by Sandra Brown
and trudged back to the counter, where he asked for a coffee refill,
then stared into it morosely.
Jesus, how had things gotten so bad, so fast?
A couple of weeks ago he'd been feeling pretty damn good about his life.
He'd been in debt to Del Ray Jones, but he'd been in debt before.
One could always get some money, big money, if he knew how to go about
it. Sure, the numbers were higher than ever before, but wasn't that just
a matter of zeros? True, he'd been a fool to get involved with Del Ray
that scumbag gave loan sharks everywhere a bad name but it was a
temporary crisis, and a solution was waiting right around the corner.
He'd been confident that everything would work out.
Now all hell had broken loose. Basile had up and quit, tossing the whole
Narcotics Division on its ear. Internal Affairs had decided it was time
for another probe, which put everybody, including Mac, in a very bad
mood. Pat was disconsolate and distracted by Basile's resignation and
involvement in what seemed a kidnapping. Del Ray Jones had reared his
ugly head, and he had Pinkie Duvall behind his threats, making them much
more viable.
Mac's only hope of salvation was to find Basile for Duvall, and his only
hope of finding Basile had just told him to have a nice day.
"Not fucking likely," he mumbled as he fished a couple of bills from his
pants pocket and left them on the counter.
Pinkie had given him twenty-four hours. By nightfall he had to know
where Basile was holed up with the lawyer's wife or else. The odds were
lousy.
Joe Basile thoughtfully hung up the telephone in the den and pondered
the strange call from Mac Mccuen. But he couldn't dwell on it long
because there was a guest seated at the dining table in the kitchen
drinking coffee with Linda. His wife hadn't planned on being a hostess
early this morning. Pulled from bed by the ringing doorbell, she was in
her oldest, warmest robe. Her eyes were still puffy from sleep.
She looked at him as he reentered the kitchen."Who was on the phone?"
'"Somebody from the office, asking what time I'd be in." She gave him an
odd look, but said nothing, and offered to cook their guest some
breakfast."No thanks, Mrs. Basile," Doug Pat replied."I grabbed
something at Denny's before coming over. I apologize for showing up at
your front door this early in the morning."
"No problem."
"You drove up from New Orleans last night?" Joe asked him.
"Yeah, I got in late, and I'm heading straight back as soon as I leave
here. I knew it would be a quick-turnaround trip."
"Why didn't you just call?"
"I could have, but I thought we should talk in person."
"It's that important?"
"I believe so. Over the course of your brother's career, he's cultivated
a number of enemies, not only among criminals, but inside the police
department. I thought it best if we not discuss this matter over the
telephone."
"You're scaring us, Mr. Pat," Linda said."Has something happened to
Burke?"
"That's what I don't know but want to find out. He resigned from the
department, then a few days later disappeared under mysterious
circumstances."
"He called and told me he was going away for a while to sort things
out," Joe offered."In light of his and Barbara's split, and his sudden
retirement, I don't consider those circumstances mysterious."
"You're unaware of other factors involved."
"Such as?"
"I'm sorry, Joe, but I can't discuss them. It's classified police
information " Placing his folded hands on the table, he appealed to
them."Please. If you have any idea where Burke might have gone, tell me.
It's essential that I locate him before anyone else does. I can't
impress upon you how important this is."
"Are you saying his life is at risk?" Linda asked.
"Possibly."
Meaning yes, Joe thought. He felt the weight of his predicament.
He and his older brother saw each other only once or twice a year, but
they were closer than those infrequent visits indicated. He would go so
far as to say they loved each other.
If Burke was in some sort of jam, he would move heaven and earth to help
him out of it. His dilemma arose from not knowing what to do, because he
didn't know whether or not Burke wanted to be found.
By anybody. Mccuen. Or Doug Pat.
Joe had a gut feeling that if Burke had left without telling anyone
where he was going, then he wished to be left alone. Having quit the
police force, wouldn't he have washed his hands of "classified police
information"? And why were Mccuen and Pat looking for him separately?
Neither had mentioned the other. If the situation was as critical as
they independently claimed, why hadn't they made locating Burke a team
effort?
"I'm sorry, Mr. Pat, I can't help you," Joe said, repeating what he'd
already told Mccuen."Burke didn't tell me where he was going."
"Any ideas?"
"No."
"If you knew, would you tell me?"
He answered honestly."No, I wouldn't."
Pat sighed. He looked at Linda and determined instantly that she
supported her husband's decision. He smiled crookedly."You're very much
like your brother, Joe."
"Thank you. I consider that a compliment."
Pat laid his business card on the table and stood."If you change your
mind, contact me at any hour. Mrs. Basile, again I apologize for barging
in without calling beforehand. Thank you for the coffee."
The Basiles watched from the front door as he got into his car and drove
away. Linda turned to Joe."Your office never calls to ask what time
you're coming in."
"It was Mac Mccuen, another cop. Guess what he wanted?"
"To know where Burke is?"
"Exactly. And Pat drove all the way to Shreveport to see us this
morning."
"What does it mean? What is going on, Joe?"
"Damned if I know. But I'm going to find out."
He returned to the kitchen and thumbed through their personal telephone
directory until he found the number for Dredd's Mercantile.
Dredd, unmindful of the rain, had already been out to check his
trotlines. He was squatting at the end of the pier, gutting fish,
tossing the entrails back into the water, when he heard the telephone
ringing.
Cursing the interruption, he jogged toward the building in his bow
legged gait, his flat bare feet slapping against the wet planks of the
pier.
"Hold on, I'm coming," he said out loud as he opened the screen door.
Winded from the exercise, he grabbed the receiver and gasped, "Hello?"
Nothing but a dial tone. He slammed down the receiver."Damn it to
tarnation!"
He hated telephones and didn't really mind missing the call. If it was
that important, the caller would call back.
What irked him was that as he'd reached for the phone, he'd glanced
outside in time to see a pelican making breakfast of his catch.
Despite the rain, tourists queued up for the paddlewheel Creole Queen
excursion upriver to view the ante
bellum plantation homes. They juggled
brochures, umbrellas, plastic rain bonnets, cameras, and camcorders as
they traipsed up the loading plank to the boat.
The embarkation was delayed by the inclement weather and by a group of
senior citizens, some of whom needed special assistance getting onboard.
The embarkation was stopped altogether by a blood-curdling scream.
It came from a woman, who slumped against her astonished husband and
aimed a shaking finger down toward the muddy water of the Mississippi
River, into which she'd been absently gazing while inching along in
line.
Others crowded close to the railing in order to look down and see what
had caused the woman's distress. Some gasped and turned away in
repugnance. Some placed their hands over their mouths to keep from
retching. Those with stronger stomachs took pictures or shot videos.
A few prayers were whispered.
Attracting much more attention dead than he ever had alive, Errol,
floating on his back, stared up through the water with eyes already
turning milky.
(Burke was standing in the open doorway of the shack, sipping a cup
of coffee and watching the rain when he heard her come up behind him.
He glanced over his shoulder, almost expecting to see her raising an
iron pot or some other blunt instrument with which to brain him.
Last night she hadn't taken too well to being handcuffed to him and had
put up quite a struggle, which he had trouble quelling without hurting
her."This wouldn't be necessary if you hadn't tried to escape," he had
told her."I can't run the risk of you knocking me out or killing me
while I'm asleep."
"That never even occurred to me."
"Well, it occurred to me." He had stretched out on the bed, dragging her
down with him."It's been a long, tiring day for me. I'm going to sleep.
I suggest you do the same."
She refused to lie down and sat on the edge of the bed, seething with
resentment. He closed his eyes and ignored her. Eventually she
surrendered to exhaustion, lay down, and was asleep long before he was.
This morning, he'd unlocked the handcuffs and gotten up without waking
her. Clearly she was still miffed, but she wasn't trying to sneak up on
him with a weapon.
"Coffee's on the stove," he told her.
Nonchalantly, he resumed his contemplation of the weather. The swamp was
curtained by a heavy rain that showed no signs of letting up anytime
soon. It was a good thing he'd brought enough supplies to last a couple
of days. He wouldn't be going to Dredd's today. Not that he could get
there anyway since the boat now had bullet holes in it.
The weather was keeping them inside the cabin. Didn't it stand to reason
that it would also keep everyone else out? How close was Duvall to
locating them? When would he show up? Within the next ten minutes?
Or would it take another week?
Burke hoped it was sooner rather than later. The shack seemed to be
shrinking around them. He was beginning to feel the squeeze, and the
pressure was getting to him. Lying beside her last night, he'd been
aware of each breath she took. Every time she moved, he knew about it.
His sleep had been constantly interrupted by her sighs. Now, even though
his back was to her, he knew exactly where she was standing and what she
was doing.
In New Orleans, she had worn clothing that blatantly advertised her as a
sex object. Her wardrobe was expensive, but bordered on trashy.
Now, dressed in the gray Wal-Mart sweat suit, she looked softer and
sexier even than she had that night in the gazebo in the low-cut black
dress. Without makeup, her cheeks rosy from sleep, her hair tousled, she
looked as warm and snuggly and innocent as a kitten. And as erotic as
hell.
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