by Sandra Brown
She seemed in the throes of panic when she stood up, dangerously rocking
the boat."Please, Mr. Basile. I'll drown."
"You're not going to drown."
"Please! " It happened when she stretched out her arm as though to grasp
his hand from that distance. The boat tipped, then flipped over,
spilling her into the viscous water. She splashed crazily, but sank.
And stayed under. Burke couldn't see her. Holding his breath, he
anxiously scanned the water until he saw her head break the surface.
He exhaled. Another of her tricks.
But she was visible only for a second before disappearing again, gasping
and thrashing on her way down. This time she didn't reappear.
"Shit," Burke whispered. Then louder: "Shit!"
Forgetting about his burning eyes, disregarding the possible concussion
he'd sustained, taking no time to tug off his shoes, he dropped his
pistol onto the pier and dove into the water.
It was like trying to swim through a bowl of breakfast grits. Like in a
nightmare, the longer his strokes and the stronger his kicks, the less
progress he seemed to make. By the time he reached the capsized boat,
his muscles and lungs were on fire. Throwing his arms across the upended
hull, he sucked in several huge breaths, then let go and slid beneath
the surface.
He swam in widening circles, groping blindly, until he had to come up
for air. When he did, he saw air bubbles breaking the surface about ten
yards away. Fortifying himself with another deep breath, he lunged in
that direction.
He felt her hair brush his arm like silky seaweed, but when he reached
for her, his fist closed around nothing except water. His hands searched
wildly until they found her. Lungs near to bursting, he wrapped his arms
around her and used the slippery bottom of the bayou to give himself a
push-off. The water wasn't that deep, but it was dense, and it seemed
that he would never reach the surface.
When he did, he gulped air, but long before he regained his breath, he
began swimming for the pier, pulling Remy Duvall behind him. She hadn't
moved or resisted his lifesaving attempts as people on the verge of
drowning customarily do. He was afraid to learn why. Forcing himself to
look, he glanced down at her face. It was as still and white as death,
covered with filth.
When he reached the pier, he was presented with another problem: how to
climb up onto the pier while holding onto her. Haste was a priority.
She lay limply across his bent left arm. How long since she'd been
without oxygen?
Urgency gave him the strength to reach up and grip one of the cleats
with his right hand. He tried twice, unsuccessfully, to chin himself up
far enough to get his right leg onto the pier. On the third try, when he
swung his leg up, his heel struck the plank and he dug it in, then hung
there for several seconds, trying to summon strength and convince his
muscles that they could do what he was about to demand of them.
With Herculean effort, he worked his right foot along the pier until it,
too, could be used as leverage. Eventually, using his right hand and
elbow, right foot and knee, he pulled himself up. When his belly touched
the planks, he expelled a near-laugh of relief.
He pulled Remy Duvall up and stretched her out on the pier.
Strands of hair clung to her lips. These he pushed aside and began
immediately to administer CPR. Push push push, rest. One two three rest.
Close the nostrils, breathe into the mouth. Push push push, rest. How
long had it been? She had been under no more than twenty seconds when he
jumped in. Okay, maybe thirty. Add the forty-five seconds, maybe more,
for him to swim to the boat. One minute beneath the surface.
That added up to, how long?
Push push push, rest. Push push She coughed up water. Laying his hand
along her cheek, he turned her head to the side so she wouldn't choke as
she heaved up the water she'd swallowed. It took several minutes for her
breathing to return to normal and the bluish tint on her lips to fade.
When she opened her eyes, he was in her direct line of vision.
There was no way she could avoid looking at him, no way he could avoid
the accusation in her gaze."I'm sorry. I didn't believe you. I thought
it was a trick." He couldn't think of anything else to say, so he
repeated, "I'm sorry."
Wearily, he pushed himself to his feet and looked across the dark water.
Because it had capsized, the boat was still afloat. If it wasn't
retrieved, they'd be in trouble. He had to do something now, before
total exhaustion set in and he was incapable of moving. For the second
time, he dove into the water.
The milk of human kindness wasn't exactly flowing through every vein,
but at least they hadn't killed him. Yet.
Gregory made every attempt to appear harmless, which wasn't difficult,
because he wasn't only harmless, he was utterly helpless.
Besides, he doubted Old Nick himself could have intimidated these folks.
They might slit his throat for entertainment, but not because they felt
threatened.
As for himself, his bowels were quaking with terror. They could probably
smell his fear over the tantalizing aroma of the gumbo that bubbled in a
pot on the cook stove. The woman of the house brought him a bowl of it,
ungraciously setting the crockery down on the table with a decisive
thunk.
She was no friendlier than the menfolks her husband and teenage son,
Gregory surmised who'd virtually dragged him through the woods to this
house where the woman and two younger girls had subjected him to
suspicious scrutiny. He supposed he should be grateful that he'd been
rescued before he became gator chow, or succumbed to hunger, thirst, or
exposure.
They'd saved him from the perils of the swamp, but their hospitality
left much to be desired. At any moment their misgivings could give rise
to menace. These were the kind of people you did not mess with.
The movie Deliverance came to mind.
Trying to establish a friendlier mood, he smiled up at his hostess.
"This looks delicious. Thank you, ma'am."
She practically snarled, revealing a gap where several teeth should have
been. She said something to her husband in Cajun French. He grunted a
surly response. The children were as taciturn as their parents.
They stood by silently and watched Gregory spoon the gumbo into his
mouth.
He was ravenous, but after a couple of bites, he realized that he should
have given the gumbo a trial run before gobbling. It was dark and thick
with various shellfish, onion, tomatoes, okra, and rice, but the cook
had been liberal with spices that seared his esophagus.
After taking a long drink of water, he ate more slowly. His stomach had
shrunk over the last couple of days, so he got full quickly and finished
only half the portion."Thank you very much," he said, patting his
tummy."It was delicious, but I'm full."
Without comment, the woman removed the bowl and his utensils but left
his glass of water. The man sat down across
from him. He was a hairy
cuss. Coarse black hair sprouted from his nostrils and ears and
knuckles. The hair on his head had been plastered down by his dozer cap,
but his chin was obscured by a thick beard that extended all the way
down his neck to meld with the pelt that filled the V of his collar.
"What's your name?"
Gregory, upon hearing him speak English for the first time, stammered,
"Uh, Gregory."
"Father Gregory?"
Momentarily taken aback, Gregory then remembered that he was still
wearing the reversed collar."Uh, yes. Yes. Father Gregory." A priest
might be treated with deference. For instance, his death might be quick
and painless as opposed to slow and torturous.
His lie evoked the hoped-for response. Impressed to have a man of God in
their midst, they began talking excitedly among themselves.
Eventually the head of the house whistled shrilly and the others fell
immediately silent.
He eyed Gregory with blatant distrust."What happened to your face?"
"Tree branch."
Two eyebrows that looked like caterpillars glued to his forehead came
together to form a suspicious furry frown.
"See, I got lost," Gregory said. Their expressions remained immutable.
He elaborated."I, uh, a friend and I were camping. He went on ahead in
the car with our supplies. I was supposed to take the boat and meet him
at a designated spot. But I got lost. Wasn't watching where I was going
and plowed right into a tree. Knocked myself silly. I drifted for I
don't know how long until the boat got caught up where you found me." He
formed the sign of the cross between them."Bless you, my friend."
Then, to cap off the monologue, he added, "My fellow priest is probably
worried sick by now. He's probably organized a search party."
The hirsute man looked up at his wife and grunted noncommittally, she
sucked the empty space where an incisor should have been.
Gregory took their rejection hard. He felt like crying. He'd reached
rock bottom, leaving him only one viable option throwing himself on the
mercy of his parents. They'd washed their hands of him a dozen times,
but they always came through when the situation was desperate, and he
couldn't imagine a situation more desperate than this.
Surely he could think of something to tell them that would strike a
chord of parental concern, or, short of that, obligation. After all,
they'd spawned him. They would gladly finance a trip. Maybe to Europe or
the Orient. They would send him far, far away just to get rid of him and
avoid any embarrassment his presence in New Orleans might cause them.
He would leave tomorrow. His daddy could make it happen. In a matter of
hours, he would be safely away from Burke Basile and Pinkie Duvall and
the whole damnable mess. He rued the day he had become involved, but now
he'd seen the light and salvation was only a telephone call away.
"You've been awfully kind. Now, if I could please use your phone "
"No phone," the man said brusquely.
"Oh, okay." There was a telephone in plain sight not ten feet away on
the kitchen wall, but Gregory thought it prudent not to point that out,
especially since another heated family discussion was underway. He knew
a smattering of French, but none he'd studied sounded like this, so he
was unable to follow the debate that continued until, again, the father
motioned for silence.
"You'll marry that boy there."
Gregory stared at him with misapprehension."I beg your pardon?"
He pointed to the stocky youth who had assisted in the rescue."He wants
to get married. You'll marry him, oui?"
The gumbo was bubbling again, this time in Gregory's stomach. He'd eaten
too much after days of fasting. He was sweating as profusely as the lady
of the house, who kept mopping her upper lip with the dish towel slung
over her shoulder.
This situation was becoming trickier by the minute. To get out of it
alive would require all his acting skills. The boy looked about eighteen
and promised to be as hairy as his father in a few years.
Gregory smiled at him benevolently."You want to get married, my son?"
The boy glanced at his father to answer for him.
The bearded man startled Gregory by barking an order in Cajun French.
A door off the main room opened and an impossibly young girl emerged
That is, impossibly young to have her belly swollen by an advanced
pregnancy.
"Oh, Jesus," Gregory groaned, and not in prayer.
Burke towed the boat back to the pier, swimming about as agilely as a
man with an anvil tied to his neck. His head felt like it had been
pounded with a meat mallet. When he reached the pier, it cost him
reserve amounts of energy to pull the boat from the water. He retrieved
the pistol he'd emptied into the hull, but he didn't immediately assess
the damage. Right now he was less concerned about Dredd's boat than
Duvall's wife.
She was where he'd left her, but she had turned onto her side and drawn
her knees up to her chest, probably for warmth. When he leaned over her,
his clothes dripped water onto her face. She didn't move. He pushed his
hand into her shirt and touched her throat to assure himself there was a
pulse.
"Why didn't you make it easy on yourself and let me drown?" Only after
she had spoken did she open her eyes.
"You're no good to me dead," he said in a husky voice. Now, having had
time to think about how close she'd come to dying, he was weak with
relief.
"Wouldn't my death have been your revenge?"
"I don't want Duvall to mourn you. I want him to come after you."
Then she did the last thing he expected she laughed.
Angrily, he withdrew his hand and left her to her joviality, figuring
that if she felt well enough to laugh, her dunking in the bayou hadn't
had any serious effects. He was a sap to get all emotional about it.
His shoes squished on the planks as he stepped over a crowbar no doubt
her weapon and made his way to the far side of the shack, where he
ignored the cold and stripped to the skin.
He washed himself vigorously with water from the rain barrel and a bar
of no-nonsense soap. He scrubbed his hair with shampoo and rooted into
his ear canal with a soapy cloth, hoping to discourage any
microorganisms from moving in permanently. When he felt sufficiently
clean, he went into the cabin to dry himself in front of the heater
before dressing.
The shampooing had aggravated the goose egg on the back of his head.
It hurt like a son of a bitch, but neither his vision nor his memory was
impaired, so he didn't think he'd suffered a concussion. He took a few
aspirin to dull the pain, then went back outside.
Mrs. Duvall's case of the giggles had subsided. In fact, she appeared to
have fallen asleep."Hey." He nudged her knee with his toe.
"You've got to get cleaned up."
Groaning, she drew her knees closer to her chest."That water's got all
sorts of creepy-crawlers in it. I don't want you dying on me of some
parasite."
He tried to take her hand and
pull her up, but she didn't cooperate.
Swearing beneath his breath, he bent down and forced her to sit up.
"I'm tired, too, lady. You brought this on yourself. If you hadn't done
such a damn stupid thing, you wouldn't be feeling so bad."
He made her stand, then half led, half carried her to the side of the
shack and the cistern. He refilled the bucket with fresh water and
slapped the bar of soap into her palm.
"Wash all over," he instructed."Ears, nose, everything. Scrub hard.
You should be as pink as a baby's butt when you're done. After you're
finished, I'll tend to the wounds on your back." He was concerned about
infection. Open wounds were extremely vulnerable to bacteria, and the
swamp was a hatchery for unicellular killers.
He left her to wash and went back into the cabin, where their uneaten
fish supper was beginning to stink. He gathered up both the cooked and
uncooked portions and wrapped them tightly in a plastic bag. He placed
the lid on the cooking pot, deciding that he would dispose of the grease
later. He no longer had an appetite and doubted she did. But maybe he
should ask her.
On his way out, he grabbed an extra couple of towels and pulled the
quilt off the bed. Taking these with him, he moved to the corner of the