Fat Tuesday(96)

The intersecting road was a paved two-lane state highway. Bracing his hands on his knees, he sucked in huge draughts of air, then struck off walking briskly in what he hoped was the direction of the nearest town.

He couldn't go far on foot. His only hope was for a car to come along before someone at the party noticed that Father Gregory was no longer among them and came looking for him. Now that he had sanctified the sinners, he was dispensable.

When he saw headlights coming up behind him, his heart lurched. It could be someone from the party, sent to find him and bring him back.

Or it could be one of several law enforcement agencies searching for Mrs. Duvall's kidnappers. Or it could be someone on Pinkie Duvall's payroll who'd been offered a huge reward to find her abductors.

Or it could be his ride back to civilization.

Please, God, he prayed as he did an about-face and stuck out his thumb.

The pickup slowed, the driver looked him over, then passed him and showered him with muddy rainwater. (iregory was so alsconsolate he sobbed. He was still crying five minutes later when the next vehicle came along. He must have looked so wretched that he evoked pity on the driver because after passing him, the car stopped.

He jogged toward it. A teenage girl was in the passenger seat. One even younger was behind the wheel. They regarded him with interest. The passenger asked, "Where's your car, mister?"

"I dumped it in the swamp after impersonating a priest in order to kidnap the wife of a rich and famous man."

They giggled, assuming he'd just told them a whopper."Cool," the passenger said. She nodded toward the backseat."Get in."

"Where are you headed?" he asked cautiously.

"Rawlins," the passenger told him."We're going to party."

"Cool," he said, repeating her word as he got in.

The driver floored the accelerator, the car fishtailed on the rainslick pavement, then shot off into the wet darkness.

No more than fifteen if that, they were dressed in a manner that would have made Madonna blush. See-through blouses and push-up lace brassieres. Their ears, noses, and lips pierced. Dramatic makeup accented their eyes and lips.

When they reached the French Quarter, he asked them to drop him off, but they tried to wheedle him into sticking with them."We could show you a good time," one said.

"Don't think we don't know how," boasted the other.

"That's just it," he said, flashing his most engaging grin."You girls are too experienced for me."

The flattery worked. They pulled to a stop at an intersection and Gregory got out. They blew him kisses as they drove away. He was astounded by their stupid recklessness. Hadn't their parents warned them against picking up hitchhikers? Didn't they watch the nightly news?

For all they knew he was a pervert.

Then, glumly, he reminded himself that he was a pervert.

Dodging the crowds who'd defied the weather to start the Mardi Gras celebration, making eye contact with no one, he walked the few remaining blocks. His mood lifted when he reached his street. He jogged the final twenty yards to his townhouse. The latchkey was still hidden where he'd left it the morning he'd joined Basile to pick up Mrs. Duvall for an excursion to Jenny's House.

"Speaking of somebody being stupid and reckless," he muttered in self-deprecation.

His picture was probably being circulated throughout FBI offices all over the country and abroad. He was a wanted man. There was a price on his head for kidnapping and God only knew what other crimes.

This was going to send his father's blood pressure off the charts.

Gregory would be disowned and disinherited.

So, what to do? First order of business: a cold bottle of wine and a long, hot shower. He would stay here tonight. Pack in the morning.

Then get the hell out of Dodge tomorrow.

He was a little hazy on exactly how he would finance a trip without his father's help. Should he throw himself on the mean old bastard's mercy one last time? Maybe if he spoke to his mother first, he could appeal to her maternal instinct, if Batlady had one.

Deciding to sleep on it, he flipped on the light switch.

"Hello, Gregory."

He screamed. Two policemen were lounging on his living room sofa.

Like giant spiders, they'd been sitting in the dark waiting for him.

In fact, one admitted it." Bout time you showed up. For two days we've been waiting for you. Jesus," he said, scrutinizing Gregory's face up close."You look like shit. They can't call you Pretty Boy anymore." The other said, "Life as a fugitive just ain't what it's cracked up to be, huh? Well, your escapade is over. Your criminal career has been cut short, Gregory. Nipped in the bud, so to speak. Like that." He snapped his fingers an inch from Gregory's lumpy nose.

He slumped backward against the wall, closed his eyes, and, moaning, rolled his head from side to side. The nightmare continued.

rain had slacked off, but dark, sulky clouds formed a low ceiling over the bayou. Remy stood in the open doorway of the shack and watched Basile lower the boat, bow first, into the water.

He'd patched the bullet holes with materials stored in a deep wooden box that stood against an exterior wall. From what she could tell, he had used a pitchlike substance and duct tape. The crude repair job also had required extensive crude swearing, but obviously it had worked because the boat remained afloat. He tethered it to the pier.