by Sandra Brown
was completely destroyed." She looked at him meaningfully."They never
caught the arsonist, but I never applied for another job, either."
No longer eating, he sat with his elbows on the table, clasped hands
covering his mouth, staring at her over the ridge of his knuckles.
There was a sprinkling of freckles across his cheekbones, too, she
noticed.
His eyes weren't brown, as she'd previously thought, but green, so
deeply green they appeared brown unless one looked very closely.
"Would you like some more?"
At first he seemed not to understand the question, then he glanced down
at his empty bowl."Uh, please."
He ate his second portion in silence.
When he was finished, she began clearing the table. He offered to wash
the dishes and she let him. She dried.
"I've never met anyone like you," he said."This morning you practically
begged me to return you to your husband, when it sounds to me like
Duvall defines emotional abuse. You're like a prisoner in your own home.
You make none of the decisions. Your opinion doesn't count even where
your own future is concerned. You're nothing except Duvall's possession,
something he shows off."
"Like his orchids."
"Orchids?"
"He spends hours in his greenhouse cultivating orchids."
"You're kidding."
"No. But that's irrelevant. Please, finish your thought."
"My thought? I guess it doesn't bother you to be no more than a
possession when you think of all you get in return. Fancy clothes
Jewelry. A limousine and driver. Like mother, like daughter. You just
charge more than Angel."
If he had slapped her, it couldn't have stung more. Throwing down the
dish towel, she turned away, but one of his wet hands shot out and
caught her by the wrist."Let go of me."
"You sold yourself body and soul to Pinkie Duvall, and you feel that
because your mother was a drug-addicted whore your decision was
justified. Well, it doesn't wash, Mrs. Duvall. Kids can't choose their
parents or the circumstances of their upbringing, but as adults, we have
choices."
"Do we?"
"You disagree?"
"Maybe your choices were more clear-cut than mine, Mr. Basile."
"Oh, I think your choice was very easy. If I was a beautiful and
desirable young woman, I might peddle myself to the highest bidder, too.
"
"Do you think so?"
"I might."
"No, I mean do you think I'm beautiful and desirable?"
Looking like he'd taken a clip on the chin, he released her wrist. But
even though they were no longer touching, he held her with his stare.
After a time, he said, "Yeah, I do. Furthermore, you know I do. You use
your sexuality like currency, and every man you meet wants to cash in,
from a crusty old curmudgeon like Dredd to that stammering guy in the
French Market who sold you the oranges."
Her lips parted in wordless surprise.
"That was me in the baseball cap, running after you with a goddamn sack
of oranges," he said, sounding angry."I was spying on you then, and I
was spying the night you had your little tryst with Bardo in the
gazebo."
"I did not have a tryst with Bardo. Not that night or any other time.
He makes my skin crawl."
"That's not what it looked like to me."
"You're so self-righteous and quick to judge, which I find surprising
since you of all people should know that things aren't always what they
appear. You should know how extenuating circumstances can shade a
situation."
He advanced on her a step."The hell you talking about?"
"You killed your partner. You fired the gun that caused his death.
Technically that's what happened. But judgments based on that fact alone
would be unfair to you. Because there were contributing factors.
When taken into account, those factors exonerate you."
"Okay. So?"
"So, until you know all the circumstances of my life, how dare you
preach to me about choices."
"Mrs. Duvall?" he said calmly.
"What?"
"Have you ever yelled at your husband like this?" The unexpected
question, and the calm manner in which he posed it, took her off guard.
His eyebrows went up."No? Well, maybe you should. Maybe he'd stop
burning down buildings if you ever said How dare you' to him and
threatened to leave."
"Leave?" she exclaimed on a bitter laugh."What a brilliant idea, Mr.
Basile! Why didn't I think of that? Why didn't I "
"Shh!" He stepped up to her, placed one arm around her waist and the
other hand over her mouth. She tried to wiggle free, but he increased
the pressure of his arm, squeezing her waist tighter."Shh!"
Then she heard the noise that he had picked up seconds earlier. It
sounded like a trolling motor.
"Since you don't know who it is," he said in a low voice, "I advise you
to keep quiet."
Remembering the men who had chased them from the Crossroads, she nodded
in understanding. He released her."Get the candle." She blew it out as
he reached for the lantern, turning it down to barely a glow."Stay out
of sight."
Placing his hand on the top of her head, as he had done in the boat when
the helicopter flew over, he pushed her down and motioned her under the
table. She crawled beneath it.
As nimble as a shadow, he moved to the cabinet and she watched him take
the pistol from behind the top shelf. That was about the only place she
hadn't searched for the gun today while he was busy with the boat.
He tucked the pistol into the waistband of his jeans at the small of his
back, then went to stand on the pier just outside the door.
The sound of the motor grew louder. Soon a light appeared, flickering
through the moss-draped branches and casting a faint apron of light on
the rippling surface of the water in advance of the approaching boat.
She could see enough to discern that it was approximately the size of
the craft Basile had repaired that day.
A man called out to him in Cajun French. He responded with a laconic
"Evening, y'all."
Remy felt the vibration when the boat pulled up alongside the pier and
bumped into one of the rubber-tire buffers on the piles. On hands and
knees she crawled from beneath the table and across the room to the
window that afforded her a better view. She raised her head only far
enough for her eyes to clear the windowsill. There were three men
huddled in the boat.
She didn't know whether to reveal herself and alert them that she was a
captive, or to remain hidden. She desperately needed to return to New
Orleans, but would these men provide her safe passage? Or was she safer
with Basile?
While debating what to do, Basile asked them if the fish were biting.
So they weren't lawmen. Or was Basile tricking her into thinking they
weren't?
She took another clandestine peek. The men were barely distinguishable
in the pale light, but there was nothing in their rough appearance to
distinguish them as law enforcement officers, nor were th
ere any
official insignias on their boat.
In English, the spokesman of the group told Burke that they weren't on a
fishing expedition."We're looking for someone. A priest."
"Just any ol' priest or one in particular?" Basile kept his tone light,
but Remy knew the friendliness was counterfeit.
"This priest, Father Gregory, we think maybe he was in trouble.
Who knows?" She detected the Gallic shrug behind the Cajun's words.
"If he has enemies, we don't want any trouble from them."
"What made you think he might have enemies?"
Basile listened to the man's tale without comment. When he finished,
Basile said, "Lost in the swamp? Poor fool. In any event, nobody's been
by this way since I got here several days ago."
The three men in the boat held a whispered consultation, then the
spokesman thanked Burke, bade him good night, and they pushed off.
Turning the boat around, they started back the way they'd come.
Remy considered charging through the door and calling out to them but
decided against it. What about them had frightened Father Gregory more
than the perils of the swamp? He must have had a compelling reason not
to trust them.
Or had he feared only that they would turn him over to the authorities?
She stood up and ran toward the door, but Basile was there to block
her."You can scream and they'll come back," he said in a low, urgent
voice, "but you have no guarantee that they won't hurt you."
"What guarantee do I have that you won't?"
"Have I so far?"
She couldn't see his eyes, but she felt their intensity, and she knew he
was right. Her safety was reduced to choosing the devil she knew.
Sensing her decision, he crossed the room and extinguished the lantern,
plunging the shack into total darkness."Just in case they're around the
bend watching," he said.
"What do you think happened to Father Gregory after he sneaked away from
the wedding?" she whispered.
"God knows. But at least I know he made it that far."
Gregory had resigned himself to dying soon.
He wouldn't receive the death penalty for the role he'd played in the
kidnapping, but he wouldn't last long in prison. Guys like him were
prey, and they were outnumbered by predators. In a cell block, his life
span might be a couple of months. But after even that amount of time,
death would be a welcome release.
He cowered in the backseat of the unmarked police car, his heart
tripping crazily. But, surprisingly, they weren't heading toward the
Vieux Carre station."Are you taking me uptown?" The arresting officers
ignored him and continued their conversation about their upcoming Mardi
Gras party plans.
When they passed police headquarters without even slowing down,
Gregory's terror went into overdrive."Where are you taking me?"
The man in the passenger seat turned to him."Will you shut up?
We're trying to talk here."
"Are you guys feds?" They laughed and the driver said, "Yeah, that's us.
Feds."
Disliking the sound of their snickers, Gregory began to whimper.
"I was forced to be an accomplice. Basile, he's meaner than hell. He
threatened to kill me if I didn't help him. I didn't even know what he
was going to do. I ... I didn't know anything about the kidnapping
until it was a done deal."
Since his avowals of innocence didn't seem to faze them, he took another
tack."My daddy's rich. If you take me to his house, he'll pay you a lot
of money, no questions asked. Just tell him what you want, and you'll
get it. He's wealthy, I swear."
"We know all about you, Gregory," said the one in the passenger seat
"Now shut the fuck up, or I'm liable to get mad."
Gregory swallowed his next earnest entreaty and began to cry qui
officers, and all doubt of that was removed when they drove into the
underground parking garage of an office building. At this time of night,
the garage was empty save for only a few other cars.
A parking garage had been the setting for countless movie murders, and
those grisly scenes kaleidoscoped through his mind. He figured that this
was where they would have him face the concrete wall and shoot him in
the back of the head. His faceless body would be discovered tomorrow
morning by an office clerk arriving early for work.
"Please," he blubbered, recoiling against the seat when they opened the
car's rear doors."Please don't."
But the man he'd mistaken for a cop reached into the backseat, grabbed
him by the front of his shirt and hauled him out. He sank to his knees
and began to beg for his life, but they pulled him to his feet and
prodded him toward the elevator.
Okay, so they weren't going to shoot him in the parking garage.
Probably didn't want to get blood on their clothes. They were going to
take him up to the roof of the building and throw him off, making his
execution look like a suicide. For being an accomplice in a kid napping,
Gregory James had gone over the edge. Literally.
However, before reaching the roof, the elevator stopped on another
floor. When he was dragged from the cubicle, Gregory was surprised to
find himself in a carpeted corridor, lined on either side by mahogany
doors. At the end of the austere hallway was a set of double doors
bearing an engraved plaque.
When he read the name etched into the brass, Gregory's knees buckled,
and he collapsed to the floor.
"Get up," one of his escorts said.
"Come on, don't be an asshole."
Gregory assumed the fetal position and whimpered miserably.
The double doors opened, and he heard a voice thundering down the
hallway."What's going on?"
"He won't get up. What do you want us to do with him, Mr. Duvall?"
Hearing the name spoken aloud was worse than reading it on the brass
nameplate. Gregory covered his ears. But he watched a pair of shiny
reptile loafers coming nearer, making size-eleven impressions in the
plush forest green carpet. When the shoes were within a few inches of
his head, they came to a stop.
From above him, Pinkie Duvall said, "It's not what we're going to do
with him, gentlemen. From this point, Mr. James's fate is entirely up to
him."
Duvall? Sir, pardon the interruption. It's Miss Flarra on the telephone.
She's in a state."
"Thank you, Roman. I'll take the call." As soon as the butler withdrew
from his study at home, Duvall picked up the extension.
"Flarra?
How are you, sweetheart?"
"I'm worried sick is how I am! What's going on? I had to beg Roman to
let me speak to you. He said he'd been instructed to hold all calls.
Where's Remy? Why hasn't she come to see me? I haven't heard a word from
her in days. Something terrible has happened, I know it."
"Calm down. Nothing terrible has happened."
"Then what's going on? Remy hasn't been here all week, and she never
misses. Every time I call the house, I'm given the runaround."
"Your sister's had a bout with strep throat." Evidently alarmed, she
said, "Is she okay?"
"A
few days more rest and she'll be fine."
"Why wasn't I told?"
"Remy didn't want you to worry unnecessarily, so she asked the staff not
to mention it to you. She's on antibiotics and is doing much better,
although her throat is still very sore. It's hard for her to talk.
I've been distracted by a case that is demanding all my time. I
apologize for not calling. It's unforgivable of me."
Pinkie listened to the silence coming from the other end as Flarra
assimilated his lie. If he had told her the truth, he would have a
hysterical woman on his hands, and that would only compound his problem
Flarra was impulsive and unpredictable, he didn't need the additional
worry of how she might react to her sister's abduction Soon he would be
faced with informing her of Remy's demise, but he'd cross that bridge
when he came to it.
'"Can I come see her tomorrow?" she asked.
