Ice Fire: A Jock Boucher Thriller (26 page)

“We both are.”

“That’s right. So I’m here to help.”

“I guess I should thank you.”

“You’ve got just as much reason to curse me. I’m sorry I got you into all this.”

Palmetto stepped away from the stairs and into the living room. He ran his hand lightly over a few pieces of furniture before he sat down in front of the unlit fireplace and stared at two centuries of soot. His muttered words didn’t carry.

“What did you say?” Boucher asked.

“I said it’s not over. Not until they’re dead.”

B
OUCHER’S SLEEP WAS TROUBLED
that night. His nightmare was of Dawn jumping the sadist and clawing his eyes out, her lithe, lovely legs wrapped around the man like they had wrapped around him during their lovemaking. One material item differed in his dream: the eyes she was clawing out were his. He sat up and wiped sweat off his forehead, then rose from the bed. He was thirsty and headed for the kitchen, then remembered his guest sleeping upstairs and put on a pair of undershorts. He walked to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and drank milk straight from the carton.

“That’s very unsanitary.”

“Christ, Bob, don’t sneak up on me like that. What are you doing up?”

“Same as you, but I think I’ll pass on the milk. You just transferred your saliva to the carton. Did you know there are more germs in your mouth than a dog’s? And your refrigerator is probably between thirty-five and thirty-eight degrees Fahrenheit, which isn’t enough to kill the germs, so they’re breeding, right there inside your—”

“Would you like a glass of water? The glasses are in the cupboard on your right. I promise you I will never drink from a milk carton again.”

“You will probably never have a scientist as a houseguest again either.” Palmetto retrieved a glass and got some water from the tap. “I’m going back to bed.”

Boucher also went back to bed, smiling through his grief, depression, and, yes, fear. Across the street were one, maybe two cops, doing their jobs, to be sure, but probably wishing they were someplace else. Upstairs someone else was concerned for his welfare—and his hygiene.

Fitch called the next morning, on Boucher’s landline. How quaint it seemed to hear a phone ring, to actually pick it up, mindful of the limitations of a cord, and say, “Hello.”

“This is Fitch. I’ve been granted an audience with His Royal Highness John Perry. You can’t imagine how much I hate it when some smug ‘executive assistant’ calls and tells me the boss will see me at ten. The boss can suck my dick. Anyway, I’ll be at your place about noon. Anything I can bring you?”

“How about a muffaletta?”

“I’ll bring two. You got some beer? I can’t eat a muffaletta without a beer.”

“Better make it three. I’ve got a houseguest. And yes, I have some beer.”

“So he’s staying with you? Good.”

Boucher fixed his coffee using his favorite coffeepot. It made him feel that life might one day return to normal.

“Hmm, that coffee smells good,” Palmetto said.

Boucher spun around. “Damn. Will you quit sneaking up on me like that?”

“You want me to wear a bell? I can’t help it; I tread lightly.” He
walked to the kitchen window and looked out toward the old slave quarters.

“What’s in back of your property? Could they get in over there?”

“Behind the slave quarters there’s another antebellum home. It backs up to my property. It’s now a museum. The only access to it is from the streetfront and it closes at five. By the way, I just thought of something. With the first package you sent me, there was something like a matchbox with little things in it. Some looked like buttons, some looked like hearing aids. You never told me what they were for.”

“I forgot about them. They were Mark’s idea. The things that look like hearing aids, that’s what they are, more or less. You have them handy?”

“I’ll get them.”

He gave the box to Palmetto, who lifted out plastic objects no bigger than a fingernail. “The red earbuds are amplifiers. They have a tiny on/off switch on top. See here?”

“Yes.”

“They amplify sound and are only for use in limited situations where there is little or no ambient noise. You can hear a rat crawl across the floor in the next room, but if a fire truck races by with sirens blaring you’ll go deaf, so you have to be careful with them. The white ones look just the same but they’re suppressors; just fancy earplugs.”

“What are these things that look like after-dinner mints?”

“Nitrocellulose. It’s flash paper like magicians use, compressed into a little wafer.”

“What good are they?”

“Actually, they’re a failure. Remember when we lost power in the sub? Mark came up with the idea to have these things in our pockets so we’d have easy-to-reach illumination in total darkness. But they’re
too unstable to carry around and the flash is too brief. Also, in total darkness the light is momentarily blinding. Anyway, you break the wafer. It causes a spark and ignites the nitrocellulose. Just make sure you close your eyes when you do.”

“So I’ve got to close my eyes, and when I open them the light is already gone?”

“Yeah, as an invention it’s a dud. Not really Mark’s invention anyway. Jules Verne used it in his novel
From the Earth to the Moon.
That’s how long it’s been around.”

“I think I’ll finish my coffee outside. Care to join me?”

“No, thanks. I’m going upstairs to shower and shave. I heard Fitch say he’d be here at noon.”

A lightweight jacket was sufficient for a stroll through the back garden. Boucher walked the perimeter lost in thoughts, memories, and regrets. He walked beneath the overhanging slave quarters feeling the chill of the shadows, and returned to the sunny center of the courtyard. He noticed that the stairs to the second story needed paint. He recalled what Dawn had said about responsibility and ancestors, and vowed to attend to this overlooked part of his residence. Someday. His coffee was cold before he finished it and he returned to the house.

The morning hours passed with interminable slowness. He could have counted every tick of the clock on the mantel, but had no interest in knowing the time. The phone rang, a shrill reminder of a world outside his solitary confinement. It was Fitch. He was on his way over.

Fitch stormed in when the door was opened for him. “Perry’s been woodshedded,” he said. “Fucking lawyers. There were two of the weasels in the office with him. He said he had no idea where Cantrell was and he couldn’t believe his involvement in attempted murder. He
tried to accuse you of having worked for him to steal company secrets and that you probably dreamed up the story. Can you believe it?”

He walked into the kitchen with the sandwiches he’d brought in a paper bag, opened the refrigerator, and pulled out three beers. “Where’s Palmetto?”

“He’s right behind you. He treads lightly.”

“Hello, Detective Fitch,” Palmetto said.

Fitch stared at the emaciated man.

“I’m Bob Palmetto.” He offered a handshake.

“You called me yesterday about the judge,” Fitch said.

“That was me.”

“And you’re the guy who started this mess all those years ago.”

“I started trying to save my ass all those years ago, if that’s what you mean,” Palmetto said.

“Then you deserve to know this too. Our lab confirmed that the bullet that killed Dexter Jessup and the one we found at Rexcon’s lab in Morgan City were fired from the same gun. Judge Boucher is the only witness to Cantrell’s possession and firing of the weapon.”

Fitch doled out the sandwiches and beer and the three of them traded ideas, mostly about the whereabouts of Bert Cantrell.

“I think he’s close by,” Palmetto said. “Judge Boucher could sink their whole operation. I think he’s watching and waiting from somewhere right in the neighborhood.” He took another bite. “Man, this is good.” Palmetto finished his muffaletta. He had eaten it in three bites. “I’m a Louisiana man,” he said, “and it’s good to be home.”

Fitch had other business and left. Palmetto went up to his room to rest and Boucher went to his study to pass a few hours reading. His antique collecting was not limited to decorative pieces; he also had a passion for rare books. Though his books contributed as much to his home’s atmosphere as his furniture, they were not just for
looks; Jock Boucher actually read his rare manuscripts. As with all of his collectibles, he took as much joy in the hunt as in possession and was always on the lookout for online bargains. There were few greater joys than finding a masterpiece at a fraction of its value.

The study was also on the first floor and he adjusted the blinds to give him natural light for reading, then he perused the floor-to-ceiling shelves of volumes. He selected the first of a two-volume set of
The Count of Monte Cristo
by Alexandre Dumas, printed by Chapman and Hall, London, in 1846; English first edition, polished calf-leather binding, top edges gilt, illustrated with wood-engraved plates by Valentin. He enjoyed holding the leather in his hands, turning the heavy pages. He knew the story, of course, that was why he had chosen it. This was a novel about the thing most on his mind at that moment. Revenge.

He was well into the book when Fitch called again. “I’ve had two patrol cars tell me you’re sitting right in front of a damn picture window at street level. Damn it, Judge, don’t make it impossible for me to keep you alive. Close your drapes and go sit somewhere else in the house.” He hung up without saying please.

Boucher closed his book, then closed the shades. There was little light left anyway. It was late afternoon. Darkness would soon be falling.

B
OUCHER TOSSED AND TURNED
, then sat up straight in bed, thinking about what Palmetto had said. The weak point in his perimeter. The slave quarters at the back corner. With police posted up and down his block and patrol cars cruising past, of course no one was going to try a frontal assault. He got out of bed and walked to the kitchen without turning on any lights. He stood at the sink, staring out at his courtyard, while thoughts turned over in his brain like clothes in a dryer. He drew a deep breath, maybe the way a scientist would on making a world-changing discovery, or maybe like a rookie cop discovering his first body. No other sound; he didn’t want to wake Palmetto. He backed out of the kitchen, returned to his bedroom, and dressed: black socks, no shoes, black slacks—a better quality than he would have wished for this mission—and a black sport shirt with a breast pocket. It was color-coordinated overkill, but necessary for where he planned to sit and wait in the darkness, and for what he planned to do.

After dressing, he went back to the kitchen. With great care not to make a sound, he unlocked and opened the kitchen door and stepped outside. He crossed the courtyard and climbed the stairs
to the second level, the area of his home he’d avoided and ignored since he’d first bought it: the slave quarters. He picked the room that gave him the vantage point he sought, opened the door, and entered. These small rooms were unlocked, unused, and unkempt. He broke through a barricade of spiderwebs, sticky threads clinging to his face. He felt along the wall, disturbing dust that had not been touched in decades. A stifled sneeze felt like an explosion going off inside his head. He couldn’t gasp for fear of a repeat reaction and focused on breath control till he had attained it. The door to one room of the quarters open wide, Boucher pressed his back against the wall just inside the open door frame. He lowered himself, not to a sitting position, but squatting on his haunches. Asian rice farmers could hold this position for hours. He hoped he’d be able to maintain it for the time necessary.

With no idea of the hour, he stared at the roof and gutter above the corner slave room. This roofline extended to his rear property boundary. Cantrell would approach from the back, Boucher had determined, probably using an accomplice to create a diversion for the cops, maybe even approaching them in stolen police uniforms. He reached into his shirt pocket in the darkness and pulled out the box with the custom hearing aids. Trial and error told him which ones he wanted. Amazing. He could hear the ticking of the clock on the mantel in his living room. It took a while to adjust and discern the nature and origin of the sounds he heard, but the earbuds were effective. He settled in for his surveillance, and shut his eyes for just a moment.

He heard muffled sobbing, a woman crying. “They took my Tom,” she said. “Hannah, they took and sold off my man.”

“That’s all right, Becky, Ol’ Hannah’s here. Let’s just pray he’s gone to a better place. We all goin’ to a better place by and by.”

“But I’m with child, Hannah. How’m I gonna care for a child when I ain’t got no man?”

“The good Lord gonna care for us all. Lemme fix you a little warm milk. You’ll feel better with a little warm milk, and so will that baby inside you. I’m just goin’ in the next room now. You set right here.

“Becky, you get away from that railing now. That wood’s done gone rotten. Get away from there, Becky. BECKY, NO!”

Boucher grabbed the plugs from his ears and opened his eyes to the pitch-black. He felt a sensation he had never known, a fierce, raging hatred. People had suffered under this roof. His nostrils flared, his upper lip curled. He seethed with an anger born of man’s mistreatment of his fellow man. It gave him strength beyond mortal limitations. He heard sounds nearby. He heard the scratching movements of vermin. Crawling on the roof were rats: two-legged rats. He remained in his crouch. He listened as they climbed down the roof and dropped onto the second-floor walkway, six feet away: first one, then the other. They stopped, looked, cross-checked, took one slow step, then another. When Boucher could reach out and touch them, he stood. He closed his eyes and snapped one of the nitrocellulose wafers, momentarily blinding them both. Boucher opened his eyes just after the flash of light and threw a right cross, hitting his first opponent’s chin dead on with enough force to snap his jaw. This was followed by an uppercut that lifted the man off his feet. Boucher lowered his head and butted the first victim into the second, knocking the latter off balance. The second man took two tottering steps backward
and fell against the rotting wood railing. It splintered and they both fell to the ground below. Boucher jumped down, landing on top of them, feeling their bones snap as he used their bodies to break his fall. He stood up. One was still conscious and trying to move. He bent over him and delivered the most basic of boxing combinations, a right hook to the jaw followed by a jab with the left fist to the opponent’s head with a power he had never known: the raw power of pure hate. The man was out. They both were.