‘Listen,’ said
Charlie, ‘I don’t know even the first thing about dressing wounds. But if you
can hold on until we reach the next community, I’ll make sure that you get this
properly stitched.’
‘They’ll call
the police,’ Robyn protested. ‘The next thing I know, they’ll put me under
arrest. Or worse – they could hand me over to the Celestines.’
‘Listen, don’t
worry about it,’ Charlie reassured her. ‘We’ll find ourselves a country doctor.
One who doesn’t ask too many
questions.
’
‘Are you
kidding?’ said Robyn. ‘Country doctors who don’t ask too many questions died
out with Young Dr Malone.’
‘‘Young Dr
Malone? You’re too young to remember that.’
‘If you think
I’m too young to remember Young Dr Malone, then you’re too old.’
Charlie helped
Robyn back into the skiff, and made her comfortable, padding her wound with the
tail torn from his shirt. Then he paddled out from underneath the bridge, into
the glaring sunshine, noon in south-western Louisiana, with the cypress trees
turning crimson, and the sky clear. Robyn said, ‘God, this hurts,’ but a little
while later they passed the body of the dwarf David, dipping in the
bayou,
and Robyn didn’t complain after that. All she said
was, ‘I wonder who his parents were? I mean, they must have sent him to school,
and been proud of him. And look at him now.’
Charlie said, ‘
My
mother always told me, “Never ask questions when you know
that you’re never going to be able to find out the answer”.’
‘Is that what
they call homespun philosophy?’ asked Robyn.
Charlie didn’t
answer, but carried on paddling. He was finding it increasingly difficult to
shake off his dreams. In fact, he was beginning to wonder whether this journey
to rescue Martin was in itself a dream, propelling a flat-bottomed skiff along
a narrow Louisiana bayou on a warm October afternoon, while the police were
hunting for him high and low, and Marjorie was fretting, and M. Musette was
lasciviously sharpening his butcher’s knives for the second coming of Jesus
Christ.
Around three
o’clock, dry-throated, exhausted and hungry, Charlie finally raised his paddle
out of the water and let the skiff glide. Robyn had been drowsing, her head
couched against her arm.
‘What’s the
matter?’ she asked him. She kept his shirt tail pressed to her shoulder. It
must have been hurting pretty bad by now.
‘I think I’ve
had it,’ Charlie admitted.
‘We can’t go on
like this,’ said Robyn. ‘We have to find someplace to stay for the night; and
another car, too.’
‘Another car?’
said Charlie.
‘Sure. How else
are we going to take Martin away from the Celestines?
On
bicycles?’
Charlie knelt
up, setting the skiff tilting from side to side. He shaded his eyes and peered
at the fields spread out on either side of the bayou. ‘There’s a girder bridge,
no more than a half-mile ahead of us. I guess we could land right there, and
hitch ourselves a ride. That’s always supposing somebody comes by.’
‘What if they
don’t?’ Robyn wanted to know.
‘Then we’ll walk,’
said Charlie. ‘Acadia can’t be too far from here.’
He paddled
towards the bridge. The bayou was wider here, and the bridge was a steelgirder
construction, with tarred wooden slats for a roadbed. It was only when he was
far too near to it to turn back that Charlie saw the Louisiana State Police
cars parked on either side of the bridge’s ramps, and the wide-hatted officers
standing waiting with pump-guns resting on their hips, their eyes concealed by
orange Ray-Bans, their faces laconic and bored, as if homicide suspects came
paddling their way down the bayou every damn day of the week.
There was, of
course, no chance of escape. One of the officers lifted a loud-hailer from the
roof of his car, and called out, ‘You there! Charles McLean and Robyn Harris!
We’re arresting you here for homicide in the first degree, kidnap, and grand
theft auto. Would you pull your boat into the side here, please? We have
instructions to shoot you if you try to get away.’
Robyn said
urgently, ‘Do you really think that they’d shoot?’
‘Do you really
want to put them to the test?’ Charlie said.
He guided the
skiff towards the muddy bank, until its flat bottom scraped against the mussels
that clustered below the waterline. Then he balanced his way on to dry land,
turning around to help Robyn out. Two young police officers came down to the
edge of the bayou to guard them, and to drag the skiff right out of the water.
Charlie climbed
the levee and stood in the sunshine with his hands on his hips, exhausted, out
of breath, and resigned at last to being caught.
The officer
with the loud-hailer came forward and took off his sunglasses. ‘Sergeant Ron
Dupree, Louisiana State Police,’ he said, in a very slow drawl. ‘You’ve been
causing us a whole lot of trouble, sir.’
Charlie said,
‘If you’re going to arrest me, don’t you think you ought to read me my rights?
You wouldn’t like to be responsible for having my indictment disallowed, would
you?’
‘Well, we can
Mirandize you all in good time, sir,’ Sergeant Dupree told him, holding his
sunglasses up to the light to check that they were perfectly polished. ‘Right
now we’d like to invite you along for a little ride.’
Robyn put in,
‘We don’t have to go anywhere, not unless you arrest us properly and read us
our rights.’
Sergeant Dupree
turned and stared at her in exaggerated amusement. ‘Well, now, I always was
partial to an outspoken lady.’ He walked up to Robyn with his thumbs in his
belt and grinned at her. ‘You’re perfectly correct, my dear lady, you’re not
obliged to come along for this ride, not in the eyes of the law. I can’t coerce
you. It’d be different, of course, if you were to volunteer.’
‘You’re crazy,’
said Robyn. ‘I’m not going to volunteer.’
‘But supposing
your boyfriend here was to happen to meet with some unfortunate accident?’
‘Are you
threatening us?’ Robyn demanded.
‘Sure I’m
threatening you. This isn’t New England, this is south-western Louisiana, and
here we have a way of doing things different. Totally according to the letter
of the law, mind you, but different. You could say we were more
community-conscious, if you like.
More neighbourly.
And there’s
some neighbours of ours who’d like to have a little talk with you, about this
and that.’
Charlie said
coldly, ‘I suppose you mean the Celestines?’
Sergeant Dupree
looked back at Charlie over his shoulder and gave him a toothy grin. ‘That’s
right first time, sir.
Right first time.
Give the man
a porce-a-lain rabbit.’
Robyn said,
‘Charlie?’
Charlie let out
a long breath. ‘I don’t think that we have very much of a choice, do you?’
Sergeant Dupree
laughed, and slapped Robyn cheerily on the shoulder. ‘Right again, sir. Right
again.’
Covered all the
way by pump-guns, they were led to one of the three police cars that had been
parked beside the bridge. Sergeant Dupree opened the rear door for them, and
they climbed in.
The car was
unbearably hot inside, and smelled of McDonald’s hamburgers. Sergeant Dupree
climbed into the passenger seat and took off his hat. ‘We’ll have that air
conditioning blowing in a while, folks,
then
you’ll
feel more comfortable. I have to say that you’re both in a sorry state, aren’t
you?’
‘Miss Harris’
shoulder needs attention,’ said Charlie. ‘She’s been given a serious cut.’
‘Well, I’m sure
your friends at L’Eglise des Pauvres can help you out there,’ Sergeant Dupree said.
‘They’ve got all the facilities for dealing with cuts to the human body that
anybody could wish for.’
They drove at
nearly sixty miles an hour along a narrow, dusty highway, in between fields
that were the colour of red roof tiles. The air conditioning was set to Hi, and
after a few minutes the interior of the car was freezing. Sergeant Dupree took
out a pack of grape-flavoured chewing gum and offered it around. ‘You surely
caused us a whole lot of trouble, I’ve got to tell you,’ he repeated, folding a
purple stick of gum between his front teeth.
‘Is the church
far?’ asked Charlie.
‘Three miles,
that’s all. The town of Acadia is just over to your left there, you can see the
spire of the Baptist church once we pass these cypress trees up ahead here. Then
L’figlise des Pauvres is about three-quarters of a mile further on. It used to
be a farm, years ago, before the Celestines took it over.
Scarman’s
Farm.
Lots of people hereabouts still call it Scar-man’s Farm. We Police
Sergeant Dupree however, have to be accurate in our terminology.’
They drove for
a little while without talking. Then Charlie said, ‘Can I ask you what you
think about the Celestines? I mean, you personally?’
Sergeant Dupree
barked with laughter.
‘Me personally?
I think they’re
fruitcakes.’
‘But it doesn’t
concern you, what they’re doing?’
‘Sir, they
aren’t, breaking no laws. I may disapprove of them, morally or whatever, but
just like I said we do things here by the letter of the law, and if they want
to eat themselves for lunch, that’s up to them.’
‘Besides which,
they keep you paid off?’ Charlie added.
‘Now, that’s
where you’re wrong? Sergeant Dupree told him, without taking offence at
Charlie’s allegation that he was taking bribes. ‘The Celestines themselves
don’t pay
nobody nothing
. Not a cent. But let me put
it this way: there are plenty of influential people in this state who have
friends and family connected with the Celestines, and it wouldn’t be wise of me
to encourage career problems, would it? It’s all a question of politics. Apart
from which, those Celestines have official approval from some very high places
indeed.’
After about ten
minutes, they skirted a wide cornfield, and then turned off to the right along
a rutted, uneven track. At the end of the track, there was a metal gate, and a
high fence wound around with razor-wire. A man in a plaid shirt and a stetson
hat stood by the gate holding a rifle.
When he saw the
police car approaching, he swung the gate wide and allowed it to enter,
although he approached it with his rifle held ready and peered into the
windows. ‘Looks like you had some good hunting there, Ron,’ he remarked.
3”
Sergeant Dupree
chewed his gum noisily. ‘Where’s the big chief?’
‘Main building,
I guess. You’ll have to go round the back way,
there’s
a couple of buses blocking up the front.’
‘Hasta la
vista,’ said Sergeant Dupree and pointed forward like an orchestral conductor,
to indicate to their driver that they should move on.
L’figlise des
Pauvres still clearly showed its origins of Scar-man’s Farm. They drove around
a cluster of outbuildings and barns and pig-pens and silos: although there were
no animals here any longer, and no feed, and no manure. All the buildings had
been immaculately whitewashed, and were presumably being used as offices and
dormitories. The main building was a converted barn, with an arched roof, its
northern side shaded by an enormous and ancient oak. On the apex of its roof, a
high gold cross caught the sunshine, almost as if it were alight.
They parked
close to the oak, and climbed out. Sergeant Dupree didn’t bother to cover
Charlie and Robyn with his gun, now that they had safely arrived. ‘Come along,’
he said, and beckoned them to follow him up the wooden steps and into the
double doors of the main building. Charlie glanced at Robyn, but at that moment
she wasn’t looking at him. He hoped to God that she didn’t think he had let her
down.
Inside, the
main building had been divided up into corridors and separate rooms. It was
very silent and cool in there. All the walls were painted white, and the only
decoration was a painting of St Celestine contemplating the Cross. There was a
smell of subtropical mustiness and rose-scented room spray, and something else,
like herbs and formaldehyde all mingled together.
Sergeant Dupree
led the way along the central corridor until they reached a pair of swing
doors.
He pushed them
open,
and ushered Charlie and Robyn into a high,
white-painted room, illuminated by clerestory windows. There were rows of
trestle tables on the floor of the room, nine or ten of them, each laid with a
bright, white linen tablecloth, and decorated with fresh flowers. A small group
of people were standing at the side, talking in cheerful, animated voices.
Charlie instantly recognized both M. and Mme Musette. At the far end of the
room, the floor had been raised into a low platform, and on this platform stood
a huge altar, draped in yellow and white, the colours of the Papacy. Behind the
altar rose a polished brass crucifix, at least twenty feet high, with an
elegant and sad-faced Christ nailed on to it with shining chrome-plated nails,
and crowned with chrome-plated thorns.
Sergeant Dupree
led Charlie and Robyn over towards the Musettes. M. Musette was wearing a white
cassock and a white cape around his shoulders. A gold crucifix shone on his
chest. Mme Musette was dressed in a very white silk sheath that reached to her
calves, so tight and
clinging
that Charlie could
clearly see the outline of her nipples and even the depression of her navel.
Her hands were concealed in elbow-length while silk gloves.
‘Well, well, Mr
McLean,’ said M. Musette, extending his hand. ‘You have decided to join us at
last. And Ms Harris, too! Welcome to L’Eglise des Pauvres. You couldn’t have
chosen a better time.’
Charlie ignored
M. Musette’s hand. ‘Forget the welcome,
monsieur
.
All I’m going to do is repeat what I said before. I want my son, and then I
want to leave.’