Fat Tuesday(84)

The water leaking into the craft panicked her immediately. She tried to stop the flooding by pressing her hands against the bullet holes, but, of course, to no avail.

"You might just as well jump on in and swim back, Mrs. Duvall. Tow the boat back while you're at it."

"I can't."

"Sure you can. Just take hold of the rope and pull it behind you."

She was becoming increasingly more frantic, which looked convincing from a distance. Burke suspected a trick. She looked about as dangerous and cunning as a butterfly, but she'd fooled him too many times lunging for the side door of the van during the highspeed chase, trying to pull the key from the ignition, throwing a spatula dripping hot grease at him, and damn near braining him with a club when he came through the door of the cabin. He wasn't going to be taken in by her fragile and guileless facade anymore.

He had to admit, though, that this was her best performance yet.

She seemed in the throes of panic when she stood up, dangerously rocking the boat."Please, Mr. Basile. I'll drown."

"You're not going to drown."

"Please! " It happened when she stretched out her arm as though to grasp his hand from that distance. The boat tipped, then flipped over, spilling her into the viscous water. She splashed crazily, but sank.

And stayed under. Burke couldn't see her. Holding his breath, he anxiously scanned the water until he saw her head break the surface.

He exhaled. Another of her tricks.

But she was visible only for a second before disappearing again, gasping and thrashing on her way down. This time she didn't reappear.

"Shit," Burke whispered. Then louder: "Shit!"

Forgetting about his burning eyes, disregarding the possible concussion he'd sustained, taking no time to tug off his shoes, he dropped his pistol onto the pier and dove into the water.

It was like trying to swim through a bowl of breakfast grits. Like in a nightmare, the longer his strokes and the stronger his kicks, the less progress he seemed to make. By the time he reached the capsized boat, his muscles and lungs were on fire. Throwing his arms across the upended hull, he sucked in several huge breaths, then let go and slid beneath the surface.

He swam in widening circles, groping blindly, until he had to come up for air. When he did, he saw air bubbles breaking the surface about ten yards away. Fortifying himself with another deep breath, he lunged in that direction.

He felt her hair brush his arm like silky seaweed, but when he reached for her, his fist closed around nothing except water. His hands searched wildly until they found her. Lungs near to bursting, he wrapped his arms around her and used the slippery bottom of the bayou to give himself a push-off. The water wasn't that deep, but it was dense, and it seemed that he would never reach the surface.

When he did, he gulped air, but long before he regained his breath, he began swimming for the pier, pulling Remy Duvall behind him. She hadn't moved or resisted his lifesaving attempts as people on the verge of drowning customarily do. He was afraid to learn why. Forcing himself to look, he glanced down at her face. It was as still and white as death, covered with filth.

When he reached the pier, he was presented with another problem: how to climb up onto the pier while holding onto her. Haste was a priority.

She lay limply across his bent left arm. How long since she'd been without oxygen?

Urgency gave him the strength to reach up and grip one of the cleats with his right hand. He tried twice, unsuccessfully, to chin himself up far enough to get his right leg onto the pier. On the third try, when he swung his leg up, his heel struck the plank and he dug it in, then hung there for several seconds, trying to summon strength and convince his muscles that they could do what he was about to demand of them.

With Herculean effort, he worked his right foot along the pier until it, too, could be used as leverage. Eventually, using his right hand and elbow, right foot and knee, he pulled himself up. When his belly touched the planks, he expelled a near-laugh of relief.

He pulled Remy Duvall up and stretched her out on the pier.

Strands of hair clung to her lips. These he pushed aside and began immediately to administer CPR. Push push push, rest. One two three rest. Close the nostrils, breathe into the mouth. Push push push, rest. How long had it been? She had been under no more than twenty seconds when he jumped in. Okay, maybe thirty. Add the forty-five seconds, maybe more, for him to swim to the boat. One minute beneath the surface.

That added up to, how long?

Push push push, rest. Push push She coughed up water. Laying his hand along her cheek, he turned her head to the side so she wouldn't choke as she heaved up the water she'd swallowed. It took several minutes for her breathing to return to normal and the bluish tint on her lips to fade.

When she opened her eyes, he was in her direct line of vision.

There was no way she could avoid looking at him, no way he could avoid the accusation in her gaze."I'm sorry. I didn't believe you. I thought it was a trick." He couldn't think of anything else to say, so he repeated, "I'm sorry."

Wearily, he pushed himself to his feet and looked across the dark water. Because it had capsized, the boat was still afloat. If it wasn't retrieved, they'd be in trouble. He had to do something now, before total exhaustion set in and he was incapable of moving. For the second time, he dove into the water.

The milk of human kindness wasn't exactly flowing through every vein, but at least they hadn't killed him. Yet.