"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."
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?"
"Some of Dredd's medicine is still in your system."
She went into the toilet. When she came out, she poured herself a glass of water and drank from it slowly. After a moment, she said, "Your grease is too hot."
Admittedly, he was no master chef, but he'd fried fish before, and it had been edible."Who made you a cook?" he asked peevishly.
"I'm self-taught."
He harrumphed.
"I'm a little rusty. I don't have many occasions to cook anymore, but I certainly know how, and if you don't turn down that flame, the breading is going to burn before the fish is done. I'd be glad to take over for you."
"I'm sure you would. And I'd wind up with a face full of hot grease."
"Actually, Mr. Basile, I'm hungry. I'd like something to eat before I stage my daring escape attempt. Besides, I doubt I could lift that iron pot using both hands."
Inside the sizzling grease, two fillets of fish were becoming way too crisp, way too fast. He glanced down at her and reasoned that she probably did lack the strength to disable him without also disabling herself. So he moved aside and motioned for her to take his place.
"Did you catch the fish?"
"This afternoon."
"If you don't mind, I'll start over. Would you please take the pot off the burner?" He did as she asked, she turned down the flame.
Using a wire spatula, she removed the charred fillets from the smoking grease.
While it was cooling, she sifted his flour and cornmeal breading mixture through her fingers."Did you add salt?"
"Uh, no."
"Any seasonings at all?"
He shook his head.
Several tins of spices were lined up on a narrow shelf behind the stove. She reached for the cayenne pepper. Burke took a hasty step backward, which caused her to laugh."City cop succumbs to cayenne," she said as she shook the pepper into the breading mixture."I can see the headlines now."
"I'm not a cop anymore."
"No, you've gone over to the other side and started committing crimes."
"I've committed only one. So far."
"Isn't kidnapping a little ambitious for your criminal debut?"
"Are you teasing me, Mrs. Duvall? You think this is funny?"
Startled by his tone, she turned to him."Do you find it amusing that Wayne Bardo has already killed two people since your husband got him acquitted?
Two that we know about, that is. That's a real hoot, isn't it?
"And how's this for grins? When Kevin Stuart died, he left two young sons who'll grow up not knowing what a great guy their dad was The next time you feel like a chuckle, think about that."
'"It's Pinkie's job to get his clients acquitted. That's what defense attorneys do."
"Well I see he's got you well indoctrinated. But then you're a smart cookie, aren't you? Even at an early age, you had learned enough about whoring from your mother to snare yourself a rich and powerful man."
"You don't have the slightest idea of what you're talking about."
"Wrong, Mrs. Duvall. I do. I know all about Angel, about her regular job as a topless dancer, as well as her lucrative sideline as a whore that supported her drug habit."
That evoked a reaction, but he couldn't categ hore it. Was she surprised that he knew so much? Angry that he had dredged up a past she wished to forget? Was she embarrassed or mad? He wasn't sure.
Whichever, she lashed back.
"If you know all that, how can you blame me for wanting to get away from her and that life? If I hadn't met Pinkie, Flarra and I "
"Flarra?"
"My sister."
Sister? How had he missed that part? Then he remembered her going to the ritzy girls' school."How old is she?"
"Sixteen. But she was only a baby when Pinkie took us away from our mother."
"Angel just let you go?"
"Not exactly."
"Then what? Exactly."
She averted her head, but he moved in front of her and forced her to look at him."How'd you link up with Duvall?"
"I thought you knew all about it, Mr. Basile," she mocked.
"I think I can fill in the blanks."
"Be my guest."
"Angel dances in one of his clubs, but he pays her for more than dancing. He's one of her clients. One day, he notices you, and you look better to him than mama. Angel tells you to put into practice something of what she's taught you, promising that if you do, you'll snag yourself a rich man. Is that about it?"
Her head dropped forward in what appeared to be defeat and remorse, but it lasted only a moment. When she defiantly threw back her head, her eyes were bright with angry tears.
"Angel taught me, all right, Mr. Basile. By age six I could shoplift cigarettes for her without getting caught. By the time I was eight, I had worked my way up to stealing food so I would have some supper But stealing cans and boxes got cumbersome, so Angel had one of her clients coach me on how to pick pockets. He said I had a natural talent for it. My fingers got limber. I practiced until I was better than my coach. Which was good, because when Flarra came along, the money I made picking pockets came in handy to buy her milk and other necessities."
She paused to wipe a tear off her cheek."Except there never seemed to be enough money for everything, and sometimes Angel took it from me to buy drugs before I could spend it on the baby. So I had to get bolder, steal more often.
"One day, outside Antoine's, I picked the wrong pocket. Pinkie Duvall chased me all the way home, ready to have me arrested. But then he saw how we lived and changed his mind."
"He made Angel an offer. He'd forget the theft in exchange for you."
"In exchange for both Flarra and me. Mother agreed to make him our guardian."
"I bet she did. She saw where Duvall was coming from. She watched his lights go on when he looked at her ripe, young daughter."
"That's not the way it was," she insisted with a hard shake of her head.
"Pinkie Duvall became your guardian out of the goodness of his heart, out of Christian charity?" Burke laughed."Even you don't believe that.
What makes you think I would?"
"He didn't have to assume responsibility for Flarra, too."
"He did if he wanted to make it all nice and legal. A judge might not swallow his wanting to become the guardian of a nubile girl, but two abused and impoverished sisters went down much smoother."
Maybe it was the reminder of Kev's family who had rejected his friendship, or maybe it was because he felt a tinge of pity for little Remy and baby sister Flarra, or perhaps it was his own guilty conscience fueling his anger and urging him on. He felt a dark meanness rising within himself. He wanted to bludgeon Remy Duvall with cruel insults, so that somebody else on the planet would know what real heartache felt like. It was like having barbed wire wound around your heart. He thought it was time that someone else experience what he'd been living with since the night he killed his own man.
He moved several steps closer, until she was backed up as far as she could go and he could see himself reflected in the obsidian mirrors of her pupils.
"You've whitewashed it in your mind, but you knew then and you know now what Duvall wanted. He wanted a young whore who had learned from an old pro."
"Why do you hate me?"
"I bet your virginity was guaranteed, wasn't it? Duvall could return you if you weren't as pure as Angel claimed."
"I won't let you talk to me this way."
"Did he wait a day or two, or did he try you on for size that very first night?"
She flung the wire spatula at him and bolted.
Hot grease splashed in his eye. Holding a hand to it, he staggered across the room and through the door. The instant he cleared the opening, something hard landed against the back of his head and knocked him to his knees. Then again, his head was struck from behind.
By the time he collapsed face first onto the pier, he was unconscious.
"Nancy?"
Nancy Stuart was shooing her rambunctious sons into the backseat of her car. When she heard her name, she came around and exclaimed in surprise, "Doug! What on earth are you doing here?" Pat said, "I got here in time to see some of the practice.
You're raising two major leaguers there."
"Personally I think it's too cold for baseball, but the coaches like to get a running start on the season."
"Got a minute?"
"Well," she hedged, "we're on our way to a team pizza party."
"Hmm." He looked around and then down, and shifted around some gravel with the toe of his shoe."I apologize for ambushing you like this, but I need your input on something that shouldn't be discussed over the telephone."
Worry settled on her pretty features."What's going on?"
"It's about Basile. He's flown the coop. I need to find him."
The boys began complaining about the delay. Nancy opened the car door and motioned them out."Go ride with the Haileys. Tell Mrs. Hailey that I'm coming along right behind you. And settle down! " Disregarding that last instruction, they ran pell-mell across the parking lot toward a van being loaded with rowdy little boys. The,_> other mom ushered the Stuarts aboard, then waved at Nancy to acknowledge receipt of her message.
Turning back to Pat, Nancy said, "The boys miss Burke. They ask about him constantly. I didn't want them to overhear this conversation."
"They miss him?" he asked, confused."I thought he was a regular fixture at your house."
"He was, until I asked him not to come anymore."
Pat listened as she explained her reasons for asking Basile to stop visiting."I know I hurt him, Doug, but seeing him so frequently was hurting me. Each visit was a painful reminder of Kev and how he died.
I was trying to make it part of my past. Burke was keeping it in the present." Pat asked when that last visit had taken place, and when she told him, he frowned."That's about the time he resigned."
"Resigned? He's left the department?" He told her about Basile's gradual but steady decline. Dismayed, she said, "I didn't even know about his and Barbara's breakup. He didn't say a word to me about it."
"He didn't take it nearly as hard as he did Kev's death. That's still eating him up. Even I didn't realize how much until ... this."
"What's happened, Doug? What did you mean when you said he'd flown the coop? Do you mean he's disappeared?"
"Looks like it."
She raised shaking fingers to her lips."You don't think he'd harm himself?"
"No. It's not that, but anything else I say would be unfair to Burke because the details are still sketchy."
"Details of what? Has he ... done something?"
Pat hedged."I'd rather not discuss it, Nancy. There was an incident, but it isn't a matter of record yet because the other involved party wishes to keep it contained. But it's a volatile situation.
If I'm very lucky and locate Basile soon, I might be able to prevent a real disaster. If not, for all practical purposes, his life will be over."
Wringing her hands, she groaned."This is my fault."
"No, no it isn't. He was close to the edge and would have gone over even if you hadn't stopped his visits."
Far from convinced, she offered to do whatever she could to help.
"Tell me where he might have gone," Pat said."Did he ever mention a getaway to you? Some special place?"
"I don't know. A fishing cabin maybe, but ..." She massaged her forehead as though to stimulate her memory."If he ever said where it was, I don't remember. Barbara would know."
Pat's expression turned sour."I'd been trying to reach her at home, when I gave up and called the school where she teaches. She and her boyfriend took some personal days and went to Jamaica. They were already out of town before Basile disappeared. I'm sure she knows nothing about it."
Nancy looked forlorn."I wish I could help. I love Burke. He was a dear friend to Kev and to me. It tore me apart to ask him to stop coming around. But you understand my reasoning, don't you?"
"Yes, I do. And I'm sure he understood, too." He touched her hand in farewell and apologized for keeping her from the pizza party.
Moving away, he said, "If you think of anything, call me."
"Have you spoken with his brother?"