Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller

by David Lyons

  “You back from the dead, you know that?” the voice said. “I’d be int’rested to know if you saw a white light or that tunnel leading to the beyond, ’cause you surely had crossed over.”

  Boucher stared at white eyes and teeth, the only features visible in a face as black as the swamp night. He was breathing now, short convulsive breaths. “Where am I?”

  “Oh, you ain’t too far from where you started out. You stepped on my line and disturbed the gator what had my hook in its gut. He was jest tryin’ to get away; you was caught in the loop. Gator dragged you down. I’d a never knowed, but he came up to the surface, and I had to dispatch him then and there. Normally, I’d a waited till mornin’ when I check my trap.”

  “Dispatched?” Boucher wheezed.

  “Yeah. That’s him next to you.”

  Boucher looked down at the nine-foot beast next to him. It had three eyes.

  “Weren’t no easy shot,” the hunter said.

  “It’s . . . not . . . season.”

  “Well, I was hopin’ I might count on your discretion on that point, seein’ as how I saved your life an’ all. I was also thinkin’ that with you runnin’ around these parts at this time of night in your skivvies, maybe you jest might appreciate a little discretion on my part as well.”

  Clouds cleared, and a ray of moonlight shone on a wizened black face framed by short white hair that almost glowed in the dark. There was enough light from the moon to recognize a smile.

  “Name’s Crabb. That’s with two B’s; not that I expect you gonna be writin’ it down.”

  A gnarled hand was offered. Boucher took it, feeling the poacher’s callused palm. “You saved my life,” he said.

  “Seems I did that,” Crabb said, “but I been sittin’ here askin’ myself—for how long? What kind of fix you get yourself in, son?”

  “I’m a federal district judge and—”

  “You a what?”

  “I’m U.S. District Judge Jock Boucher. I was assaulted and kidnapped earlier this evening . . .” He couldn’t finish the sentence. In the inky, desolate darkness of the bayou, the old poacher was laughing hysterically.

  “I caught me a judge!”

  “Quiet! They’ll hear you.”

  “Yes, sir. Your Honor, sir.”

  • • •

  Edgar Crabb was a smudge on the notable record of the Louisiana Department of Wildlife and Fisheries, its alligator conservation program a model for similar crocodilian-species management programs all over the world. Unregulated hunting since the 1800s had, by the early 1960s, threatened the species, which had thrived for over two hundred million years. After hunting was banned for a decade, in 1972 a sustained-use management program was introduced, which promoted survival of the species, economic benefits, and maintenance of the natural habitat. But Crabb was bayou-born and had hunted gators long before the respected program was implemented, and he was too ingrained with a manner of life handed down father-to-son for generations to care much about government regulations he couldn’t read anyway. He was as antediluvian in this respect as the reptile he hunted. “License?” If asked, he might have retorted by paraphrasing the banditos in the John Huston movie: “Ah don’t need no stinkin’ license.” Fortunately for the gators, he was among the last of a vanishing breed.

  “You can help me get this critter into my boat, then I guess you can go wherever you want,” Crabb said.

  “Where are you going?” Boucher asked.

  “Gotta get it back to my place and harvest it.” The use of the words dispatch and harvest were clues that he wasn’t entirely ignorant of the existence of the Department of Wildlife and Fisheries.

  Boucher grabbed the tail to help him move the dead creature. “You sell the hide?” he asked.

  “Mebbe. Mostly, I eat him. Gator makes a good gumbo. You ever eat gator meat?”

  “I grew up on it,” Boucher said, one bayou man to another. “It’s good for you. Less cholesterol than chicken.”

  Crabb chuckled. “Don’t tell the gators ’bout no cholesterol. I use chickens to catch ’em.”

  They loaded the gator into Crabb’s pirogue. He grabbed his pole and made ready to shove off, Boucher standing in knee-deep water.

  “Aw hell,” Crabb said, “get in. Guess I gotta feed you now that I saved you, right?”

  “I won’t get far tonight,” Boucher said.

  He got in the bow of the boat, straddling the deceased beast’s snout. Crabb poled the craft away from the shore. In the middle of the bayou, water came almost to the gunwales.

  “We be okay,” he said, “if you stay still. Otherwise we be some gator’s meal ’stead of t’other way round.”

  Silently, they slid along the smooth surface of tranquil waters, disturbing only the mirrored image of distant stars and a half-moon. Crabb bent over to avoid low-hanging mangrove branches as they approached land.

  “You can step out now. Water ain’t up to your knees. I don’t gotta warn you ’bout snakes ’n’ such, do I?”

  “I’m mindful of them,” Boucher said. He stepped out and onto the soft bottom, trusting timing, location, and prayer to keep the water moccasins and coral snakes from his path. Crabb got out, and they both grabbed the bow and pulled the boat onto the muddy bank.

  “Stay right here. I gotta get somethin’ wet to cover this gator with. I’ll do the harvestin’ in the morning.” He was gone under a minute, then came back with a long piece of cloth that he dampened in the water, then spread over the carcass. “Okay, now follow me. Stay close. Trail’s a bit tricky.”

  Boucher knew that a step off the beaten path might be an unpleasant one. Here in the bayou, man lived cheek by jowl with deadly predators, and any truce was temporary at best. He walked in lockstep, less than an arm’s length behind the old man, trying to place his feet in his footsteps as they walked under a canopy that blacked out the meager light from the sky. When Crabb stopped, Boucher froze.

  “This is ma’ place,” Crabb said. “Stay here. I’ll go on in an’ turn on the lamp.”

  He walked up three creaky stairs. A door squeaked open, then slammed shut. A flickering light from a match lit a lantern, and the flame was adjusted. Boucher could see Crabb’s outline through the screen door. He looked around. It could hardly be called a clearing; mangrove branches brushed the walls and ceiling and hung over the roof of the one-room hut. A front porch with a single-rail banister ran the entire width, which could not have been much over ten feet. Boucher walked up the steps. Crabb was lying on a sagging metal cot.

  “I’m gonna sleep now,” he said. “This evening’s activities done aged me somethin’ considerable. Make the best of whatever you find, then turn down the lamp. See you in . . . the . . . mornin’.”

  And with those words, he was out, sleeping like a baby.

  Boucher looked down on the old man, seeing him for the first time in the dim and flickering light. Crabb wore a tattered T-shirt and patched jeans that did not reach his ankles; his pink-soled black feet were bare. If there was a picture of serenity, this was it. In sleep, the wrinkled face smoothed out some, almost forming a smile. His breath was shallow but even. Though the eyelids twitched, it was obvious that his dreams were untroubled. Not just an observation, Boucher realized, this was recall. Before him lay his grandfather’s kindred spirit: a man of the bayou, disdainful of society and its interference with a lifestyle unchanged for centuries. Boucher foraged and found a couple blankets. One he spread on the floor, the other he bunched up as a pillow for his head. They smelled and were probably bug-ridden, but on this he did not dwell. He lowered the lamp, as instructed, reclined on the pallet on the floor, and was soon asleep.

  He woke to the sound of humming and splashing of water, got up, and walked to the porch. The sun had not yet risen, the sky a predawn gray. Crabb had a length of garden hose that descended from the roof, and with the water spurting from it, he was taking a shower. The naked brown body spraying water over itself looked like a leafless tree in a rainstorm.
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br />   “Got me a tub on the roof,” he said. “Collects rainwater for drinkin’ and washin’. I throw the ol’ hose in it, then suck the end, like siphonin’ from a gas tank. Come on, I’m done. Wash up, an’ I’ll throw some breakfast together.” He handed Boucher the hose.

  The shower was heaven. The soap was lye, something Boucher hadn’t used since he was a boy. He washed his gym outfit and set it on the banister to dry, wrapped a towel around him, and entered the shack. Crabb was heating water for coffee over an old can of Sterno. Breakfast was on the table: beans. A fork stuck out of each can. Crabb poured boiling water from a pot into two cups, then served teaspoons of instant coffee. Crabb sat down and started to eat without a word. Suddenly, there was a roar over their heads. The old shack shook and felt for an instant like it would cave in on itself.

  “Goddamn it!” Crabb grabbed the table to steady it. “Guv’ment comes after me ’cause I catch a gator to skin and eat it. Them bastards built ’em a runway right in the bayou, they killed more gators buildin’ the damn thing than I would in ten lifetimes, an’ they scare ’em away with those damn planes landin’ whenever they want. You’re a judge. Tell me, where’s justice in that!”

  “That was an airplane?”

  “Yeah. Big sucker too. They got ’em that landin’ strip, an’ they built ’em a road through the bayou to Houma. They the ones got no respect for wildlife, not me.”

  “Do you know whose plane it is?”

  “Ain’t for people, that’s all I know. Comes in right over my head, usually at night. Trucks be waitin’ to unload, then the plane takes off again. Curious, if you ask me, curious.”

  “Where is this landing strip?”

  “I can practically spit at it from here. That’s why the plane nearly takes my roof off every time it comes in for a landin’.”

  “I need to see it. Now.”

  “You sit there an’ finish breakfast first. Damn, yo’ mama raised herself a boy with no manners at all.”

  Boucher wolfed down his beans, gulped his coffee, then sat while the old man calmly finished his.

  “Man in too much of a hurry gonna get to the end of his life a lot quicker than a man who takes it slow,” Crabb said as he rose from the table. He went to a chest and opened a drawer. “You take these. You can’t be runnin’ around in what you wearin’. It’s unseemly for a man your age, especially bein’ a judge, if that’s what you really be.” He handed Boucher an old gray cotton work shirt and a pair of patched bib overalls. “They’ll fit you good enough to get you to a store. You can bring ’em back someday if you got the time.”

  “I . . . I don’t know what to say,” Boucher stammered.

  “If your folks taught you anything, they taught you to say thank you, right? That’s enough. Now come on. You’re the one who’s got the itch all over him.”

  They walked to the pirogue and unloaded the dead gator onto the bank. Boucher stared again at the creature that had almost taken his life in trying to save its own. It looked no less threatening in death. Anticipating another slog through the swamp, he was wearing his gym outfit in an effort to keep the clothes Crabb had given him clean and dry as long as possible. He got in the boat, and Crabb poled away from the bank. In minutes they had crossed open water and stopped a few yards from a man-made embankment.

  “Far as I can take you,” Crabb said. “Water’s too shallow to go closer. When you get to the bank, climb up. You’ll see the runway.”

  Boucher stepped out of the boat, then shook the old man’s hand. “Thank you. For everything.”

  “Good luck to you,” Crabb said. He shook his head. “Damnedest judge I ever heard of.” He pulled away, turned, and headed for his home.

  Boucher watched him go and promised himself that he’d see the colorful coot again. There was something of himself in that grizzled old man, something he’d lost long ago.

  CHAPTER 30

  BOUCHER BEGAN WADING, TRUDGING through sludge. The bottom had been churned up from the construction of the landing site, and his feet were sucked into the muck with every step. It was tough going. In seconds he was covered in mosquitoes, which began buzzing around his eyes and ears and feeding on his arms. He reached down to the bottom, brought up fists of mud, and plastered his skin from head to toe. When the exposed areas of his body were covered, the mosquitoes left him alone. Still, he wanted to scratch himself raw in about a thousand places. He reached the stone-covered embankment. The sun was rising, and visibility was clear, which meant he could also be seen. He climbed up the rock face. Finally out of the mud, Boucher slipped the denim overalls and shirt over his gym outfit.

  Lying on the extreme end of the runway, he could see the plane at the far end. It looked like a C-130. The rear hatch was down, forming a ramp, but nothing was being loaded on or off. He could not see anything inside the dark, gaping maw of the aircraft. A group of men sat at a small wooden table, employing the shade of a wing. Boucher couldn’t make out what they were saying and crawled closer till he could hear the voices. Dumont was there, of course, and he recognized Moore and Quaid. The lawyer from Houston was also in the group. Boucher inched forward.

  “Landing will be west of the Santa Ana National Wildlife Refuge,” Benetton said. “It’s two thousand acres of several different climate zones, a migratory location for a number of bird species, and home to the Texas ocelot and jaguar. The location is a few miles south of Alamo, Texas, right on the river. Just west of the wildlife preserve is an old cemetery that’s rarely used. We’ve cleared a temporary landing strip on the other side of the cemetery. The weapons will be placed in the graveyard for pickup; after unloading, the plane and crew will take off immediately.”

  “Alamo? Santa Ana?” Dumont chuckled. “Who is going to tell me history doesn’t repeat itself?”

  “Alamo is a small town in Hidalgo County, Texas,” the lawyer continued. “It was named for the Alamo Land and Sugar Company back in the twenties and has a population of around fifteen hundred. I have given coordinates to the cartel where they cross the Rio Grande into the park. They think the national park is perfect for the pickup. In fact, they’ve used it before. The drought has been very serious, and there are large irrigation diversions upriver that will be employed and will have temporarily reduced the flow in this area to a shallow depth. It’s only about fifty feet from bank to bank at the crossing point and the cartel has a new toy, one you should appreciate, General. They’ve built a pontoon bridge. I hope you’ve planned a proper reception.”

  “I have,” General Moore said. “The Texas National Guard will be waiting: citizen soldiers, one of our country’s proudest traditions.”

  “You know there are going to be casualties,” Benetton said.

  “Yes. That’s unfortunate, but if we want the response we are hoping for, there must be loss of American life. No one who wears a uniform is unaware of the risk taken every time they put that uniform on. Today they are soldiers. Tomorrow they might be the honored dead. But we are doing everything possible to minimize casualties. We are going to employ weapons of war that will strike terror into the hearts of these invaders. My fear is that they will turn tail and run as soon as they see them, before they fire a shot. We’ll be using robots.”

  “What?”

  “Remote-controlled robots. When aimed, they do not miss.”

  “That’s good,” Quaid quipped. “We don’t want stray shots hitting any of the CIA, DEA, or Special Ops forces probably already hiding in the bushes across the river.” This brought on a round of knowing laughter.

  Moore continued. “The controller observes from a position of safety and operates the portable control unit, which contains video screens and joysticks. These weapons will engage the terrorists. They can operate in up to six feet of water and will chase them back across the river. Gentlemen, if we do our jobs in Washington, after the National Guard, the next wave will be the U.S. Army. But initially, the robots will ensure that our casualties are minimal.”

  “What documentation doe
s this plane have to fly to Texas?” Dumont asked. “I only had clearance to get it here.”

  “She’s getting a paint job,” Quaid said. “New call letters, new air operation certificate, and new crew. Tell those guys in the cockpit their job is done. Pay them and get them out of here. I don’t want them to see us painting the bird. They know too much already.”

  Boucher watched as the arrival flight crew was released. The paint crew arrived. Four men were engaged in painting the phony call numbers, two of them on the fuselage, two on the tail. One of each team held a stencil, the other a can of spray paint. This took under an hour. The paint was still wet when an SUV pulled up and parked next to the open ramp. The new crew got out and climbed up. Seconds later, Boucher observed them enter the cockpit.

  Dumont spoke. “General, how will you confirm when the terrorists are on U.S. soil?”

  “We will have satellite pictures,” the general said, then laughed. “You’re a history buff, Dumont. You remember what William Randolph Hearst said to his reporter before we went into Cuba? ‘You provide the pictures. I’ll provide the war.’ I’m going to provide the pictures and the war. Once again, history repeats itself.”

  CHAPTER 31

  BOUCHER CRAWLED TOWARD THE plane till he was parallel with it. Dumont and the others had walked back and were inside a shed near the beginning of the runway. This was his chance. He crawled over the tarmac, under the wing, then under the fuselage until he was at the ramp and open rear bay of the aircraft. Then he just stood up and walked into the plane. He climbed over cartons and crates as far into the interior of the aircraft as he could go, then nestled between boxes, pulling one over him. It took no effort. It was empty. He pushed at other crates. They too were light. They too were empty. The shipment was a ruse. Hidden among the fake cargo, he had nothing to do but wait. And pray.