Fat Tuesday(108)

Shit! "Now I've really got to go. Take care, Joe."

He hung up and raced for the door. Dredd was on the galerie, blocking his path. Burke dodged him with the alacrity of an NFL running back and continued running down the pier without breaking his stride."Joe gave Mac Mccuen directions to our cabin," he called over his shoulder.

"Damn. What side is Mccuen's bread buttered on?"

"I don't know. That's what worries me."

"Will somebody be with him?"

"Wouldn't surprise me. In any case, I've got to head him off."

"Want me to come along?"

"This is my problem, Dredd. Untie that line, please," he said as he jumped into the boat.

"I had a problem once. You helped me."

"You've already helped. And I'll be eternally grateful." He started the motor.-"By the way, you'll be glad to know your medicines worked.

Remy's wounds have healed. If something happens to me, be sure and tell her ... Just ... Tell her I'm sorry for everything."

Mccuen mentally calculated the odds of his getting lost and figured them very good.

He had rented the boat from a guy with more warts than teeth who claimed never to have heard of the Basile brothers or their fishing camp. Mccuen suspected him of lying and was glad he had Joe Basile's directions written down. The locals seemed to regard the swamp as their terrain and resented the intrusion of others.

As far as he was concerned, they could keep this godforsaken country to themselves. He couldn't fathom why some rhapsodized the natural beauty of the bayous and swamps of his native state. They were infested with insects, snakes, alligators, bobcats, boars, and other wildlife, and he wanted no part of any of it. Even as a kid he hadn't liked the great outdoors. A horse-racing track was about the closest he wanted to get to it. That and his own backyard.

Thoughts of home brought Toni to mind. God, what must she be thinking?

Last night, about the time he was supposed to be meeting Del Ray Jones and Wayne Bardo, he'd been packing his young, beautiful wife off to her mama in Jackson, Mississippi. When he began slinging her belongings into suitcases, naturally she had become a trifle upset and demanded to know what in hell was going on.

He'd improvised a cock-and-bull story about a drug dealer they'd busted, who'd threatened the narcs involved in the sting with reprisals against their families."It's probably just so much talk, but Pat advised us to take the necessary precautions."

She'd bought the lie. But even if she hadn't, he wasn't giving her a choice. She was getting safely out of town, period, end of argument Duvall's deadline had expired and that wasn't going to go unnoticed.

They would come looking for him with the hunting instinct and determination of bloodhounds.

Duvall's subtle remarks about Toni had got his attention just as the attorney knew they would. Mac knew what Wayne Bardo was capable of doing to a woman. He'd seen the eight-by-tens of murder scenes where Bardo was implicated but never indicted.

So Toni had been shuttled out of town, and she would remain in Jackson until this mess between Burke Basile and Pinkie Duvall was resolved one way or another.

Goddamn, how had he gotten himself caught in the cross fire?

Of course he knew how. Gambling. His addiction was responsible for all the wrong choices he'd made, and he'd made plenty. Every misdeed he'd ever committed harkened back to supporting his habit. It was common knowledge that he placed a bet or two here and there, but no one was aware of the lengths to which he'd gone to cover debts not his folks, or his wife, or the people he worked with. No one. But he knew. And his conscience ate at him.

He swore to God that if he and Toni got out of this situation unscathed, he would never make another wager as long as he lived.

But in the next breath, he bet himself a hundred to one that he would break that vow.

Suddenly, there was the cabin.

Mac almost laughed out loud. When he'd set out in the boat, he didn't believe he had a prayer of actually finding the place, but he had followed Joe Basile's directions to a T, and, lo and behold, there it was, just as Basile had described it, right down to the retreads attached to the pier.

It was too late for approaching with caution. In the desolate silence, Basile had surely heard the boat's motor well before it came into view.

Right now, he was probably watching from one of the screened windows.

Mac's heart was knocking inside his chest as though it knew it was in the crosshairs of a rifle's scope.

He killed the motor and let the small craft drift alongside the pier.

He called out, "I'm alone, Basile, and I've got to talk to you."

With both hands, he reached for one of the posts and held on, then clumsily climbed out of the boat and secured the rope.

Although the day was cool, his pores were leaking nervous sweat.

He sensed hungry, hostile eyes watching him from myriad hiding places along the banks of the bayou, but none so menacing as Basile's.

His footsteps echoed loudly as he walked along the pier toward the crude dwelling. He was trained to spot signs of impending danger but all his policeman's training deserted him. He had embarked on new territory, as remote and alien to him as Neptune. He felt incompetent and clumsy, and that was no way for a law officer to approach a problem, especially one on the scale of Burke Basile.