Fat Tuesday(94)

"Coffee's on the stove," he told her.

Nonchalantly, he resumed his contemplation of the weather. The swamp was curtained by a heavy rain that showed no signs of letting up anytime soon. It was a good thing he'd brought enough supplies to last a couple of days. He wouldn't be going to Dredd's today. Not that he could get there anyway since the boat now had bullet holes in it.

The weather was keeping them inside the cabin. Didn't it stand to reason that it would also keep everyone else out? How close was Duvall to locating them? When would he show up? Within the next ten minutes?

Or would it take another week?

Burke hoped it was sooner rather than later. The shack seemed to be shrinking around them. He was beginning to feel the squeeze, and the pressure was getting to him. Lying beside her last night, he'd been aware of each breath she took. Every time she moved, he knew about it.

His sleep had been constantly interrupted by her sighs. Now, even though his back was to her, he knew exactly where she was standing and what she was doing.

In New Orleans, she had worn clothing that blatantly advertised her as a sex object. Her wardrobe was expensive, but bordered on trashy.

Now, dressed in the gray Wal-Mart sweat suit, she looked softer and sexier even than she had that night in the gazebo in the low-cut black dress. Without makeup, her cheeks rosy from sleep, her hair tousled, she looked as warm and snuggly and innocent as a kitten. And as erotic as hell.

It was becoming impossible for him to ignore the desire she aroused in him, and had since the first time he laid eyes on her. That night, he'd experienced a surge of lust that hadn't abated even when he discovered that the ethereal goddess in the gazebo was the wife of Pinkie Duvall.

When he realized who she was, why hadn't he had the good sense to find some nice obliging woman and spend the night with her, just to take the edge off? The last few months of his marriage, he and Barbara hadn't been intimate, so he'd had lots of time to build up a full head of steam. He should have taken Dixie up on her offer of a freebie. Or Ruby Bouchereaux. An hour with one of her talented girls would have done him a world of good. But he'd said no thanks. What was he, nuts?

Although he feared that even an experienced whore using every carnal trick in the book wouldn't have put out this particular fire.

Where the devil was Duvall?

Was the power he reputedly wielded just so much hype, part of a promotional campaign to inspire fear in his enemies? Was his army of mercenaries fictitious? If they were in fact real, were they a bunch of incompetents? Or was Burke Basile a kidnapper without equal? Did he have a knack for it, unrealized until now?

For whatever reason, the bottom line was that he was now entering the fourth day with his hostage, and it was getting harder, not easier, to remain objective about the outcome of this situation.

He tossed the dregs of his coffee out into the rain."Are you hungry?"

"Yes. We never got around to eating dinner last night." He shot her a look that said, And whose fault is that? But what he actually said was "I'll see what we have."

Burke inventoried their stock of canned goods taken from the shelves of Dredd's Mercantile."Along with bread and crackers we have sardines, beer nuts, tuna fish, mustard greens, chili, tomato soup, potted meat, beans, Beefaroni, pineapple, more beans, and peanut butter."

"Mustard greens?"

"I guess even outdoorsmen need roughage."

"I'll have a peanut butter sandwich and some pineapple." While they were eating, he asked about the wounds on her back."I checked them in the mirror over the basin in the bathroom," she told him."I think they're healing. Do you think it's necessary to treat them again?"

"Dredd'll never let me hear the end of it if they get infected.

Better let me see to them, at least through today."

"Maybe I could do it myself."

Having reached for her empty paper plate, he dropped it back onto the table."Oh, I get it. It's not the medication you object to, it's having me touch you."

"I didn't say "

"My hands are as clean as Bardo's, and you didn't seem to mind having him paw you, so don't pull this shit on me."

"Bardo?" she exclaimed.

"Yeah, I saw you in action with him in the gazebo the night he was acquitted. Duvall hosted the party, but you and Bardo were having quite a celebration of your own."

"I don't know what you thought you saw, Mr. Basile, but you're wrong."

"I saw enough. I left before it got really embarrassing." He scraped his chair back and stood up quickly."And don't think I haven't noticed how you cross your arms over your chest like I'm going to steal a peek at your tits. I've seen them about to fall out of your dress, so I know this sudden rash of modesty is a goddamn act. It isn't going to make me feel any kinder toward you, Mrs. Duvall. In fact, it pisses me off."

Concluding his speech there, he marched from the shack. Rain or shine, he had to get that damn boat back into service.

Before opening his eyes, Gregory tried convincing himself that he'd been having one hell of a wild dream. He'd drunk too much the night before, or smoked some strong Panama red, or done something that had caused his subconscious to invent a bizarre adventure involving Burke Basile, Pinkie Duvall, a hermit who lived in the swamp and skinned alligators, a beautiful woman, and, to round out this weird ensemble of characters, he himself had played the role of a priest. Thank God the nightmare was over.