Fat Tuesday

"According to Mr. Michoud, she's fine. Eager to get home."

"I want Basile found, Pat. I want every goddamn inch of Louisiana searched until he's found and brought to justice."

"I seriously doubt it's justice you're seeking," Pat said with infuriating placidity."You never considered it a kidnapping, or you would have had the director of the FBI himself down here searching for your wife. But, if you insist, I'll call the feds in now to question Mrs. Duvall."

Pinkie was gripping the telephone so tightly his knuckles were white.

The diamond ring was digging painful rims into his small finger.

But he couldn't counter Pat's statements, and he was certain Pat was aware of that.

"May I be frank?" Without waiting for permission, Pat continued: "All indications are that this is a domestic matter. The solution to it doesn't rest with law enforcement authorities, but with you and your wife. And perhaps Basile. I suggest you work it out among yourselves."

Later, Pinkie wasn't sure how he'd managed to control his temper, but it had taken tremendous restraint. Pat's sanctimonious remarks tested it to the limit.

"Thank you for the advice, Pat, but I don't need any lessons from you on how to handle my wife. You'd like to think the matter is closed, wouldn't you? You'd like to tie it up in a neat bow and consider it over and done with. Because through this whole ordeal, you've protected your boy, Basile, and you'd be relieved if he came through it without too many dents and dings."

Constantly paranoid that his telephones were bugged, Pinkie was too smart to outline his plans for Basile via fiber optics. He'd already told Pat, perhaps ill-advisedly, that he planned to eliminate the former narc. He saw no reason to reiterate those plans now.

He did, however, want Pat to know that his attitude and lack of cooperation would be remembered."You can kiss goodbye your ambitions for the number-one spot in the N.O.P.D, Pat. From this minute forward, enemies are going to be charging you from all sides. You can count on it."

To Pat's credit, he kept his cool."I've dispatched a police helicopter to take me to Jefferson Parish. I'll personally escort Mrs. Duvall home. We should arrive in a couple of hours." Then the cordless phone went dead in Pinkie's hand.

Roman approached, asking tentatively, "Is Mrs. Duvall returning home today, sir?"

"That's right, Roman."

"Praise Jesus."

"Hmm. Yes." Deep in thought, Pinkie rapidly drummed his fingers on the tablecloth. After a moment, he looked up at the butler and smiled.

"I think this calls for a blow-out celebration, don't you?"

"Then you haven't forgotten, sir, that today is Mardi Gras? Our last day to party for a while."

"No, Roman, I hadn't forgotten. I've just been preoccupied. I had every intention of hosting a party. Here. Tonight. Will you see to it that preparations are made?"

"Already done, sir."

Roman rushed out to share the happy news with the rest of the staff.

Pinkie punched in Bardo's telephone number."Remy's been found."

"Where?"

"I'll give you the details later. Pat is delivering her."

"Basile?"

"Presently unaccounted for."

"So what do you want me to do now?"

"What we discussed last night."

"Even though Mrs. Duvall is coming home?"

Pinkie stared at the empty dining chair in which Remy usually sat.

"Especially since Mrs. Duvall is coming home."

Sister Beatrice's lips were pursed with stern disapproval."This is highly irregular."

"Yeah, well, it might be irregular, but that's what Mr. Duvall wants."

Wayne Bardo's arrogance communicated that he wasn't impressed either by her nun's habit or her reverent base of operation. Far as he was concerned, she was just another broad giving him a hassle. He could go over, around, or through her, but she wasn't going to keep him from doing what Duvall was paying him to do.

"I'm calling Mr. Duvall and speaking with him personally."

"Fine. You do that, sister."

Bardo slid her telephone across her desk toward her, then, with a notable lack of respect, sat down without an invitation to do so and propped his ankle on his opposite knee. He whistled tunelessly through his teeth as she placed a call to the Duvall residence.

"Mr. Duvall, please. This is Sister Beatrice at the Blessed Heart Academy. It's imperative that I speak with him."

Smirking, Wayne Bardo listened to her side of the conversation as she verified that Duvall had sent him to the school to pick up his sister-in-law.

"And Mrs. Duvall approves of these arrangements?" she asked. After a moment, she murmured, "I see. Very well, Mr. Duvall. Forgive me for troubling you, but please understand that I'm concerned for Flarra's safety." At that, she glared at Bardo, who flashed her his most beguiling smile.

When she hung up, he said, "Everything cool?"

"Yes, everything's cool."

She was so cool she was downright icy as she stood and rounded her desk, her traditional habit rustling and her rosary beads clacking.

"I'll notify Flarra to gather her things. She'll be with you shortly."

"Shortly" turned out to be twenty minutes. By that time, the place was beginning to get on Bardo's nerves, what with the painting of a bloody, crucified Christ staring at him with soulful eyes that seemed to follow him as he meandered around her office. Saints and angels floating around on pink clouds condemned him from their ornate gilt frames. He could swear the statue of some soldier saint standing in the corner raised his righteous sword against him. All that religious shit was enough to give anybody the creeps.

By the time the office door opened behind him, he was a bundle of jitters. Spinning around, he exclaimed, "Jeer Louise!" The mild profanity caused Sister What's-her-name's lips to pucker up even tighter, but Bardo couldn't help himself. Pinkie had promised that, in addition to being well compensated for this assignment, he was going to enjoy it.

What an understatement! He was fucking going to love it! In a nanosecond, he thought of a dozen different depravities to ply on baby sister Flarra.

Her cheeks were flushed with excitement as she came across the room toward him, her right hand extended."Hello, Mr. Bardo. A pleasure."

"Likewise, Miss Lambeth." It was probably the first time in his life he'd ever shaken hands with a woman, but he welcomed the opportunity to touch this creature who was almost too hot to be believed.

"Is it true what Sister Beatrice told me? Am I really getting to attend the Mardi Gras party tonight?"

"True as can be. Mr. Duvall thinks you've been cooped up in here long enough. No offense, sister," he said, addressing the nun over Flarra's shoulder."Your brother-in-law wants you to live it up tonight. He said he considered this your coming-out party."

"And Remy's okay with it?"

"Yeah. She wants you to be there tonight. In fact, she personally picked out your costume."

Placing a hand on her chest, from which jutted two pert tits, she gasped giddily."They're really letting me go! I can't believe it!"

Bardo picked up her suitcase and offered her his arm."Believe it sweetheart."

Pinkie was waiting for them at the front door. He opened it before Pat rang the bell. Even at this point in time, there was a sliver of a chance that he would reverse the plans he had already in place, and that he and Remy would carry on as though nothing had happened.

But even that slim possibility died the instant he looked into her eyes. Because, although she gave him a weak smile and spoke his name in a tremulous voice as she came into his arms, he knew that Basile had had her.

The son of a bitch might just as well have poisoned his prizewinning orchids, or pissed into a bottle of Chateau Lafite Rothschild. Remy had been defiled. The glorious girl he'd cultivated into a perfect courtesan was ruined for him now.

Hiding his repugnance, he pulled her against him."My darling, thank God you're back. When I think of what you've been through ..." He stopped, pretending to choke up with emotion."Were you harmed in any way?"

He listened as she described the bird shot she'd taken in the back when they fled the Crossroads."But those wounds have begun to heal. I'm just very tired."

"Basile didn't ..."

Lying, she shook her head."He wanted to make his point with you, Pinkie. That's all. He didn't mistreat me."

Doug Pat, who'd been standing in the background so as not to interfere with their reunion, now stepped forward."Mrs. Duvall was reluctant to discuss her ordeal on the way here. But now I'd like to hear her version of what happened and ask her some pertinent questions, if you don't mind."

"I do mind," Pinkie said curtly."You reminded me earlier today that this is a private matter. I believe you're right." He closed the door in Pat's face.

"Mr. Pat is afraid that you're planning a reprisal against Basile," Remy said as he motioned her upstairs."You're not, are you, Pinkie?"

He merely smiled and patted her arm solicitously. Upstairs in their bedroom, Roman brought her a plate of food, but she left it on the tray, untouched. When they were again alone, Pinkie asked her more specific questions about her abduction.

"I'd like to see this fishing shack where he kept you. Could you lead me to it?"

"I'm afraid not. All parts of the swamp look the same to me."

"Why'd he let you go?"

"I don't know," she said thickly."He got me up very early this morning and announced that he was releasing me. All along, he said he was using me as bait to draw you out, and that he didn't care how long it took.

"He offered no explanation for his sudden change of heart, except it had something to do with a policeman who was killed yesterday.

And Dredd. He didn't want Dredd, or Pat, or any of his former colleagues affected by his criminal actions. He said it was time to call it off, before anyone else got hurt or killed."

"He should have thought of that before he started this. It's too late now."

"What do you mean?"

"Never mind. Did you ever try and escape?"

"Of course!" she exclaimed. She told him about her neardrowning experience."After that, he kept me handcuffed." Raising those incredibly expressive eyes to his, she laid her hand on his arm, gripping it hard."But I'm safely back with you and that's all that matters. I look upon it as a bad dream that'll soon be forgotten."

She slipped her arms around his neck."Pinkie, please listen to what Mr. Pat says. Don't perpetuate this feud with Basile. It would be pointless. He only wanted to shake you up, and now that he has that's the last we'll see or hear of him. If Basile can walk away from it, we should be able to. Hmm? Let it go."

He stopped her pleas for her lover's life with a hard kiss, which he ended abruptly. He could tell she was surprised that he ended it.

Did the bitch actually expect him to take her to bed? He felt like laughing out loud, in her face, but it wasn't yet time to spring the surpnses she had in store.

"Get some sleep," he told her, patting her cheek."I want you to look your best tonight."

"Tonight?"

"At our party."

"Party?"

"Remy, is that echoing speech pattern something you acquired from Basile?"

"I'm sorry. What party?"

"A Mardi Gras party. Have you forgotten that today is Fat Tuesday?

Tomorrow we must atone for our sins, but tonight we can be self-indulgent. I certainly intend to satisfy "

"I can't attend a party tonight."

"That's another tiresome habit you've picked up," he said, frowning.

"Interrupting me while I'm speaking." She bit back another interruption. After a moment, she said with that soft tremor in her voice, "It's just that I'm flabbergasted that you expect me to host a party on my first night back."

"What better time to celebrate your safe return?"

"I'd rather we celebrate alone."

"That's sweet, my dear, but I'm afraid I can't call off the festivities now. Too many people would be disappointed." He tweaked her cheek.

"Including Flarra. I've invited her to participate."

Her face drained of color. She swallowed convulsively, as though to hold back nausea."Really?" she said with transparently faked excitement."What made you decide to include her? You never have before."

"I've reconsidered the points you made during our last discussion about her. I think they're valid. It's time we cut her some slack. She is, after all, no longer a child, but a young woman."

"Actually, I was wrong, Pinkie. You were right. You're always right about these things."

He frowned."Your turnabout comes too late, Remy. I can't disappoint Flarra now that she's already been invited. You wouldn't want me to do that. That would be cruel. Now, you take a nap," he said, coming to his feet."Maybe it'll put some color back into your cheeks. Forgive me for saying so, but you look a little worse for wear."

"I realize how frightful I must look. My hair and nails are a wreck.

I'll arrange to have them done before tonight."

"You can take care of the beauty treatments yourself after your rest."

He moved toward the door."Oh, by the way, I removed the telephone so you wouldn't be disturbed."

She glanced toward the nightstand, and he delighted in the frantic expression that appeared on her face."I'd like to call Flarra.

It's been over a week since I spoke to her, and I'm sure she's wondering why."

"Not to worry. I told her a little white lie about your having strep throat. By now she's been told that you've recovered and that you're looking forward to seeing her this evening."

"But I need to speak with her."

"Tonight will be soon enough. I've instructed the staff to leave you in absolute privacy. I alone will be checking on you throughout the day." He blew her a kiss, then made certain that she saw him locking the door from the outside before he pulled it closed.

Remy rushed to the door and gripped the knob with both hands. She tried moving it up and down, and from side to side, but it didn't budge.

With a sob of frustration, she slumped against the door.

She had trusted in the paradox that she must return to Pinkie before she could successfully escape him. She had known it would take all her acting skills to convince him that she was devastated by her capture, and anxious to put the unpleasant episode behind her and resume her life as it had been. She was willing to continue the charade for as long as it took to get Flarra safely out of Pinkie's grasp, even going so far God help her as to share his bed, although she hadn't told Basile that.

But Pinkie hadn't immediately hustled her up to bed, which was uncustomary, and because it was, it was also alarming. There was only one reason he would abstain: if he suspected her of being intimate with Basile. And if he suspected that, then her life, as well as Basile's and Flarra's, was in peril.

Pinkie must have guessed as soon as he kissed her, or even before, that she was coming home to him different than when she left. It must have been instantly obvious to him that she was radically changed. If he could spot a minute imperfection on a blossom of one of his orchids, or detect that the wine was served a degree too warm or too cool, he could sense something as profound as the change she had undergone in the swamp, where she had come to love Burke Basile, in addition to coming to love herself again.

If she lived to be a hundred, or died today, she would be grateful for those days of isolation in that exotic and primal place. She'd been forced to take a good hard look at herself and acknowledge that she had become just what Basile had called her a whore. She had prostituted herself for the best of reasons, and that was to protect her sister.

But everything had been sacrificed to that end her pride, her self-esteem, her soul. Having wholly given up herself, what good was she to Flarra or to anyone?

She now despised Mrs. Pinkie Duvall, who was passive and afraid, whose only means of survival was through feminine wiles and manipulation.

But she had developed a growing respect for Remy Lambeth, whose opinions had merit, who was strong and courageous, who was a survivor, who warranted the love of a man with humanity and integrity.

Basile! He must be alerted that their strategy had backfired. But before she could even place a telephone call, she must get out of this room. She pitched herself into finding a way.

Her mother's john had taught her how to pick most standard locks.

But technology in door locks had advanced along with everything else, and Pinkie insisted on having state-of-the-art everything. When the house was renovated a few years earlier, the master bedroom had been made into a safe room, a place to take refuge should intruders penetrate the other security system. On the outside doorjamb was a numerical keypad. One had to know the sequence of numbers in order to unlock it. A key would dismantle it from the inside, but Remy's exhaustive search of the suite, including Pinkie's dressing room, didn't produce it. In desperation she tried manicure scissors, a nail file, a hairpin, but, as she suspected, the lock was too sophisticated for an amateur with makeshift tools.

She considered the windows next. Drawing open the drapes and shutters, she was dismayed to see that the exterior shutters had been closed.

Only once before, when there had been warnings of an approaching tropical storm, had they been closed. But now they'd been battened down.

Daylight was struggling to leak through.

Not that it mattered. The locks on the windows were ordinary, but the alarm system wasn't. Lven if she unlocked a window and opened it, the security alarm would beep intermittently to alert the staff of an interruption in the circuit. Someone would report it to Pinkie.

Dismissing the windows as a means of escape, she paced the rooms, racking her brain for another possible outlet.