Ice Fire: A Jock Boucher Thriller (24 page)

“Jesus, Detective, I’d like to help you, but look at this.” The custodian held up a handful of requisitions. “Everybody wants everything
yesterday and I don’t know where to even begin to look for most of the stuff they want. This place is fucked. It’s just fucked.”

“Calm down,” Fitch said. “I’m not here to bust your balls. I know it’s a long shot. Would you mind if I looked for myself?”

“Mind? Hell, no, I wouldn’t mind. But if you find anything, don’t touch it. Call me. I’ve got both prosecutors and defense lawyers trying to hang my butt screaming that I screwed up chain-of-custody records.” He opened the chain metal door and let him into the criminal evidence storage area. “You gotta wear this,” he said, handing Fitch a surgical face mask. “We got some nasty shit growing back there.”

“Where should I start?” Fitch asked.

“On a case twenty years old? Over there.” He pointed vaguely to the right rear corner of the facility. “At least that’s where I would have looked ten years ago.”

The first thing Fitch noticed was the variety of fungi growing everywhere, on everything: on plastic, on metal. Cardboard boxes, the preferred container, were decomposing on every shelf. First the adhesive dissolved, then the sides fell and hung limp, the layers separating and rotting. Plastic, he read somewhere, took a hundred years to decay. Well, whoever said that should see this place. Even plastic containers were dissolving. And money: cash confiscated in the commission of a crime was often crucial evidence. If any was stored here, it was now dust and mold spores. After two hours he had to get out. He could hardly breathe. He walked back to the custodian.

“I need air,” he said. “How do you stand it in here?”

“Six more weeks, then full pension,” the man said. “I’m going to fish every goddamned day for the rest of my life.”

“Brother, you’ve earned it.”

Fitch stepped outside and, before even taking a breath of air,
lit up a cigarette and drew deeply. He figured tobacco smoke had a better chance of killing any fungus in his lungs than a gulp of fresh air did. He smoked it down to the filter, then for good measure lit a second and smoked it before going back in.

He was going to find that bullet or satisfy himself that it did not exist.

Fascinating as it was, Boucher was getting tired of staring at the blue flame and the ice fire. Also, he noticed that the lab technician was nowhere in sight. He took off the lab coat he’d grabbed on the way in and Dawn did the same.

“If that’s what we came to see, I say thank you for the tour and let’s get on back home.”

“Well,” Cantrell said, “I was going to show you what we’ve been able to construct with carbon fiber, but you’re right, it’s time we moved along.” He yelled, “How’s it going in there?”

“We’re all set.” The lab technician’s voice came from one of the peripheral cubicles.

“Let’s go,” Cantrell said, turning to face Dawn and Boucher. In his left hand he held a Smith & Wesson Model 10 Military and Police revolver. Pointed at them.

“Bert,” Dawn gasped, “have you gone mad?”

“Sorry,” he said. “Including you on this little picnic was Perry’s idea. I can’t even claim credit for the manner in which you are about to die. I have to admit I’m surprised it turned out to be so damned easy. Turn around and walk over to Mr. Quillen. He’s not exactly a scientist, but he’s very proficient at his specialty. I understand he’s prepared something unique for you.”

The lab Cantrell ushered them into was kept at normal temperature.
The room was empty except for two folding metal chairs and a large stainless steel vat in its center. Beside the vat stood the man wearing the lab coat. Whatever was in the vat was fuming and gave off a familiar, suffocating odor.

“The king of chemicals,” Cantrell said, “sulfuric acid. This batch is concentrated; very efficient. You know the beauty of using sulfuric acid? It has the broadest industrial use of any chemical; that’s why they call it the king. It’s perfectly natural for a company like ours to keep it in large quantities. It won’t arouse the slightest suspicion. And there won’t be the slightest trace of you left. It’s almost humane. You’ll dissolve in no time. This was Mr. Quillen’s idea. I must say, he’s far more creative than I am. A shot to the head is about the limit of my imagination.”

“Like with Dexter Jessup and Ruth Kalin,” Boucher said.

Cantrell shrugged.

“I suppose he was responsible for Judge Epson’s death.” Boucher nodded to the man in the white coat.

Cantrell shrugged again, a slight smile on his lips. “Okay, twenty questions is over.”

Boucher said, “Why her?”

“Because she’s fulfilled her purpose,” Cantrell said. “Well, almost. I plan to have a little fun myself before we dump her in the pot. You go first, Judge. Just step on one of those chairs and climb in. If you don’t, I’ll shoot you and dump you in myself. But death will be immediate if you dive in headfirst. Don’t worry about the lady, she’ll be following you soon enough.”

Boucher realized that a well-placed shot could bring death quickly as well, but Cantrell had shown no abilities as a marksman. His kills were contact shots. A bad shot could just mess him up and they’d still dump him in.

“Can I have a moment with Dawn?”

“Aw, isn’t that sweet? No. Get on that chair.”

Boucher walked to the chair and picked it up by its back to move it closer to the vat. As he did this, his cell phone beeped its warning that the battery was low.

“Give me that,” Cantrell said. “I want to know who you’ve been talking to.”

Boucher handed Cantrell his phone, holding it in both his hands, raising them till they were parallel with Cantrell’s—one reaching, the other holding the gun. Boucher whipped his hands apart as he dropped the phone, spreading his arms, striking Cantrell on both wrists, then bringing his left around into a roundhouse punch, landing a glancing blow to Cantrell’s chin as Cantrell got off a wild shot. Boucher grabbed the nearest chair, raised it, and slammed it down on Cantrell’s head. Cantrell collapsed to the floor unconscious. Quillen rushed toward Boucher, his arms spread out from his sides like a wrestler. Boucher reached down, picked up the cell phone, and threw it, striking Quillen in the forehead, just above the bridge of his nose, knowing that there is a more ample blood supply in the face than any other part of the body. Blood gushed from the wound and filled Quillen’s eyes. Dawn pounced on the bleeding man like a leopard, pulling his hands from his face, then digging her long nails deep into his eye sockets. Quillen screamed with the pain and terror of sudden blindness. Cantrell was coming to, his gun in his hand.

“Run!”
Boucher yelled to Dawn. She bolted for the exit and he followed. Cantrell was groggy, but rising to his feet. He got off a shot as Boucher was out the door, slamming it shut behind him.

Dawn was standing in the parking lot waiting for him, the look on her face wild with fright. Boucher ran toward her and grabbed her hand. They ran to the road and crossed it, running across the field
on the other side. Beyond the field was swamp. They kept running. Cantrell was behind them. He fired again. Reaching the first line of mangroves, Boucher jumped into the brackish chocolate-brown water. He sank to his knees. Dawn stood hesitating on the bank, wondering which was the better way to die. To be shot? To die of a poisonous snakebite—or as a gator’s supper? She stood there weighing uniformly unpleasant options as Boucher held out his hand.

“Come on,” he said. “I was born on the bayou. We’ll be okay.”

Dawn leapt and landed with a splash. They began to plod the muddy bottom, and of course she lost her shoes with the first two steps.

“Climb onto my back,” Boucher said, and he carried her piggyback.

They had disappeared in the mangroves before Cantrell reached the point where they had jumped. He wasn’t about to do the same. He yelled out, “You won’t get far. You’ll die in the swamp, but you’re sure as hell going to die.”

“No, we’re not,” Boucher whispered. “This is a walk in the park for me.”

They slogged through the bayou. The water was mostly waist-deep but sometimes up to Boucher’s chest. He stopped and stood still. “Shhh,” he said, but Dawn could see nothing.

“Why are you shushing?” she asked.

“Water moccasin,” he said, and she saw the tip of its head and the S wake on the water’s surface. An hour or more passed. Afternoon shadows were lengthening. As frightening as it was earlier, the bayou’s terror increased as darkness descended. Boucher stopped again, under a large mangrove tree.

“We need to get out of the water. Can you reach that branch?”

“If you can lift me up.”

“Climb onto my shoulders.”

He steadied her. She stepped onto his shoulders and grabbed the branch.

“I’ve got you. Now pull yourself up and swing your legs over. That’s it. Good. Now sit there. No, don’t slide towards the trunk. I’m going to climb there.”

Boucher tree-walked, climbing, pulling himself up the trunk to the branch where Dawn sat. He positioned himself with his back to the trunk and spread his legs on both sides of the branch.

“Now slide yourself over here and very carefully turn around. I want you to rest your back against my chest and relax. We’re going to be here awhile.”

She did as instructed and Boucher wrapped his arms around her. Dawn caressed his arm and began to cry.

“It’s all right.” He kissed the back of her head. “We’re safe here.”

“I was thinking about where we might have been.”

F
ITCH BEGAN A FIT
of coughing he couldn’t stop. Four hours in the fungus, mold, and slime of the evidence room was beyond his endurance. He bent over with the wracking cough. That’s when he saw it. In a gray plastic tray like restaurants used to carry dirty dishes, he saw a tag that read 1990. He recognized the case file number. There was a clear plastic bag that contained the remains of bloodied clothing, rotten with mildew. And a smaller one that held an object that looked like a brown pebble. He picked up the bag and examined it. It was the bullet.

He called out. “Hey! Come on back here.”

The custodian joined him. “Find something?”

“Yeah. Can you put this tray someplace where it won’t get lost and just sign out this single bag to me?”

“Sure, Detective. I just have to remind you to keep it secured. Chain of custody and all that.”

“Don’t worry. It’s going straight to the lab.”

“Glad you found what you were looking for. You’re one of the few.”

“Sometimes you get lucky,” he said.

The evidence was signed out to him and, as promised, Fitch took it directly to the lab. He smoked three cigarettes in transit and bought himself a fresh pack before returning to his office. It was going to take a lot of smoke to drive out all the crud he’d breathed in today. He was accosted as soon as he entered.

“Got some wild man been calling for you,” the duty sergeant said. “His name’s Palmetto. Something about Judge Boucher.”

Fitch ran to his office. He called the number given, not recognizing the area code. Palmetto answered on the first ring and identified himself and his connection to Boucher. Fitch knew who he was.

“I can’t reach Boucher,” Palmetto said. “I think he’s in trouble.”

“I’ll look into it right away,” Fitch said.

The dispatcher’s office had the GPS receiver. The signal was clear.

“Where the hell is it coming from?” Fitch asked the dispatcher.

“Somewhere near Morgan City; actually, somewhere in the swamp near Morgan City. It’s been stationary for some time. If your man’s in the bayou and he ain’t moving, I’d say he’s got a problem.”

“I want a chopper,” Fitch said. “Now.”

They were too scared to sleep, so there was little worry about nodding off and falling into the water. Boucher could feel Dawn trembling and tried to comfort her.

“Did you know the first Tarzan movie was made in this very swamp? Shot in 1918, starring Elmo Lincoln. Elmo was one of the early stars of the silent screen.”

“You’re a font of local lore,” she said. “You wouldn’t happen to know where the nearest bus stop is, would you?” Dawn didn’t need to ask if they were really safer precariously propped in a tree; the chomping of jaws and splashing of tails in the dark convinced her.

“They sound like they’re having a feeding frenzy,” she whispered.

“They’re fighting over something,” Boucher said; then, “Shhh, listen.”

It was the sound of a high-pitched motor. Beams of light were splayed on the water’s surface and into the mangroves.

“Airboat,” he said.

“Good guys or bad guys?”

“I think it’s the bad guys.”

“Jock, I want to turn around. I’d rather be facing you if they’re coming for us.”

“Actually,” he said, “that’s not a bad idea. Less light reflecting from your back than from your face.”

He held her by the waist as she swung one leg over, then the other. They were inches apart. She stared into his eyes. Then she buried her face in his neck and sobbed.

“Those horrible men,” she murmured.

The engine of the airboat continued its whine. It was moving slowly, getting closer. Searchlights could be seen: one from the bow of the boat, another from portside, fanning the trees. If he could see the lights through the branches, the lights could find them. A beam splayed on a nearby tree, then inched closer till it rested on them. They heard men yelling. And something else: the unmistakable sound of the rotary blades of a helicopter chopping through the air. Another searchlight split the night. The copter was approaching rapidly. An airboat
and
a copter? He and Dawn didn’t have a chance. But the airboat’s motor began revving up. It was backing away. Men were shouting. There was a single shot as they departed.

The helicopter was soon overhead, its intense searchlight burning pockets of bright light into the dark swamp. A voice called out over an amplifier.

“Boucher, this is Fitch. We chased them away and have teams down there looking for you. One will be by in a few minutes. Stay where you are.”

The cavalry had arrived. He held Dawn to him and whispered, “We’re safe now. Everything’s going to be all right.”