Ice Fire: A Jock Boucher Thriller (29 page)

Sincerely,

Dawn Fallon

“I’m calling Fitch.” Boucher grabbed his phone.

Fitch came running; he was there in ten minutes.

He did not touch the paper, but read it carefully. “I suggest you both get yourself good lawyers,” he said.

“Us? Why?” Palmetto asked.

“To cover your asses. I don’t want anything to corrupt this evidence and keep it out of court. You’ve done a good deed and I don’t want it to blow up in your faces. Remember, Perry still has deep pockets. He can buy a lot of influence.”

“You’re right,” Boucher said. “But I’m not worried. I did not break into Dawn Fallon’s home. She gave me a key and she told me the combination of her safe. I’ll swear to that and no one can dispute me. But we should get lawyers, just in case. I’ll pay for them.”

“And I didn’t even find anything,” Palmetto said.

“When you’ve got counsel, I’ll call the FBI.”

“No,” Palmetto said, “not them. I’ve done that dance. Never again.”

Fitch raised his hand. “You’ve got to trust me on this. They’re the government’s largest investigative body, with the broadest mandate. Fraud relating to executive compensation is one of their top priorities right now. This will have their undivided attention, I guarantee it. Now I’m calling my good buddy Detective Frank Hebert of the New Orleans Police Department. With Dawn’s note we can book Perry on conspiracy to commit murder at the very least.” He made the call, then looked at his watch.

“Detective Hebert will be walking into John Perry’s office in about fifteen minutes to arrest him on a charge of conspiracy to commit murder. I would have loved to have done it myself, but it’s better to hand this one off, for obvious reasons. I told my guys to make sure his mug shot is good enough for
The Tonight Show.
But definitely, get
yourself some copies of the morning papers. Now get some sleep, both of you. You’ve earned it.”

Boucher and Palmetto did get a good night’s sleep but were up with the sun printing copies of Ruth Kalin’s reports and the file found in Dawn’s safe. Boucher refused to give the two FBI agents the originals when they came calling. They tried to play tough, making threats till Boucher said something he’d wanted to say for years: “Don’t fuck with me; I’m a judge.”

They took copies with them and left.

“I think we are due some decent coffee,” Boucher said, getting out his French press.

“With chicory?”

“Mais oui.”

They took their cups out to the courtyard. Boucher surveyed the slave quarters and the broken railing.

“I was up there waiting,” he said, “with those ear things on, and, God, what I heard.”

“I told you that you could hear a rat crawling in the next room.”

“It wasn’t that, I was listening to slaves two hundred years ago.”

“You fell asleep. Good thing you woke up.”

Boucher stared at the broken railing. “It sure didn’t feel like I was asleep.”

“Then it was spirits,” Palmetto said with no emotion or surprise whatsoever. “I felt them the other night. Somebody sure didn’t like me sleeping on your antique sofa. He pushed me on the floor.”

“Listen to us,” Boucher said, “two educated men talking like this. I pushed you off the sofa.”

“Maybe, but don’t doubt spirits,” Palmetto said, “they’re with us. There’s no doubt there was misery up there”—he pointed to the slave quarters—“and you’ve got to live with it because the Historical Society won’t let you tear it down, but I think the spirits helped you up there. Maybe it was the spirits of slaves, maybe it was the spirits of those taken before their time, like Dexter, Ruth, and Dawn. Think about it. Two of them, one of you, and they were armed. I think you were a damned fool to do what you did, but I think you had help. I’ll go to my grave believing that we both had help.”

“If there are spirits up there, I think I’d better fix the place up a little.”

“They’ll appreciate that,” Palmetto said. “Oh, by the way, you might want to put the battery back in your old cell phone. I think there’s a lady who’d like to talk. She’s been trying to call you.”

“How did you know that?”

Palmetto just smiled.

Y
OU’LL PROBABLY NEED TO
charge your cell phone before calling her,” Palmetto said. “That seems to be a constant failing of yours.” Then he changed the subject. “I don’t mean to denigrate your hospitality, Your Honor, but since I’ve been your guest in this fine historic home, I’ve had little more to eat than a muffaletta. You can’t imagine the nights I’ve spent on the road, dreaming of standing in line on the sidewalk of Bourbon Street, maybe a U.S. senator in front of me, maybe Mayor Landrieu himself, all of us equal because it’s first come, first served, all of us hungry and waiting for a table at Galatoire’s.

“They take reservations now,” Boucher said.

“You’re kidding.”

“Only for the second-floor dining room. The first floor is the same as always, and people still line up on the street to get in. On their one hundredth anniversary, they tried for a world record: longest line. Didn’t make it, but it was still quite an event.” Boucher looked at his watch. “It’s eleven forty-five. They opened for lunch fifteen minutes ago. There shouldn’t be too long a line if we hurry.”

“No,” Palmetto said. “No hurrying. I don’t even want to walk, I want to
amble,
maybe
stroll
on over to Bourbon Street, take my place
in line and wait patiently till I’m seated and served. I am going to be especially cordial to the waiter and let him know that if his pace is slow and measured, the amount of his tip will be in direct proportion to his time spent with us. I’m going to tell him as I sip my Sazerac that if he should care to regale us with anecdotes from his long history with that fine establishment, that too will be appreciated. From now on, in my vocabulary, when it has anything to do with my manner of living, the word
time
will be proceeded by the word
leisure.
”

Boucher chuckled. “You don’t amble, Bob, and you don’t stroll. You lurk, sneaking up on people the way you do. Anyway, to celebrate your homecoming, when you’re ready for lunch, just let me know and we’ll lurk on over to Galatoire’s.”

A few minutes later Palmetto announced he was ready and they left. Stepping onto the front porch, they both stopped and inhaled deeply. The scent from the river was strong, but on its heavy air it carried the perfume of the Quarter: the scent of pastries freshly baked—beignets from the nearby French Market—the seafood and meats being prepared in numerous restaurants in a myriad of manners but all with the characteristic and unmistakable spices of Cajun cuisine. With so many places to eat preparing midday meals in such proximity, the air was an olfactory symphony, each breath a teasing appetizer.

They eased on over to Saint Philips Street and turned toward Bourbon. A Sysco truck was stopped on the corner for a delivery at Irene’s, whose charbroiled oysters Boucher would not have been able to pass by, but the restaurant was open for dinner only.

“If I lived in your neighborhood, I’d weigh three hundred pounds,” Palmetto said.

“Where do you plan to live, Bob, and what do you plan to do now?”

“I haven’t had time to give it much thought. I’ve always assumed I’d do something with the private sector, but I wouldn’t exclude government. I’d like to find out just what they are planning for methane hydrate.”

“I hope you’ll keep me informed.”

“Of course I will. I owe you that.”

They took a few steps further and were passing the delivery truck. There was no other pedestrian traffic on the block. Palmetto walked looking down, his hands thrust deep in his trouser pockets. He pitched forward as if he had tripped. Boucher reached out to break his fall, then was himself struck on the back of the head and knocked unconscious. The rubber heels of his shoes left parallel lines as he was dragged backward along the sidewalk, then thrown from the curb into the open back of the Sysco food services delivery truck. Palmetto was given the same treatment. At that precise moment, less than a hundred yards away, the phone was ringing in the home Boucher and Palmetto had just departed. There being no reply, a message was left.

“Judge Boucher, this is Fitch. Damn, I hope you haven’t left the house. Listen. Perry wasn’t in his office when Detective Hebert got there last night. He only just called and told me. He got caught up in some other nighttime fun stuff. Anyway, we’ve got an APB out on Perry. I don’t want you or Palmetto going anywhere for the time being. I’ll have men watching the house, though he’d be a fool to come anywhere near you. Anyway, call me when you get this message and I’ll be over to see you as soon as I can get out of the office. You guys keep your eyes open.”

The loading doors slammed shut. A man got in the cab of the truck, started the engine, and pulled away, driving slowly at first but speeding up when out of the French Quarter.

Boucher regained consciousness. “Bob?” he whispered.

“Right here,” Palmetto answered. “What happened?”

“We’ve been abducted.”

“Do you have your cell phone with you?”

“It’s home charging, like you told me to do.”

“Damn. Who’s doing this? Fitch sent someone to arrest Perry last night.”

“Maybe he was gone when they got there.”

“My head hurts.”

“Mine too, but I think that might be the least of our problems,” Boucher said.

There was silence for nearly an hour before Palmetto spoke again.

“I don’t know where we’re going,” he said, “but if we ever need to find our way back there, I might be able to help.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Road surfacing. We were traveling on a highway constructed of joint-reinforced concrete pavements, I’m guessing about fifteen feet between the joints, and I counted just over thirty thousand joints. That’s about eighty-five miles. Twenty minutes ago we turned onto a rubberized asphalt surface. That composite greatly reduces noise levels. It was much quieter than the plain asphalt surface we’re traveling on now. I’m guessing it’s a single lane because I’ve heard branches brushing against both sides of the truck simultaneously. We can get the State Highway Department to give us a map showing the different composition of state roads, we might be able to figure out our route. I don’t know how long I was out, but I figure we’re about a hundred and fifty miles from New Orleans.”

“That’s brilliant, but if Perry is our abductor, I think he’s planning on this being a one-way trip.”

“Well, we’ll just have to change his plans. We’ve been pretty good at doing that so far.”

“I salute your optimism,” Boucher said.

They were slowing down, and even Boucher could tell they’d turned onto a dirt road, its consistency muddy. The transmission whined as wheels spun, tires unable to gain purchase. Finally, the truck stopped. The motor was shut off, they heard the cab door open and close, and heard footsteps to the back of the truck. The outside latch was slid back and the loading door was opened.

“Get out,” John Perry said.

Whatever angels of a better nature might once have existed in this man, they had been disposed of by the demons in his soul. Evil shone through his hooded eyes. His eyelids were swollen and droopy, his hair matted and disheveled. He held his mouth open with his tongue resting on his lower lip, biting down lightly on its tip, as if causing himself pain was an inducement to inflict it on others. His upper lip was curled in a grimace. Given a top hat and a handlebar mustache, he would have been a cartoon of the archvillain, but this was no caricature. In his hand was a .44 Magnum.

“You first.” He pointed the barrel at Palmetto. “Slowly.”

“You’re in enough trouble already, John,” Boucher said. “Don’t make things worse.”

“Oh, I don’t plan on making things worse. In fact, I plan on improving my position considerably. The two of you are going to help me solve all my problems. Now, get down, Palmetto. Keep your hands up. Jump. The ground’s soft, don’t worry.”

Palmetto jumped down, the landing soft as promised. Boucher was ordered to do the same.

“Now, gentlemen, I am not going to bind your hands, but if you don’t recognize it, this a .44 Magnum. You remember Clint Eastwood in
Dirty Harry
? Nobody ever put it better. Ask yourselves if you feel lucky. Just remember what Harry did to the punk.”

Palmetto’s calculation based on road composition was sheer genius, but Boucher knew where they were from his first breath. The scent of pine told him they were somewhere in the vicinity of the Kisatchie National Forest. Palmetto’s estimate of distance supported this supposition. They were surrounded by dense growth. There had been some heavy rains; the ground beneath their feet was moist. Perry pointed his massive firearm, but only at one target: Boucher.

“If one of you moves an inch, the judge gets the first bullet. At this range I won’t miss. Now, turn around and walk,” Perry ordered.

The hood of the truck was pointed toward a house that was not visible until one was practically on its front porch. It was certainly not a shack, its solid construction obvious. There was a screened porch spanning the front of the building with several large wooden armchairs and tables spread about. From the roof a large brick chimney was visible, indicating a grand fireplace inside.

“It’s been a hunting lodge and a corporate retreat,” Perry said. “We’re quite remote. You feel like whining about your ill treatment, go right ahead. There’s nobody for miles and miles who’s going to hear you. Go on, step up. The door’s open.”

They did as ordered and entered the house, stepping into a large living and dining area with, as suspected, a huge fireplace right in the middle.

“This was kind of impromptu,” Perry said, “so there’s no waitstaff and I’m afraid there are no refreshments.”

“What do you want with us, John?” Boucher asked.

“Well, let’s all sit down and I’ll tell you. Over there, by the fireplace.”

The chairs were massive, with thick red leather–covered cushions, a loud whoosh of air escaping from them as the three men sat. Perry rested his gun on the arm of his chair, not taking his hand off it. He leaned back.