Fat Tuesday(76)

Errol barged through the door to check on his safety."Get out!"

Cowed, Errol withdrew, pulling the door closed as he backed out of it.

Pinkie prowled the room as though seeking an outlet for his anger.

Since the day he'd bartered with Angel for her daughter, Remy had been his. He'd placed her in Blessed Heart to assure she would remain pure.

Her scholastic courses were necessary, but, in Pinkie's mind, secondary in importance to the other educ"Eon he had insisted upon. He demanded that she receive instruction on proper speech and etiquette, that her manners be polished, so that when he did allow her out in public she would be a glowing tribute to him.

After their marriage, he had taught her all a woman really needed to know, and that was how to please a man. He selected her clothes, her shoes, her jewelry. He had tailored her for himself, created her for his exclusive use.

The wife of Pinkie Duvall must be as perfect as his orchids, or his wine, or his career. That's why he was so angry. Remy was ruined for him now. He could never enjoy her again.

Even if Basile didn't lay a hand on her ...

But of course he would.

But even if he didn't, everyone would assume he had, which was just as bad.

How could he endure everyone assuming that his enemy had f*cked his wife? He couldn't. He wouldn't. He would be a laughing stock.

No, the moment Remy was taken, she became tainted and tarnished and, as such, unacceptable.

Consequently, along with Basile, she must die.

The cabin stood on stilts, forming an island of weather-beaten wood surrounded by water the color and viscosity of pea soup "It's not the Ritz," Basile remarked as he brought the boat alongside one of the old tires attached to a piling. He climbed onto the pier tied the boat to a post, then helped her out.

"There's a pier connecting the cabin to that peninsula," he explained, motioning off to his right, "but during the winter when the water level is higher, it's submerged. It's near collapse anyway."

She looked across the channel and saw a tangled forest thick with underbrush and lined with saw grass. From where she stood, no dry ground was visible. It appeared that all the vegetation, even the trees, was growing out of water.

"How deep is the water?"

"Deep enough," he said curtly, passing up to her a brown paper bag filled with groceries."Door's unlocked. Take this in as you go."

Remy left him unloading the boat and stacking supplies onto the pier, which was about three feet above the water. Her footsteps made hollow thuds against the weathered planks as she walked toward the structure he had referred to as a cabin but which could more appropriately be called a shack. Lifting the latch, she pushed open the door. The interior was dim because all the shutters were closed. It smelled of mildew. Even in the finest homes in southern Louisiana, it was a challenge to stay ahead of the corrosive effects of living at sea level. The shack, apparently, had surrendered to them long ago.

"I warned you that it wasn't luxurious." Basile came up behind her and nudged her across the threshold."Put that sack on the table for the time being. I'll have to check for roaches before we unload."

Remy did as she was told, then gave the shack's interior a closer inspection Basically, it was one room, although there was a door onto which someone had painted a quarter moon, designating it as the toilet.

"It flushes most of the time into a septic tank over on the peninsula," he told her."And there's running water, but I suggest you drink only bottled water. To wash up, there's a cistern outside against the west wall. I don't recommend the bayou for bathing or swimming."

She shot him a dirty look over her shoulder as she went to a window and opened the louvers of the shutters. The day was still gray so the light was meager, but it alleviated the gloom somewhat.

Against one wall was an upholstered sofa that looked like a Goodwill reject. In the center of the room stood a fifties-vintage kitchen table with a laminated top and rusted chrome legs. The legs of the matching three chairs were in a similar state of corrosion, but they had bright blue vinyl seat cushions. There was a butane stove with two burners, no refrigerator.

"There's no electricity," he said, as though reading her mind.

"But we've got a heater fueled on butane and I brought a full tank from Dredd's. Are you cold?"

"Chilled."

He began tampering with the heater, she continued to get her bearings.

Beyond one chest of drawers and a few random shelves and tables, the only other significant piece of furniture was a double bed. Its exposed springs were rusty. The mattress was covered in blue and-white ticking that was hopelessly stained. Above the bed hung a wad of mosquito netting.

Even as she was looking at the bed, a stuffed pillowcase landed in the middle of it."I brought along some clean sheets," Basile told her.

"While I'm fumigating for bugs and putting this stuff away, you can make up the bed."

Grateful for the distracting chore, she shook the contents of the pillowcase onto the bed and was relieved to see that along with plain white linens, he had also included a quilted mattress cover."How long will we be here?"

"For as long as it takes your husband to find us."

"He will."

"I'm counting on it."

"Perhaps you should also count on him killing you."