by David Lyons
“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.”
CHAPTER 28
FITCH 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.”
She didn’t move, her face still buried in his shoulder. He lifted her head. “Dawn?”
Her eyes were closed, her breath shallow. Near the center of her back he felt warm liquid oozing between his fingers. “Oh God, no.”
The police airboat arrived minutes later. He called out and they came to him.
“She’s been shot,” he said as he lowered Dawn down to outstretched arms. “Get that helicopter back here with a doctor on board.”
He jumped onto the flat deck. The airboat backed up, then sped away as quickly as uncertain waters and the dark of night would permit. Overhead the copter was looking for a place to land. It was flying low and the wash from its props whipped up the surface of the bayou, soaking the passengers in the airboat. Boucher leaned over Dawn, protecting her from the spray. The chopper found an open spot and settled to earth. The airboat nosed to the bank. An officer jumped ashore and the woman’s limp body was handed to him. No stretcher, he cradled her in his arms. Boucher jumped ashore and ran beside them, holding her hand.
Fitch was waiting in the helicopter. “We’ve got a doctor waiting in Morgan City,” he hollered above the wind from the rotary blades. “We’ll pick him up and get her to the closest trauma center.”
Dawn was lifted in, Boucher jumped aboard, and they were away. The small clinic was near the docks where dozens of shrimp boats were moored, it being a few more hours before they would begin their day. The doctor was waiting in the empty parking lot. He was a big man, at least two hundred and fifty pounds. Somehow at this hour he had managed to commandeer several cars whose headlights illuminated a landing space for the chopper.
“You and me are going to have to get off here,” Fitch yelled in Boucher’s ear as the copter landed. “This bird won’t hold all of us.”
Reluctantly, Boucher jumped off. Both he and Fitch helped the large man board, and it was a job. He waved, then went to work. The helicopter lifted off. Boucher watched it fly away till there was no more sight or sound.
“You want to talk about it?” Fitch asked.
“No. Find out where they’re taking her and get me there.”
The Morgan City Police Department assigned them a car and driver to drive them back to New Orleans. Dawn was taken to the Spirit of Charity Level 1 Trauma Center at the Interim LSU Public Hospital on Perdido Street. She was still in surgery when they arrived, and though various members of the emergency team exited and entered the operating theater, their intense expressions made it clear they had no time for questions and answers. Finally a surgeon walked from the theater and approached them.
“Are you family?”
“I’m Detective Fitch, NOPD, and this is Federal District Judge Boucher. We’re friends.”
“Does she have family?”
“No,” Boucher said. “Her parents are deceased and her brother was killed in Iraq. How is she?”
“Her condition is extremely serious.” The doctor wrinkled his nose. The federal judge standing in front of him smelled like a sewer and looked like he’d been living in one. “Are you all right, sir?”
“I’m fine. I’ll clean up later. I don’t want to leave her.”
The doctor nodded. “We’ll keep you informed of her status. I’ll see to it personally.” He started to walk away, then turned back around. “Is your name Jock?”
“Yes.”
“She kept asking for you. Look, clean up and get into surgical gear. You should be prepared to see her. If it comes to that.”
“I will. Thank you, Doctor.”
Boucher was shown to a room where he stripped off his slimy clothes and showered away layers of filth. A surgical gown, gloves, sterile foot covers, and mask were laid out for him. He put them on and waited. And waited.
The doctor who’d spoken to him earlier burst into the room. “Come on,” he said, “quickly.” They rushed into the operating theater.
Dawn lay on her stomach. A spotlight hung from a spiral cord above her, now turned off. The doctor nudged him to the head of the bed and he knelt down to be at her eye level. He wanted to touch her. He brushed her cheek with a finger encased in the sterile glove. She opened her eyes. They were two slits, but she saw and recognized him. There was a tear in one eye, only one. Then her eyes closed. Forever.
“I’m sorry,” the doctor said. He wanted to say more. He wanted to say that the wound was too severe; that she had lost too much blood; that it took too long to get her here. But all he could say was, “I’m sorry.”
Boucher stood up. The doctor put a hand on his shoulder. “She said some things as we prepped her for surgery,” he said. “I don’t know what she meant, maybe you will. She said, ‘Get him.’ I assume she was talking about whoever shot her, and she kept trying to spell something but couldn’t get beyond the first three letters. She kept saying over and over, ‘D-o-b.’ Did she know someone whose name began with those letters?”
“I don’t know,” Boucher said.
Wearing borrowed scrubs, he retrieved his wallet and keys from his filthy clothes, then called for a cab to take him home. As he reached the Quarter, in the sky was the first hint of morning.
CHAPTER 29
FITCH CALLED HIM AT noon. It was as much time for grieving as he could give, being a cop with a new homicide.
“You up for it?” he asked.
“As long as you do the driving.”
“Not after the night I had. We’ve got a driver.”
They sat in the backseat of the patrol car, on the same route Boucher had taken just one day earlier. Fitch, in the one gesture of respect he could grant, asked no questions as they drove. They came to Rexcon’s lab, the parking lot empty.
“Where is everybody?” Boucher asked, certain they had not been given another day off.
“Thing is, this place really isn’t operational,” Fitch said. “There’s a security guard—he’d been given the day off yesterday—and when he came in today he told us they just bought this place a few months ago and from what he understood the company was just beginning to hire staff for a new project.”
They walked inside, ducking under the yellow crime scene tape.
“Cantrell got away,” Boucher said; impossible to tell if he was asking a question or making a statement.
“We’ll get him.”
“There was another guy here, a real sicko, name’s Quillen. He had the idea to give us an acid bath. Dawn jumped him as I decked Cantrell. I think she may have scratched his eyes out. He was blinded and bleeding last I saw him.”
“Plucky lady.”
“Yes, she was.”
Fitch sighed. “We got the bullet that killed her. It was a 30.06, common rifle caliber.”
“Too much to hope that it was a .38.”
“They wouldn’t have used a pistol at that range. But that reminds me. I found the bullet that killed Dexter Jessup twenty ye
ars ago. Of course, finding the gun that shot it is probably impossible after so long.”
Boucher stared at him. “But if you could find another bullet fired from the same gun . . .”
“Well, yeah, but . . .”
“Cantrell fired two shots in here. I hit him with the chair and he got off a wild shot, then another shot at me as I ran outside.” He looked around. “They’re somewhere in the walls or ceiling.”
Fitch pulled out his cell phone and made a call, setting an investigatory team in motion.
“Has anyone called Perry?” Boucher asked.
“I called his office this morning. His assistant said he was out of town. I told her to have him call me the minute he gets back. You can bet he’ll have alibis up the ass. He’s probably meeting with lawyers right now.”
“Where could Quillen have gone?” Boucher asked. “He was blind, this place is isolated.”
Fitch walked to the vat and called to Boucher. “Come here.” One of the metal folding chairs was placed next to it and was bloodstained. Fitch climbed up on the chair and peered into the reeking cauldron, nearly choking from the fumes. He stepped back down.
“There’s blood on the side like he was feeling his way. There’s blood on the chair like he was climbing up, and there’s blood on the rim. If he was a contract killer and your friend scratched his eyes out, I’d say that didn’t leave him much of a future to contemplate, wouldn’t you?”
“You think he fell on his sword?”
“That’s too noble an expression for a shit-heel like him. I think he took the only way out, the way he had prepared for you. If there’s anything left of him in that gumbo, we’ll find it.”
Boucher paced the floor, looking down.
“What are you looking for?” Fitch asked.
“I threw my cell phone at Quillen. It struck him in the forehead, he bled. That’s when Dawn jumped him. It’s not here. They must have come back for it.”
“Just for a cell phone?”
“It wasn’t just a cell phone. Cantrell said he wanted to know who I’d been talking to. The phone has a record of all my calls. They’re going to find out Palmetto’s alive. I’ve got to warn him. I’d like to get back home if we’re done here,” Boucher said.
