Fat Tuesday(93)

"Are you saying his life is at risk?" Linda asked.

"Possibly."

Meaning yes, Joe thought. He felt the weight of his predicament.

He and his older brother saw each other only once or twice a year, but they were closer than those infrequent visits indicated. He would go so far as to say they loved each other.

If Burke was in some sort of jam, he would move heaven and earth to help him out of it. His dilemma arose from not knowing what to do, because he didn't know whether or not Burke wanted to be found.

By anybody. Mccuen. Or Doug Pat.

Joe had a gut feeling that if Burke had left without telling anyone where he was going, then he wished to be left alone. Having quit the police force, wouldn't he have washed his hands of "classified police information"? And why were Mccuen and Pat looking for him separately?

Neither had mentioned the other. If the situation was as critical as they independently claimed, why hadn't they made locating Burke a team effort?

"I'm sorry, Mr. Pat, I can't help you," Joe said, repeating what he'd already told Mccuen."Burke didn't tell me where he was going."

"Any ideas?"

"No."

"If you knew, would you tell me?"

He answered honestly."No, I wouldn't."

Pat sighed. He looked at Linda and determined instantly that she supported her husband's decision. He smiled crookedly."You're very much like your brother, Joe."

"Thank you. I consider that a compliment."

Pat laid his business card on the table and stood."If you change your mind, contact me at any hour. Mrs. Basile, again I apologize for barging in without calling beforehand. Thank you for the coffee."

The Basiles watched from the front door as he got into his car and drove away. Linda turned to Joe."Your office never calls to ask what time you're coming in."

"It was Mac Mccuen, another cop. Guess what he wanted?"

"To know where Burke is?"

"Exactly. And Pat drove all the way to Shreveport to see us this morning."

"What does it mean? What is going on, Joe?"

"Damned if I know. But I'm going to find out."

He returned to the kitchen and thumbed through their personal telephone directory until he found the number for Dredd's Mercantile.

Dredd, unmindful of the rain, had already been out to check his trotlines. He was squatting at the end of the pier, gutting fish, tossing the entrails back into the water, when he heard the telephone ringing.

Cursing the interruption, he jogged toward the building in his bow legged gait, his flat bare feet slapping against the wet planks of the pier.

"Hold on, I'm coming," he said out loud as he opened the screen door.

Winded from the exercise, he grabbed the receiver and gasped, "Hello?"

Nothing but a dial tone. He slammed down the receiver."Damn it to tarnation!"

He hated telephones and didn't really mind missing the call. If it was that important, the caller would call back.

What irked him was that as he'd reached for the phone, he'd glanced outside in time to see a pelican making breakfast of his catch.

Despite the rain, tourists queued up for the paddlewheel Creole Queen excursion upriver to view the antebellum plantation homes. They juggled brochures, umbrellas, plastic rain bonnets, cameras, and camcorders as they traipsed up the loading plank to the boat.

The embarkation was delayed by the inclement weather and by a group of senior citizens, some of whom needed special assistance getting onboard.

The embarkation was stopped altogether by a blood-curdling scream.

It came from a woman, who slumped against her astonished husband and aimed a shaking finger down toward the muddy water of the Mississippi River, into which she'd been absently gazing while inching along in line.

Others crowded close to the railing in order to look down and see what had caused the woman's distress. Some gasped and turned away in repugnance. Some placed their hands over their mouths to keep from retching. Those with stronger stomachs took pictures or shot videos.

A few prayers were whispered.

Attracting much more attention dead than he ever had alive, Errol, floating on his back, stared up through the water with eyes already turning milky.

(Burke was standing in the open doorway of the shack, sipping a cup of coffee and watching the rain when he heard her come up behind him.

He glanced over his shoulder, almost expecting to see her raising an iron pot or some other blunt instrument with which to brain him.

Last night she hadn't taken too well to being handcuffed to him and had put up quite a struggle, which he had trouble quelling without hurting her."This wouldn't be necessary if you hadn't tried to escape," he had told her."I can't run the risk of you knocking me out or killing me while I'm asleep."

"That never even occurred to me."

"Well, it occurred to me." He had stretched out on the bed, dragging her down with him."It's been a long, tiring day for me. I'm going to sleep. I suggest you do the same."

She refused to lie down and sat on the edge of the bed, seething with resentment. He closed his eyes and ignored her. Eventually she surrendered to exhaustion, lay down, and was asleep long before he was.

This morning, he'd unlocked the handcuffs and gotten up without waking her. Clearly she was still miffed, but she wasn't trying to sneak up on him with a weapon.