Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller

by David Lyons

  Dumont chuckled. “You just described a typical Republican. Anyway, it sounds too dangerous. I don’t think I want you going back there.”

  “I’m only a geologist, and I don’t take chances. I’ll finish my report next week, and then I’m done. Dad, with your contacts, I know we can dial ourselves into that play when the time is right, and that time will come. We have the technology to develop shale oil and gas deposits. Mexico is sitting on some of the most massive resources in the world, and they’ve got an energy shortage. Because of bad planning—and, of course, the violence—they can’t supply their own domestic market. We can help their oil and gas industry, their economy, and we can make a fortune doing it. You missed out on the Canadian tar sands oil and the plays in Texas. Don’t miss out on Mexico.”

  Dumont looked at his son with pride as he spoke with such knowledge and confidence. His legacy was in good hands. “I’ll give it some thought,” he said. “You finish your work, then get out of there. Just make sure I get a copy of your findings. Now let’s wash up and tackle that turkey.”

  It was about two weeks later when he got the phone call in the middle of the night, and since then, any late call caused his heart to stop. He remembered each word of the brief conversation.

  “Mr. Dumont, I am sorry to have to tell you that your son, Charles, is dead.”

  “What? Who is this?”

  “My name is Bill Patterson. I worked with your son and was asked to call and inform you.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know the details, but he died instantly. We are arranging to have the body flown back to New Orleans. I have one thing to ask—actually, beg. Please, Mr. Dumont, do not open the casket. You will regret it for as long as you live.”

  The caller hung up. Dumont sat on the side of his bed, the receiver in his hand until the beep of the disconnected line jarred his consciousness. He hung up the phone and looked at his wife, lying on her side, her back to him. He let her sleep, got up to pace, to ponder, and to weep. He recalled the words he’d said to his son: “You finish your work—and make sure I get a copy of your report.” How those words now haunted him.

  Dumont failed to follow the advice he’d been given that night and opened the casket when it arrived, to his everlasting regret. His son’s head had been severed from his body. The face was bruised beyond recognition. He sought out others who had worked with his son, who had abandoned the project in Mexico and returned to the States. He found Gus Schmidt, the man who had been with Charles when he was killed, and extracted from him details of the killing.

  “We weren’t forty miles across the border from McAllen,” Schmidt said. “There was a narco blockade.”

  “A what?”

  “That’s what they call them when one of the organized criminal gangs hijacks a couple cars or trucks, then sets them on fire to block the road. They do it when the police are chasing them; sometimes they do it just to show they can, like a territorial thing. It’s a way of demonstrating to the police, to their rivals, even to the local civilian population, who’s in charge. Anyway, we were stuck in this stalled line of traffic, trying to turn around and get the hell out of there, when we were dragged from our car. They marched us out to this field. They’d also forced some of the poor folks from the pueblo to come out; men, women, and children lined up on the side of a football field like they were there for a game. They were all so scared they could hardly stand. This guy with a machete picked a couple boys for his gang. Mothers started crying. Charles started yelling at him in Spanish and the guy walked up to Charles and cut off his head with one swing of his machete. He is the head honcho in that part of the country. They call him El Jimador.”

  “I speak some Spanish,” Dumont said, “but what’s a jimador?”

  “It’s a traditional farmer who harvests the blue agave plant used to make tequila. Machetes are the tools of their trade. Please, sir, you don’t need to hear any more of this.”

  “No,” Dumont had insisted. “Tell me everything.”

  The man sighed. “He cut off your son’s head, then played soccer with it, in front of all those women and children. Why? To terrify them.”

  “With so many eyewitnesses to my son’s murder, why didn’t the police do anything?”

  “They wouldn’t even take my statement. The police are powerless against the big guns.”

  “I can’t let the man who murdered my son—”

  “If the Mexican authorities are helpless against these criminals, there’s not a thing we can do. If El Jimador ever crosses the border, let me know, and I’ll cap him myself. But as long as he stays on his side of the Rio Grande, we can’t touch him.”

  Dumont thanked him and hung up, nauseated by waves of anger and futility. It was in this moment that the seed of an idea was sown.

  • • •

  He’d managed to keep details of his son’s death from the media and his wife. After the tragedy, she began to berate him for the slump in their financial standing and the degradation of their life in general, a roundabout way of blaming him for their loss. Her bouts with depression and the other effects of her bipolar disorder upset him. He dealt with her impulsiveness as best he could, even if it meant destruction of art pieces he had bought to keep her happy in the first place. Elise’s fixation with finances seemed to be bordering on mania, and he did not want to see her slide into a more serious phase of the illness. Her mental instability had provided an unusual incentive of late, he had to admit, inducing him to work harder and in ways he had never thought of and in ways he could not speak of, least of all to her.

  “Elise,” he said. “I wish that you would not worry about our finances. I’m in just about every viable business that exists in this state, and I’m doing better than most. I kept everything going after Katrina, the oil spill, and the offshore drilling moratorium. You lack for nothing, and I make sure you live like a queen. What else do you expect from me?” He loosened his hands. The marks from his fingers were red impressions on her pale skin. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “That’s all right, dear. Fetch me a stole from the closet. I’ll wear the sable tonight.”

  She stood and examined herself in the full-length mirror. Ray put on his tuxedo jacket and stood beside her. They were once a handsome couple. Time marches on and over everyone. As they looked at themselves, they shared the same unspoken thought. No amount of wealth could compensate for what they had lost, for what had been so brutally taken from them.

  • • •

  Rosario closed the drapes to the drawing room as Sr. and Sra. Dumont pulled away in their limo. When the car was out of sight, she went to the kitchen at the rear of the house and switched the lights off and on twice. Soon there was a soft rapping at the back door. She opened it, and a swarthy man stepped in, closed the door behind him, and took her in his arms. His kiss was urgent, penetrating, and lengthy. She pulled away only when the need to breathe required, then fell into his embrace, whispering into his neck over and over, “Mi amor, mi corazón,” until she could stand his body odor no longer.

  “Javier, you stink. Come.”

  She led him to her maid’s quarters and drew him a bath. His clothes, even the jacket he wore, she took and threw into the combo washer/dryer with which she was so familiar.

  “I would die for something to drink,” he called out to her. She smiled at the sound of him splashing in the tub like a child.

  “Water? Iced tea?”

  “No, a drink. I’m sure your patrón has something I could tolerate.”

  Indeed he does, Rosario thought. There was a wine cellar that she hated because the dank, dusty cavern with fifteen hundred bottles made her sneeze. There was the liquor cabinet that contained an extraordinary collection of expensive spirits and liqueurs with which she was totally unfamiliar; then there were the two kitchen cabinets that held their everyday “utility” alcohol. There were several bottles of tequila that she assumed were quite good, having seen them on dining tables of tourists
in Acapulco, her hometown and that of the man splashing in the tub. She found a shot glass and filled it, leaving the bottle on the counter.

  “Please don’t make too much of a mess in here,” she said, serving him the glass in the tub. “I will have to clean up before they get home.”

  He caught her wrist as he sat in the steaming water, threw back his head, and had her pour the tequila down his open throat. He swallowed with one gulp, took the empty glass from her, and kissed her fingertips one by one. “Someday you will clean only what is ours.”

  She smiled, having no such illusions, then left him to finish. Rosario went to the kitchen and fixed a simple meal, knowing that he would be hungry. Though she was not concerned that any food would be missed, still she chose with care. Two eggs, some presliced ham, bread and butter. She was about to serve his plate. He stood in the kitchen wrapped in a towel. His body was well defined, with the reflection from the overhead light bouncing off his damp skin. His thick black hair glistened, droplets falling on his shoulders. She felt weak at the sight of him and rushed to his arms. She sat him in the kitchen chair, then, without undressing, spread her skirt and straddled him, grabbing the back of his neck, not kissing . . . devouring.

  Javier ate his eggs cold.

  “Your clothes will be ready soon,” Rosario said as they sat at the kitchen table. “They are drying now.”

  Javier pushed away his empty plate, poured himself a glass of tequila from the bottle he had retrieved from the counter, downed the shot, then poured another.

  “I will have to replace that,” Rosario said, “or they will think I drank it.”

  Javier shrugged, threw back his glass, and handed her the bottle. “Just water it down and stick it in the back. Gringos won’t know the difference.”

  Javier had a simple solution for everything. “Want to show me this place?” he asked.

  “I don’t mind. As soon as you’re dry. We can’t stain the carpets or furniture.”

  “It’s ridiculous to have possessions that control you. When we have our home, there will not be a table or a chair, certainly not a carpet, where I cannot make love to you any time I choose, wet or dry.” He reached out to grab her arm, but she pulled away with a smile.

  “Maybe a little walk would do you good,” she said.

  She toweled him dry, got his clothes, he dressed, and they left the kitchen, Rosario leading the way, closing blinds and drapes, or guiding him through the dark when they walked past windows where they could be seen from the outside. They knew they were surrounded by objects that represented great wealth, though neither could put a monetary value on anything, and the craftsmanship or antiquity made no impression. Javier just tutted constantly about the lack of functionality of everything. Even the master bedroom was inappropriate for its two highest and best uses, he thought. They returned to the kitchen.

  “Where does this go?” he asked, passing a closed door just off the kitchen.

  “The cellar. Señor Dumont keeps his wine collection down there and, uh, other things.”

  “I want to see it.”

  “I don’t like it down there. It makes me sneeze.”

  “You’re probably afraid of ghosts. Are there ghosts down there?”

  “Javier, please.”

  “I want to see.” He opened the door. The stairwell was steep, but a light switch illuminated the descent. He stepped in. “Are you coming?”

  “Javier, it’s time to think about them coming home.”

  “Then we’d better hurry.” He walked down the stairs. She followed.

  The light at the foot of the stairs cast dim but sufficient illumination to allow them to walk through corridors of wine racks. Javier’s gait was unsteady, the result of poor lighting and rough flooring, perhaps, but just as likely from the tequila shooters. Rosario begged him not to touch the wine bottles, but he ignored her, pulling out one, then another.

  “These are older than me. This one’s older than my father. This is ridiculous.”

  The wine collection holding no allure, he returned to the stairway but spotted a small separate chamber. He stepped inside, feeling the wall for a switch. There was none.

  “Javier, please. Let’s go.”

  “Just a minute. Here it is.” His face brushed against a hanging chain in the center. He pulled it, and a single naked bulb cast a blue light in the small space. “¡Caramba! ” Javier said.

  Against the wall were glass-enclosed gun racks with rifles stacked. Waist-high display cases held pistols of every size. He lifted the glass of one and pulled out a gun. “¿Cazador? No. ¿Bandito? Sí.” He examined the gun in his hand with a smile.

  “Put that back,” Rosario said. “Now.”

  “Or what? You will take it from me? How will you do that, my little parakeet?” The barrel pointed unsteadily in her direction. “What if I told you to take your clothes off right here, right now. I would like to see you naked in this light. You look like a Madonna.”

  “You don’t need a gun to fuck me, you ass. Put it back now.”

  Javier’s eyebrows arched almost to his hairline. “You would speak like that to me?” He pointed the gun at her. “I said I wanted to see you naked.”

  “You’re drunk. Give me that.” She stepped toward him, reaching out. Javier raised the gun.

  The explosion in the small underground space was deafening. The single blue-tinted lightbulb hanging from its cord swung, buffeted by the sound waves. He had been holding the pistol loosely, having had no intention to fire it, and the recoil nearly broke his hand. He dropped it, and a second discharge went off. He fell back against a glass display case, shattering it. But in the second between the first and the second shot, he stared at a vision that seared itself into his brain. He would go to his death with the image of Rosario standing before him, arms outstretched, bathed in blue light. Gone was her smile, the dark eyes. Gone was her head above the jawline, the bottom row of teeth visible over a lower lip curled in a grotesque grimace. The body began to fall. Before it could land, Javier was running from the room, up the stairs, through the kitchen, across the backyard, flinging himself at the wall at the rear of the property, clawing his way to the top, then over. Dropping to soft ground and running, running, knowing that he would be running till the end of his days from the ghost of the woman he had murdered, a spirit that would haunt him till he drew his final breath.

  CHAPTER 6

  LIGHTS WERE ON LATE in the Dumont home that night. The kitchen light was on when they got home, and Ray could feel air circulating from the open back door as soon as he entered the front.

  “Stay here,” he ordered his wife. “Rosario?” he called out. “¿Dónde estás? ” In the connecting hallway, the door to the basement was open. Rosario never would have gone down there at night. But before checking it out, he peered into the kitchen. The remains of a meal were on the table, as well as a bottle of his tequila, well sampled, which meant he’d have to fire her. Damn. He needed to check out the basement but first went to a large locked cherrywood cabinet in the dining room. He kept a key to this piece of furniture on his key ring; he fished it out of his pocket and opened it. From a drawer he took a small pistol.

  “What are you doing, Ray?” Elise called to him.

  “Just stay there,” he said.

  Dumont descended the stairs. The basement was dim with the ambient illumination coming from below. He held the pistol before him like a flashlight. He ignored the wine cellar; the blue glow from the man cave that held his gun collection beckoned. He approached.

  “Aw, goddammit,” he said when he saw the body. He heard noise at the top of the stairs. “Elise, don’t come down here. I mean it. Don’t come down.”

  • • •

  Lights were on late in the Logan home that night. Walt Logan was chief of the New Orleans Police Department. Logan valued influential friends. Ray Dumont was one of them.

  Lights were also on late in the home of Detective Fitch. He growled at the late-night call from Chief L
ogan.

  “Sorry to bother you this late, Roscoe,” the chief said.

  Roscoe? Logan hadn’t called him by his first name in the over twenty years they had worked together. If they had shared anything more than an arm’s-length working relationship, Logan would have known that Fitch hated the name.

  “What is it, Chief?”

  “Ray Dumont and his wife returned home from an evening with the governor to find their maid in the basement with her head blown off. She might have known the killer. No sign of B and E. I need you to get over there. I don’t want the Dumonts embarrassed by this, uh, situation. Understand what I’m saying?”

  “Right. I’m on my way. The big house on Saint Charles Avenue, right?”

  “Yeah. Come see me in my office when you get in tomorrow morning.”

  “Will do.”

  Embarrassed? Why would they be embarrassed by the death of a domestic? Fitch asked himself. They could not have had a better alibi than an evening with the governor. Well, he thought as he dressed, a rich man’s home is a labyrinth of secrets. He knew he was being called out on a cleanup detail. Ray Dumont was waiting at the door, having heard Fitch’s car arrive. Introductions were curt.

  “This way, Detective. The body is in the cellar.”

  Fitch followed him down the stairs. Basements were rare in older New Orleans homes for the same reason that graves in cemeteries were elevated—another reminder that much of the city was below sea level. He followed Dumont into the room of blue light. The body was on the floor, untouched. The loss of blood was massive and filled the floor of much of the room, a reflective black pool.

  “You step in here?” Fitch asked.

  “Had to,” Dumont replied.

  “Why?”

  “To take inventory. I have some valuable weapons in here.”