Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller

by David Lyons

  “You’re rather loquacious tonight, counselor,” Dumont said.

  “I’m not finished. General Cyrus Moore? He’s perfect for his role in all this: respected, with invaluable contacts, and you’ve utilized him brilliantly. The chance you’re giving him—to influence U.S. foreign policy—appeals to his deepest ambitions. For both Quaid and Moore, the motivation is the belief that they are serving their country.”

  “You underestimate the roles of these men. Senator Farmer can pick up the phone and call any corporate executive in this country, and before the smoke clears on the Rio Grande, he will have done just that. The president will be besieged with calls from leaders of the defense, energy, heavy equipment manufacturing, agribusiness, and too many other economic sectors for me to count, all with interest in a secure and peaceful southern neighbor, all imploring that he take decisive action. Gary Quaid’s contacts include the leaders of every federal law enforcement agency there is, and he has cultivated those relationships in preparation for whatever may be necessary. Many of these men have been working with their Mexican counterparts for years. The foundation for collaboration between our forces and theirs has been laid. And General Moore—you think this is just an ego thing with him? The men and women coming home from Iraq and Afghanistan are facing a battered U.S. economy that doesn’t have enough jobs to offer those already here, much less tens of thousands of returning warriors. He doesn’t want to see them go from the front line to the unemployment line. If this becomes the police action they envisage, these soldiers will have an opportunity to continue to serve. That’s why he’s in the game.”

  “Then there’s you,” Benetton said. “Tell me, Ray, what do you get? What has driven you to conceive, organize, finance, and conduct this fantastic scheme?”

  “My enemies,” Dumont said. “Every day I wake and thank God for my enemies.”

  “Well, sir, I will do everything possible to avoid ending up on your enemies list. Avenging your son’s murder will provoke an incident that will have international repercussions. It sounds inconceivable that the death of one man could lead to war until you recall the shot fired that afternoon in Sarajevo, 1914. The inconceivable is never the impossible.”

  “Now, you,” Dumont said. “What’s your motivation? You’ll make a fortune, but at what cost? When El Jimador is caught, your relationship will be exposed. No more cartel clients. You’ll be their target, not me.”

  “I don’t deny it; I’m in this for the money, and you’ve made it worth my while. I know how to disappear, and I will have the necessary resources. Thanks for your concern.”

  Their voices faded when the two men got up and walked from the study. Boucher closed his phone.

  • • •

  He drove home and tried to call Fitch, but his cell phone was turned off, which meant he was with Helen, which meant he didn’t want to be disturbed. Boucher called Malika. She was spending a quiet Sunday in her Manhattan apartment.

  “I’ve got The New York Times spread out all over the floor,” she said. “I just picked up some fresh bagels from the deli down the street. Wish you were here.”

  “I wish I were too.”

  “What’s wrong, Jock? There’s something in your voice.”

  “Really?” he squeaked, trying to change his somber tone.

  “Something’s bothering you.”

  “Maybe it’s that I’m missing you.”

  “You know what to do about that. Say the word and I’m on a plane. I could be there before these bagels are stale. Or you could come here. There’s a concert tonight in Central Park.”

  “I’ve got a meeting with the chief judge tomorrow morning,” he said.

  “I know what he’s going to ask you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He’s going to ask why you can’t just do your job.”

  “It’s not something I can talk about right now, that’s all. Judges can’t talk about their work. You know that.”

  “Do you think I’m going to taint the jury? Leak to the press? Jock, you’re on probation, and you’re being given busywork to ease the load of other judges. If you can’t even do that, and it seems you can’t, I think you should step down. I don’t think you’re doing anyone any good right now, least of all yourself, and that’s all I care about. You. Whatever you’re doing or not doing, it’s keeping us apart.”

  He ended the conversation on a weak note. The matter would be resolved soon. They’d be together. Soon. Malika had said little more, but he heard it in her voice. They might go their separate ways. Soon. He thought about the other men involved in the stratagem he was uncovering. Did they talk to their wives, their partners, about a scheme that might involve the occupation of a friendly nation and ally? He doubted it. He knew he lacked what men with such ambitions possessed. Sangfroid. He lacked the cold blood. It was his weakness. One of many.

  • • •

  “Come in and sit down, Judge Boucher. Thank you for being on time.”

  Boucher took the seat across from Chief Judge Wundt’s desk, as he’d done months before when he was placed on suspension. The senior jurist did not look good. He was even more overweight. His cheeks and nose were red from rosacea and there were new liver spots on his temples. It seemed the skin on his face was melting; the bags under his eyes were purple. Jowls hung from his chin, and when he coughed, he wiped his mouth after each wracking explosion. He did not warm up to his subject but jumped right in.

  “I’d find a way to get rid of you,” he said as if picking up the conversation from months earlier, “and every judge in this district would back me up except one. But you’ve got a friend up the ladder. I have no idea why the president thinks so highly of you, but he does.”

  “It’s not that. He appointed me. I’m an embarrassment to him that he’s trying to keep quiet until he can get one or two more judicial nominees confirmed. That’s all. If this is a dressing-down, you don’t need to waste your time. I’m—”

  “Shut up. I’m your senior, and you’re going to show me the respect I have earned and deserve. We do that for each other, we jurists.”

  “Judge, I’m sorry, but—”

  “Will you SHUT UP! I’m trying to, I’m trying—”

  Judge Wundt began coughing. Something viscous was lodged deep in his chest, but efforts to expel it went no deeper than his throat, and what he couldn’t bring up was choking him. He covered his mouth with his handkerchief and bent over his desk, his head bobbing with each cough. Then he raised his head and tried to draw a deep breath, difficult for him even when he wasn’t choking on phlegm. His face was turning purple. Boucher jumped from his chair and ran to the older man. Wundt was practically laying his chest on the desk, and Boucher slapped him on the back. His sternum hit the desktop and he coughed again into his handkerchief. Then he sat up and breathed deeply through his nostrils, the crisis past. He looked into his handkerchief and quickly folded it, crushing it in his hand. Boucher had gotten a quick glimpse of the blood and sputum.

  “Judge, let me call a doctor,” he said, but Wundt waved him away. He took another breath as Boucher poured him a glass of water from the pitcher on his credenza. He drank slowly, then spoke.

  “That’s another reason I can’t let you go,” he said. “I could be dead before the day is out. Christ, we had one judge die and another impeached, I’ve got one foot in the grave, and you have about as much judicial responsibility as an alley cat. Oh, and your ‘oversight’ of the administration of the oil-spill funds. How is that going?”

  “I have found some irregularities.”

  “That, when you point them out, will encourage more litigation.”

  Boucher said nothing. He did not want to be the cause of another fit.

  “Have you even spoken to the judge who’s been overwhelmed with oil-spill lawsuits?”

  “He has not contacted me.”

  “That’s foolish of him. If that’s the level of maturity I’m surrounded with, God help us.” Wundt sighed. “Go on, get
out. Try to remember what you’re here for. That’s what I called you in to say. We’re swamped, and the situation is critical. I have no choice but to restore you to full active status. You will begin receiving cases immediately.”

  “Your Honor, I—”

  “Please go before I start coughing again.”

  “You should see a doctor—”

  “And you should see a psychiatrist. Now go on, get out.”

  Boucher returned to his office.

  “Good morning, Judge Boucher,” Mildred said coolly.

  “Mildred, I’m sorry, but I was involved in something that I really can’t talk about, and it was necessary to—”

  “Your Honor, please excuse me for interrupting, but I work for you. You are a federal judge. You don’t have to explain anything to me.”

  As he entered his absurd little room with the walls lined in cardboard boxes, he heard her mumble something. “What did you say?” he demanded.

  She lifted her chin and looked straight into his eyes. “I said you’re acting like you need to explain something to somebody.”

  Yes, he needed to explain something to somebody, and that somebody probably was sitting at his or her own desk in the same building at that moment. Every government acronym imaginable was represented in this complex. There might be someone he could trust, but whom? Was there an agency that had not already been co-opted by Gary Quaid? That was the question, but he had no time to ponder it.

  “Oh, Mildred,” he said, almost as an afterthought, “I’ve been restored to duty and told to move back into my chambers. You feel up to a move?”

  “Oh, sir. Yes, sir.”

  Boucher’s focus and energies were demanded for the move. Between their cubicle and his chambers, they logged lots of elevator time. Several of his judicial brethren passed as he unpacked boxes, welcoming him back into the fold. One of them must have known that Mildred was on temporary assignment and offered to refer a more experienced office manager.

  “I wouldn’t give up my assistant for all the shrimp in the gulf,” Boucher said, loud enough for her to hear.

  With help from the maintenance staff, they finished the move that afternoon. Dark-stained wooden cabinets replaced cardboard boxes. A minimum of photographs and framed diplomas marked the territory as that of an occupant, not a transient. Boucher surprised Mildred with champagne, and they toasted their new quarters. “Here’s to your next twenty years.” Boucher raised a glass.

  “On the government payroll? I don’t think so,” Mildred said. “You’ve got me for a few more years, Judge. Then I’m retiring.”

  “What will you do? You’ll still be a young woman.”

  “You’re just being kind. I’ll get some traveling out of my system, then who knows? I might even go to law school.”

  “I would look forward to you trying a case in my court.”

  “Your Honor, I’d have to ask you to recuse yourself. What I know about you would embarrass both of us.”

  CHAPTER 28

  “YOU DID WHAT?” FITCH exploded.

  The two men sat in Boucher’s courtyard early that evening, having finished their day jobs.

  “I placed a voice-activated bug under Dumont’s desk the last time I was there. He obviously doesn’t use his study that much, because the first recording I got took place a couple of nights ago. That lawyer from Houston came to see him.”

  “Do you know how many laws you’ve broken?”

  “I’m not going to use it. Who could I tell? Nobody would believe me.”

  “Nobody would believe that Louisiana’s leading businessman and a group of national security experts are trying to incite a war with Mexico? I can’t imagine why you would have a problem selling that story!”

  “We don’t know the when and we don’t know the where,” Boucher said. “That’s why I can’t sell it.”

  “You forgot one—the why. Why would sane, responsible men try something so preposterous? You’re suggesting that the gunrunning wasn’t for the money?”

  “No, it wasn’t. That’s the key, and you described the players perfectly. Moore and Quaid are national security experts. They see the border with Mexico as one of our country’s greatest areas of vulnerability. Armed scouts and drug runners are in the Arizona desert by the hundreds, directing smuggling operations on American territory; American civilians are protesting the failure of our government to protect them. Look at history. The U.S. Mexican War in 1846, Pershing’s expedition in 1916, both preceded by Mexican incursions into the U.S. It’s going to be déjà vu all over again. Dumont and his cronies plan to provoke an incident. There will be a rush to judgment and a hue and cry for retaliation. We occupied Veracruz in 1914. Pershing was pulled back in 1917 without finding Pancho Villa, because World War I changed priorities and he was needed for the war in Europe. In 1919 three thousand U.S. troops went into Mexico and pushed Villa’s gangs into the desert. This time, if we go in, we may stay.”

  “We secure our borders. We get rid of the cartels. That would be a bad thing?”

  Boucher shook his head. “It’s not who we are,” he said.

  “You just told me it’s exactly who we are. It’s who we have been numerous times in our history. It’s a new century; maybe it’s time to repeat the dance. I for one am proud to live in a country that actively protects the interests of its citizens.”

  “But innocent people will be killed as a part of this plan.”

  “Yeah, there is that.”

  Boucher heard the front door ring and went into the house to receive a FedEx delivery. He called Fitch to come in from the courtyard. Together they reviewed the satellite photos. Boucher was pleased that he could tell Arcineaux their trip had been justified. Accurate identification of the two vessels engaged in the arms exchange at sea was impossible from the photos. Those he’d taken were the only proof. He could see the transfer of the weapons, then Dumont’s ship heading northeast, the chase, and the explosion. The third ship was tracked a short distance, then lost, but with the satellite’s orbital movement, its name did become visible on both bow and stern, Estrella Mar. Sea Star.

  “If Dumont was selling inferior weapons that blew up in their faces,” Fitch said, “he might not be all that bad.”

  “What are you saying? Dumont smuggled guns and ammo that were stolen by criminals who used them on our streets, remember? You called the bullets cop killers.”

  “There’s that too,” Fitch said. “So what are you going to do?”

  “I think my role in this little drama has played itself out. I’ve been told to go back to work. They’re going to start assigning me cases to adjudicate. I’m going to have a brief talk with a friend of mine at the FBI, then I’m going to walk away from this, take your advice, settle down, and do the job I’ve been given.”

  “So you’re going to exchange your Superman cape for a judicial robe and stop trying to save the world? Hope you can settle down to the nine-to-five.”

  “I have never known a judge who worked nine to five in my life,” Boucher said. “It’s more like seven to eleven.”

  “No wonder so many of them are such cranky bastards. Anyway, here’s to humdrum. You’ve earned it.”

  Fitch had plans with Helen and refused the offer of a drink. Boucher wasn’t hungry and realized he hadn’t done any exercise in a while. He enjoyed the gym he belonged to because that’s what it was, a gym—not a spa, not a wellness center. It had new equipment that made the place look like the set of a science fiction film, but it also had the two pieces Boucher used, which were getting harder to find—a heavy punching bag and a speed bag, essential tools of the boxer—though he still couldn’t use them with his bruised ribs. Another thing he loved about his gym was its location at the far end of an older strip mall. Parking was never a problem; he could usually park his pickup right outside the door. This convenience meant he could leave from his home in his workout clothes, return in the same, and use his own shower. He drove to the strip mall. He did a half-hour easy walk on t
he treadmill and was persuaded to sit in on a yoga class. Leaving the gym wearing only shorts and a T-shirt, he walked out to his truck. It was gone. There had been plenty of traffic into and out of the gym, to say nothing of shoppers. He cursed and turned to walk back inside. He hadn’t brought his cell phone and would have to use their line to report his vehicle stolen. But before he could enter, there was a flash of pain, searing light, then blackness. He was dragged a few feet and shoved into the backseat of a vehicle he would have recognized, had he been conscious. He was laid out on a floor not wide enough to accommodate his height, but his legs were folded in, and there was plenty of room. Many would have found traveling in such a fine vehicle tolerable even in this constrained posture, because most folks only dreamed of riding in a stretch limousine.

  Jock Boucher regained consciousness and raised his head. He stared into the barrel of a gun he recognized. He had already seen the distinctive piece pointed at him not once but twice. He looked above the barrel into the eyes of Ray Dumont, who in one hand held the gun and, in the other, a crystal fluted glass.

  “Champagne, Judge? It might help your headache.”

  “No, thanks. I had some earlier,” Boucher said.

  It was a rhetorical question. His hands were bound behind his back. He pulled in his knees and twisted so he could sit with his back against the jump seats across from Dumont.

  “What insolence,” Dumont said. “Bugging me, of all people. Did you really think I wouldn’t have my home swept? When I found the bug, I backtracked and came to you. The night before our poker party—you and me in the study.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Plenty of people have been in your house.”