by David Lyons
“We have no authority to cross into Mexico,” the officer said.
Boucher hesitated for just a second as he looked toward the river, then ran. He ran without forethought. He ran out of compulsion, not understanding why. The water was deeper than it had been earlier. He was up to his waist upon reaching midriver. The irrigation diversions upstream must have been reopened, allowing normal flow. Still, the Rio Grande was not more than chest-high at its deepest. He reached the far bank quickly, rinsing the dried, caked mud off his body as he crossed. He had kept his eye on where the narco holding Dumont had disappeared into the brush, and he headed for that spot. He followed the tracks into chest-high reeds, turned back, and took a final look. Law enforcement teams had arrived, and the prisoners were being led away. Only the National Guard officer looked his way, shaking his head in disbelief.
Jock Boucher had invaded Mexico.
CHAPTER 32
MADNESS WAS UPON HIM, he was sure. Of all the reckless, compulsive acts ever undertaken by Jock Boucher, this outranked them all. Alone, unarmed, knowing hardly a word of the language, he had done the most absurdly futile thing ever. Certain in his own mind that he was crazy, he began talking to himself. Sitting on the bank of the Rio Bravo—the name those on this side gave to the riparian frontier that divided their nations—he attempted to rationalize the insane action he’d just undertaken.
“He’s not going to kill Dumont,” Boucher convinced himself. “He’s a kidnapper too, and Dumont offered a million-dollar reward, so he knows he’s got money. He’s going to hold him for ransom, maybe start sending over body parts as proof that he’s alive. If he finds out Dumont’s identity, the ransom will be astronomical.”
“Okay, smart guy,” his alter ego said, “so he’s got Dumont hostage. What are you going to do? You’re in his country—enemy territory. You don’t even have a gun. You’re a fool. A damned fool.”
Boucher walked from the reeds, rushes, and small trees on the riverbank. The growth was dense only near the river. Less than twenty yards from the water, the topography changed to flat, dry farmland. As the sun slipped below the horizon, he could see several structures: barns, storage sheds, and small houses. He stepped back into the brush, sat down, and continued his conversation with himself.
“The night is my ally,” he said. “And I will find others. I’m not in enemy territory. Those farmers whose land and homes I just saw, are they my enemies? Am I a threat to their families? Or is it the monster I’m chasing, a beast who would decapitate a young man just to terrify those same farmers’ wives and children?”
His alter ego answered. “Stop talking to yourself.”
• • •
Boucher waited only till it was dark enough to walk the open fields without being seen. Though he did not want the trail to grow cold, neither did he want to get shot in plain sight. He headed toward the lights of what he guessed was a home; he could see a family seated at dinner. Now it would get dicey. He had no strategy but the truth. He walked to the small wooden structure and knocked on the front door. A woman came, took one look at him, and called her husband. A man walked into the room and stood beside her.
“¿Qué es lo que quieres?” the man asked, his voice gruff but not entirely masking a fear of strangers in the night.
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Spanish.”
“Carlos,” he yelled, “ven acá.”
A boy of about fifteen joined the couple. “What do you want?” he asked in English.
“I am looking for a man called El Jimador,” Boucher said.
Either the door would be slammed in his face, or he would receive heaven-sent confirmation that he was doing the right thing. The boy muttered to his father. The mother gasped and took a step back. The father spoke, and his son translated. “What do you want with him?”
“I am an American judge. I want to see him brought to justice. He is a bad man.”
This was translated. Words flew among the man, his wife, and son, no translation necessary. They were arguing the age-old question of one’s duty in the face of evil. Perhaps, Boucher mused, with all the violence rampaging around them, not for the first time.
“I saw him earlier,” the boy said. “I know where he went. I can take you there.”
“No. I don’t want to put you in any danger.”
“I will only show you where he is. Then I will run. I will hide. These things I do well—and often.” There was another flurry of Spanish. “My father asks if you need a gun,” the boy said. “My mother asks if you are hungry.”
“If your mother could make me a sandwich, I would be grateful.”
“Torta. The word for ‘sandwich’ is torta.”
“Torta,” Boucher addressed the mother, “por favor.”
• • •
The gun, well, that was something he did not expect. The simple farmer brought him an AK-47, the most popular weapon among Mexico’s criminal insurgents, called almost lovingly cuerno de chivas, or goat’s horn, for the curvature of its magazine. Had this man of the soil retired from a more violent trade?
“This gun belonged to my older brother,” the boy said. “He is dead.” The three words spoke volumes. “There are no more bullets; only those in there.” He pointed to the magazine.
His sandwich ready, Boucher and the boy left the house.
“How far is it?” Boucher asked.
“Not far,” the boy answered.
“I doubt he’ll still be there.”
“He will be there. Where would he go?”
“This is a big country.”
“But it is not his. He is jefe only in a small area. He leaves it, he is dead.”
“Jefe?”
“It means ‘boss,’ ” the boy said. “You should learn Spanish.”
It wasn’t far. They had walked under half an hour, crossing farmland and desert; it was difficult to tell one from the other, particularly at night.
“That is his house,” the boy whispered. “See? He is there. The lights are on. He usually has many guards, but you are lucky. His men went with him this afternoon, and none of them came back. I wish I could go with you. Tonight would be a good night to kill him. I will see if there is a guard.”
“No. I don’t want you in danger.”
“This man killed my brother. I must help you kill him. It is my duty to my family. If there is a guard, he will talk to me; I am just a farmer’s son. Come, we go.”
“No,” Boucher whispered harshly. “You are right. Your duty is to your family. You have already helped me enough. Now go.”
Reluctantly, the boy slid into the darkness. Boucher crept toward the house. Luck. He had it. The boy was right. The assassin had taken his men with him earlier, and now they were sitting in a jail in Texas. This was the opportunity of a lifetime—the opportunity to end a lifetime. The house was far bigger than he’d expected. When the moon came from behind a cloud, he could see it was a cross between the Taj Mahal and the Alhambra. All that drug money had to be spent on something. Would there be entrances on the sides as well? Perhaps guest suites with patios and sliding glass doors at ground level? No. He got close enough to see barred windows throughout the house; no side entrances, just front and back. Though large, the home was one level, not counting the domed cupolas and minaret towers, the architect going for a Granada theme. Boucher inched closer. What he feared most was a dog, but there was no barking. Again, the jefe used men as dogs, so why bother with the care of a four-legged beast? Tonight he had neither. He crawled around the entire perimeter: no guard. Maybe the last of his men had heard of the debacle at the river and seen an opportunity to run, to leave their master and this road leading only to death.
Boucher stopped, twenty feet from the side of the house. Lights were on throughout, but there was no sound of any kind. He had two choices: front door or back. He studied the windows. One-story living, lots of rooms. The front entrance would lead into a salon and maybe a dining area. El Jimador would not be in the living room right now,
Boucher knew, because he would be trying to extract from Dumont his identity, and if he had learned it by now, he was likely causing the American enough pain to wish he were dead, a wish the jefe would grant soon. So, Boucher concluded, he is not in the front of the house. That is where his best furniture is—probably matching sofas and chairs in white calf’s leather; he wouldn’t want blood all over them. There is no basement, so he has Dumont trussed up in a room at the back.
Boucher crept around to the front of the house, his automatic rifle pointed. He walked up marble stairs onto a marble porch between marble columns and opened a double door ten feet tall, made of an exotic heavy wood he did not recognize. The huge room was empty, at least of anything human. He’d guessed right about the furniture; everything in the room was white. Dark souls prefer light decor. He’d guessed right about something else—at that moment he heard Dumont scream.
Most men do not scream well. There’s something about the larynx, the vocal cords, the physiology of the male voice box that makes nearly impossible a masculine-sounding emission forced out under extreme pain. What comes out is more like a shriek or even a squeak, hitting a high pitch unattainable under normal circumstances. For some reason, most men don’t holler when pressed to the limits of their tolerance. So it was a horrible, ear-splitting screech that caused Boucher to run to the rear of the house and fling open the closed door.
Dumont was tied to a wooden chair. It had no armrests; his wrists were secured to the legs just below the seat. Blood dripped down the legs of the chair and puddled on the floor. Several fingers on both hands had been severed, the digits neatly placed in a small ice-filled Igloo cooler, probably to accompany ransom demands long after death. But those wounds had been inflicted earlier. The current source of the man’s agony could be seen from the blood gushing down his neck and chest. The sadist had been busy hacking off Dumont’s right ear. Nearly severed, the cartilage hung loose and vibrated like a tuning fork.
And yet he was conscious. The recognition of Boucher, the realization of what he was doing, registered in Dumont’s eyes. There was a message in those eyes: He’s behind the door. Boucher turned and emptied the AK-47’s magazine into the door. There was a clang of metal as the machete was dropped, then the body of El Jimador fell forward. It was impossible to know how many bullets had penetrated his body. He lay there twitching, still alive. A raspy, breathy sound was emitted, but not from the monster on the floor.
“Please,” Dumont rasped. He drew a deep hoarse breath. “Please let me.”
“Let you what, Ray?”
Dumont nodded toward a table. On the table was a pistol. His pistol. His head practically lay on his shoulder, his neck muscles barely able to support it. His eyes implored. Boucher realized what he was asking and ripped the rope from his wrists, picked up the gun from the table, and put it in Dumont’s mangled, bloody hand, steadying it to compensate for the lack of digits, helping him place a remaining finger on the trigger. He helped Dumont aim at the body quivering on the floor. The gun fired a rifle caliber adapted to a pistol. The cop-killer bullet blew the narco-terrorist’s head off.
At this death, Boucher felt no remorse.
From the next room, he grabbed a sheet from the bed and wrapped it around Dumont. From the adjoining bathroom, he wet and then wrapped facecloths and towels around his mutilated hands and head. With a hand towel, he carefully picked up the severed fingers from the cooler and put them in his pocket, though the ice had probably destroyed too many cells for reattachment to be possible. He gently lifted Dumont, whose shirt had large bloodstains at the waist and several more seeping through from the rib cage.
“How bad are you hurt?”
“Bastard kicked the shit out of me. Look at his boots.”
The toes of the dead drug lord’s cowboy boots were gold-tipped, the jeweler’s ornate design accented in dried blood. Dumont’s blood. Internal bleeding was a certainty. Boucher carried him from the room toward the front of the house.
“Wait,” Dumont gasped, gesturing behind them. “Down the hall.” With a feeble head movement, he indicated the door to a closed room. Boucher carried him there, set him down against the wall, and opened the door. The room might have been built to serve any number of purposes. Though it was devoid of furniture, it was not empty. It was full of stacks upon stacks of hundred-dollar bills, piled from the floor to shoulder height.
Dumont whispered, “That might be five hundred million dollars.”
“We’re not taking the money.”
Dumont shook his head. “Don’t take it. Burn it! ”
Boucher stared at the paper fortune; cellulose pulp, created from wood, rags, and certain grasses with an ignition point of 451 degrees Fahrenheit. The stuff of dreams, the root of evil; it was easy to torch.
“Do you have a match?”
“Look in the kitchen.”
Boucher ran to the kitchen and quickly returned. He struck a match and threw it on the pile. It caught; the flame burned slowly for an instant, then burst like spontaneous combustion. He backed into the hall, bent over, and picked up Dumont. They stared for a moment longer, then Boucher raced to the front porch and out to the garage. It was almost as big as the house and filled with exotic automobiles: Ferraris, Lamborghinis, all with keys in the ignitions. When you’re the top dog and surround yourself with pit bulls, no one is going to fuck with your toys. But the top dog was dead. The pit bulls were caged. And all these luxury cars would soon be engulfed in the flames destroying the house. Boucher carefully lifted Dumont and placed him in the front seat of a jet-black Hummer.
“I’m going to get you home, Ray,” he said, “but you’re going to have to hang on.”
“Take me home, Jock. Take me home.”
Minutes later, as Boucher crossed over the Rio Grande into the United States, the flames could be seen and explosions heard in the distance: the devil’s domain destroyed.
CHAPTER 33
TWO WEEKS LATER, FITCH and Boucher strolled through Jackson Square. “We sure pegged Dumont wrong,” Fitch said.
“What do you mean?”
“I spoke with the medical examiner about that body we found in the gulf. He said he gave his honest opinion, and I believe him. The death of the ship’s cook was an accident. The guy just fell overboard and hit his head on the way down. Then Trooper Freeman got suspicious after questioning a single crew member and jumped to conclusions. The guy was coming from the dispensary after getting a prescription filled and ran into a state trooper. I think his nervousness had more to do with the nature of his prescription than the death of a fellow shipmate. Freeman was going to tie up the ship. I think they were going to kidnap him to keep him from interfering with Dumont’s plan. I don’t believe they meant to kill him.”
“That’s what Dumont said to me before he died,” Boucher said. “He confessed that the whole thing was to avenge his son. It was a calculated ruse to get the murderer onto U.S. soil. When Moore told him that innocent Americans would be killed, he blew the whistle on himself and his team. I had thought it was strange that when I called the president, he already had a satellite on me. The drone was in position, and the Texas National Guard was in place with orders from their commander in chief, not some renegade retired general.”
“Another thing,” Fitch said. “We ran a check on the third ship that showed up on the satellite, the one that got away. It flies a Panamanian flag and is owned by a company in Malta whose registered owner is a lawyer who handles the international affairs of Dumont Industries. So I’m wondering, with all that we’re finding out about Dumont’s motives, whether he had that shipment of weapons blown out of the water.”
“Maybe. It was the loss of that shipment that he used to get his son’s killer to cross the river,” Boucher said. “That money the cartel paid Dumont for the shipment that sank, he told me he had it dumped into the sea. I believe him. We burned up half a billion dollars of narco cash ourselves.”
“To avenge his son, he was going to start a war
with Mexico. How did he ever come up with such a crazy idea?”
“He believed that history would repeat itself, if he gave it a little push.”
“So we’ve got a happy ending?” Fitch said.
“I don’t know. I really don’t see that the exercise, with all its grand intentions, accomplished much of anything. It was all a game. A blood game.”
• • •
Walking home from the meeting with Fitch, Boucher got a call on his cell from a man saying he represented Ray Dumont. It was an unexpected request but one the judge could not refuse. He was asked to meet with Mrs. Dumont. He drove to the mansion on Saint Charles Avenue. Black crepe was draped over the entrance to the house. He rang the bell and was admitted by the same butler, who once again showed him to Dumont’s study. Elise was on the settee, elegantly dressed in black. A gentleman whom he had not met was seated at a chair in front of the desk. Familiar with the breed, Boucher didn’t need to be told he was meeting the family’s lawyer. Jock paid his respects to the widow. “I am so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Dumont.”
She nodded in silence, leaving her lawyer to do the talking. Just as reticent, he handed Boucher a letter. It was from Ray Dumont. It read:
Jock,
If you’re reading this, then I have avenged my son, our little campaign is finished, and history will judge us to have been heroes or fools. Whatever the verdict, I can say we meant well. I did what I had to do.
The man giving you this letter is the executor of my estate and he will have carried out my instructions prior to contacting you. Certain assets have been disposed of in order to care for my wife in comfort and luxury to the end of her days. She and I discussed this and she does not wish to remain in New Orleans without me. I expect that New York, London, or Paris will be her choice of retirement residence, maybe all three. We have not sold the house. I know you love the Quarter but I hope you will give the Garden District a chance. Its charm is unique and a grand part of the city you and I cherish. Our house is yours. If I may say so, it is more secure than your own. You need to think of such things.
