Fat Tuesday(73)

"You'll get splinters."

"Pardon?"

"If you keep holding onto that board like that, you might get splinters in your hands. You can relax. We've reached top speed. You don't need a high-performance boat to navigate these bayous."

"I wouldn't know the difference. This is the first time I've ever been in one."

"In a swamp?"

"In a boat."

He laughed with misapprehension."You live in a city that practically floats and you've never been in a boat?"

"No," she shot back."I've never been in a boat. How much clearer can I say it?"

Her sharp retort caused a pelican to take flight. It left its roost with a great, noisy flapping of wings that caused Mrs. Duvall to start.

"Steady," Burke said.

The large bird skimmed the surface of the water only yards from them but apparently decided there might be better hunting elsewhere. He rose up out of the mist like the symbolic specter from a myth and disappeared above the treetops.

Depending on one's point of view, the swamp could be either a temple or a terror. Burke was respectful of its dangers, but he loved it.

He'd been introduced to it during college when he and his fraternity brothers spent beer-blurred weekends exploring its matchless miles of bayous and bogs. Looking back, he realized they'd been reckless and stupid on these adventures, but somehow they had survived with no more serious repercussions than hangovers, sunburns, and insect bites.

He had promised himself that if he ever scraped together enough cash, he'd buy a getaway place. As it turned out, his brother had split the cost of the fishing camp with him. Joe enjoyed the weekends they spent there together, but he had never acquired Burke's worshipful regard for the swamp's primitive mystique.

This morning, it looked particularly foreboding, a surreal, monochromatic landscape of water, mist, and stark, moss-laden trees, their gnarled, bare branches raised in imploring attitudes toward glowering clouds of gunmetal gray.

Through the eyes of someone who'd never been exposed to its peculiar beauty, the swamp must seem like the landscape of a nightmare.

Especially if that initiate were alone with someone she mistrusted and feared.

He glanced at her and was disconcerted to catch her staring at him.

"How did you know about my baby?"

Last night he'd been able to avoid answering. She had gazed at him for only a few wordless moments before Dredd's potion worked its magic.

Then her eyes closed, she wilted into the pillows, and fell instantly into a deep slumber.

Sometime yesterday, it had occurred to him that maybe she shouldn't be medicated so soon after a miscarriage. Could Dredd's elixirs cause cramping, more spontaneous bleeding? The possibilities were alarming.

What happened to a woman when she lost a child? How long did it take to recover, and what was involved? Damned if he knew.

Since his first consummated sexual experience at sixteen, he had charted the terrain of the female body many times. He knew his way around it very well. Certainly years of marriage had increased his knowledge. By osmosis he had acquired, and had a fair understanding of, the vocabulary. He had a rudimentary knowledge of cycles and tubal ligations and estrogen and D and Cs and hysterectomies.

He didn't want to know more. Beyond medical professionals, did any man really want to know and understand the intricacies of a woman's body?

The mysteries confined within that relatively small space had tantalized and fascinated Man since Creation. The countless galaxies hadn't inspired as much speculation, or wonder, or awe.

The secrecy was intrinsic to the allure. At least to Burke Basile it was. He didn't want his illusions dispelled. He didn't want to tamper with the poetic imagery that femininity aroused in him.

Nevertheless, he'd had to ask about her miscarriage last night.

For his own peace of mind, he had to know that Dredd's remedies wouldn't harm her.

"Answer me," she demanded now."How did you know about my baby? No one knew, except my doctor. I didn't tell a single soul."

"You told someone."

He watched her face while she puzzled through it, and knew the instant she arrived at the answer. Her lips parted on a silent gasp. Then, looking at him as though he were the Antichrist, her eyes filled with tears. One slipped over her eyelid and rolled down her cheek. He remembered the blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. This single tear was more poignant.

"You heard my confession?"

He averted his head, unable to look at her.

"How is that possible?"

"Does that matter now?"

"No. I guess it doesn't matter how you did it, you did it." After a moment, she added, "You're evil, Mr. Basile."

He didn't feel very proud of himself about it. But his guilty conscience only made him want to lash out."Casting stones, Mrs. Duvall?

That's funny. Coming from a woman who whored herself into marrying a rich man."

"What do you know about it? What do you know about me? Nothing!"

"Shh!" Burke held up his hand for quiet.

"I don't know what you think about me. I don't care "

"Shut up," he barked. He quickly turned off the boat's motor and listened.

The sound of an approaching chopper was unmistakable. Cursing, he restarted the motor, and, opening up the throttle, headed for the thickest grove of bald cypresses. The hull bumped against the knobby roots of the trees, which broke the surface like stalagmites.