholstery.
It was possible Remy's blood had been shed, too. But Pinkie couldn't risk the investigation it would require to determine that. To prevent the authorities, federal and local, from becoming involved, he'd had the van destroyed.
If Remy was alive but hurt, if she was in the swamp, she would be terrified.
Or would she?