Ice Fire: A Jock Boucher Thriller

by David Lyons

  “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.

  “You boys have pretty much ruined something I’ve been working on for a long, long time.”

  “Something you stole from me,” Palmetto said. “Innocent people died because of your greed and ambition.”

  “Ambition I’ll admit to, but not greed,” Perry said. “Money’s not my motivation. You of all people should understand that, Mr. Palmetto. We both wanted energy independence for this great country of ours. I was a patriot, but because of your meddling, I’m now a wanted criminal.”

  “You’re delusional,” Boucher said. “In this ‘great country of ours,’ we don’t permit the murder of innocents to further one’s dreams, no matter how grand.”

  “Now who’s delusional,” Perry said. “Lives are sacrificed for the greater good every day. Sometimes they’re called accidents, but people die when they get in the way of progress, Judge Boucher. People die.”

  “I’d like to repeat an earlier question,” Palmetto said. “What do you want with us?”

  “The real question is, what do I want with you?” Perry addressed Palmetto. “The judge is just here as a bystander—well, almost.”

  “All right then, what do you want with me?” Palmetto asked.

  “I want it all,” Perry said. “I want everything you have on methane hydrate. Everything. What you sent in Judge Boucher’s little scheme wasn’t nearly all you’ve got. Cantrell thought he could fill in the gaps. Well, Cantrell’s gone. I want it all.”

  Now Palmetto leaned back in his chair. “I don’t have it,” he said smugly. “I don’t carry it in my shirt pocket, you know.”

  “I asked myself about that,” Perry said. “I couldn’t see you traveling like a vagrant all over the country, carrying a computer, even if they have become very portable over the years. When I found out you weren’t dead, I knew you had sent files to Boucher. I figured you were using cloud computing. It’s in the cloud, isn’t it?”

  Palmetto’s expression was his answer. His shoulders sagged. He slumped in his chair.

  “I thought so,” Perry said. “You are going to give me the key to your cloud.”

  “You won’t be able to use it. You’re going to jail for murder. And stock manipulation.”

  “I’m not going to jail. I’m going to follow a suggestion Judge Boucher gave me early in our relationship. He said if I wouldn’t buy the information he was selling, he would take it to India. That’s what I plan to do. I’m going to India. If the U.S. isn’t ready to invest in this resource, I know who will. If not India, there are other options. Far from these shores, far from extradition treaties.”

  “I’m not going to do it,” Palmetto said.

  “I think you will.”

  “What are you going to do, torture me?”

  “No,” Perry said. “Him.” He pointed the gun at Boucher.

  Perry marched them through the house to the backyard, talking as they went.

  “I’m guessing you sent me what, twenty percent of your work product? Thirty percent? It was enough to give me an idea of what you had been up to all these years, but not enough to duplicate it. I think Cantrell would have gotten there, but I think he underestimated the time it would have taken.”

  “But you were still going hell bent for leather into something you didn’t understand. Your actions were reckless and dangerous.”

  “Energy is a dangerous business. Sometimes we have to make mistakes to learn.”

  They had stepped out into the backyard. A large barbecue grill was over to one side, on the other, what appeared to be a water well, abandoned before completion. Several pieces of rebar jutted out from the brick wall surrounding the shaft. Perry directed them toward the well, picking up a length of rope from one of the outdoor tables.

  “Okay, stop,” he said as they stood at the well.

  “I know you both share the same love for this state as I do. That’s one thing we have in common. Here in Louisiana we enjoy a more abundant variety of wildlife than anywhere else on this whole continent. We’ve got gators, we’ve got bears, birds of every description, and forty-six varieties of snakes, seven of which are venomous. A neighbor is a herpetologist. He showed me his collection once. I borrowed it, or at least part of it. The interesting part.”

  “No,” Palmetto said. “You’re not going to . . .”

  “I’m not going to do a thing. You are. Take this rope and slip it over the judge’s head.” Palmetto hesitated. “Do it,” Perry ordered, “or I’ll blow a hole in him your skinny ass could crawl through.”

  Boucher stood with his arms hanging down at his sides, his fists tight in impotent anger. The barrel of the pistol pointed at him looked like a small cave.

  “Slide the rope down to his feet and tighten it around his ankles,” Perry said. Palmetto did. “Good. Now, you see that piece of rebar sticking up from the wall? Tie the rope to it, about four of your arm lengths from the end. I’m going to need about twelve feet of play. I suggest you make it your very best knot.”

  Palmetto measured, then tied off the rope as ordered.

  Boucher was as taut as a bowstring. His arms unbound, he prayed for a chance to use them. “Shit,” he said. “Why don’t you just shoot me?”

  “Not a bad idea,” Perry said. He stepped forward. Boucher clenched his fists. Perry took another step. He was within arm’s reach. Boucher tensed, ready to strike. Then Perry raised his gun and fired. Right next to Boucher’s head. The concussion from the shot nearly knocked him out. His ears rang like cathedral bells as he stood there dazed and wobbling. Perry raised his left hand and pushed him over the edge like he was flicking a flea. Boucher fell down the shaft. The rope snapped taut, nearly ripping his legs from his body. Perry aimed his pistol at Palmetto, admonishing him to stand fast. He then leaned over.

  “You hear me down there, Judge?”

  “Fuck you,” Boucher said through clenched teeth.

  “There’s no water down there,” Perry said. “This was a dry hole. So you don’t need to worry about drowning. Also, you are not alone. I have managed to get one each of the magnificent seven. They’re all slithering together on the bottom. Judge Boucher, meet your new playmates.”

  Perry walked to where Palmetto stood and motioned him to step back. He set his gun down and checked the rope, retying it, watching Palmetto all the while.

  “You move a muscle and I’ll dump him down there with some of the deadliest critters on earth. Now, watch and learn something. This knot is a variation of the sheepshank,” he said, “called a kamikaze. It’s used in rappelling, and I’ve added my own little adaptation to fit the circumstances.” His fingers danced. He didn’t even need to look at the rope. He finished, picked up the gun, and leaned over the shaft.

  “You have nothing to worry about, Judge,” Perry said. “The striking distance of each one of those bad boys is no greater than its body length. I, uh, didn’t measure them precisely, but I don’t think there’s one down there longer than six feet, and several are much shorter. I think the shaft was dug to twenty feet before we quit. You’re about six feet tall, so you’ve got maybe eight feet of margin. Of course tha
t margin is going to be decreasing if your pal Palmetto doesn’t cooperate with me. I’ll just keep lowering you down a notch. Like this.” He adjusted the knot, then called down.

  “Judge Boucher, let me tell you a little bit about those critters down there. First you’ve got a canebrake rattlesnake. He’s close to six feet long. Scientific name is Crotalus horridus. I love that name, don’t you? Despite his name, he’s a bit of a pansy. He’ll do a lot of rattling to scare you away before striking. He releases a lot of venom, though. It’s a neurotoxin that induces paralysis. Death to humans is rare, but no picnic either.

  “Next is your average copperhead. The one down there is about four feet long. His bite causes intense pain, swelling, and respiratory distress—which I imagine will be compounded by the fact that you’re hanging upside down. Then you’ve got a cottonmouth. You can die from his bite; his venom has tissue-destroying enzymes. You’ll probably be able to see him in the dim light down there. He’ll throw back his head and open his mouth wide. It’s white. Looks scary as shit in the shadows.

  “Then I’ve got something special for you, an eastern diamondback rattler, the most venomous snake in North America. Death can occur within minutes. Intense pain, lots of bleeding, cardiac arrest. The rest are lightweights. You’ve got a harlequin coral snake, a pygmy rattlesnake, and a Texas coral snake. I’m not saying they won’t give you a world of hurt, but they rarely kill folks. Can you see any of them? Judge Boucher?”

  Boucher refused to answer.

  “Okay. You hang out there and think about things. Palmetto and I are going into the house and hopefully do a little cloud computing. I’ll be back in a while and tell you how it’s going. You know something, Judge? You just might be able to answer a fascinating scientific question. Just how long does it take a man to die of bites from each and every venomous snake in the great state of Louisiana?”

  “Don’t do it, Bob,” Boucher yelled from the depths of the shaft, his voice reverberating in his ears. “He’s going to kill us anyway. Don’t do it.”