Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller (25 page)

All this in one breath. Fitch inhaled deeply. “Hope this doesn’t end our friendship, but it had to be said.”

There was silence. A minute is a long time in total silence. Boucher finally spoke. “You’ve given me something to think about. No, it doesn’t end our friendship; quite the contrary. I’d kiss you, Fitch . . . but this is Louisiana.”

“You’re still gonna chase the boat?”

“I’m still going to chase the boat.”

They arrived at Dulac. Arcineaux was waiting for them at a gas station.

“I’m glad to see you guys. I thought this place was open all night, but they closed a half hour ago. People here don’t like strangers standing around in the dark. The ship loaded?”

“Yes,” Boucher said. “It got under way about fifteen minutes ago.”

“Should be passing any minute, then. Let’s get to my boat; it’s just a short walk from here to the dock. Sure you don’t want to come along for the ride, Detective?”

“Funny thing about working for the New Orleans Police Department,” Fitch said, “they expect you to show up every now and then. I wouldn’t mind an ocean voyage, but
my boss is a real old-fashioned kind of cop. He gets upset when I work out of my district, much less the state, much less the whole fucking territorial waters of the United States of America.”

“You’re gonna miss the fun.”

“Yeah. Stay in touch. I mean it. You maintain communications. I need to know where you are at all times.”

“Don’t worry, we will.”

“Then good luck and . . . God bless.” Fitch got in the clunker and drove away.

“I didn’t know the police department was doing that bad,” Arcineaux said. “That car’s a piece of crap.”

They walked to the cruiser. It was docked in a small marina just off the large canal leading to the gulf. There were a couple of trawlers moored at the same dock, their bows facing outward, Arcineaux’s craft sandwiched between them, using the working boats as camouflage. Approaching the stern, Boucher noticed the vessel’s name,
Daddy’s Little Girl.
He remembered the song. The Mills Brothers had been one of his father’s favorite vocal groups.

“I ain’t changed it,” Arcineaux said. “This boat meant a lot to the previous owner, and he spent a lot of time on it with his family. I think I’ll keep the name out of respect.”

“Fine idea,” Boucher said.

T
HE
GULF PRIDE
PASSED
fifty feet from them, visible by its running lights and illumination from the bridge. The captain of the vessel could be seen at his station, hands behind his back, chin raised, jaw jutting forward, his face in a tight frown.

“He looks angry,” Boucher whispered.

“It’s defiance. Doesn’t matter if it’s the first time or he’s done it for thirty years; when a captain of a ship goes to sea, he’s sayin’, ‘Bring it on; take your best shot.’ Ocean can be a monster. There’s a little bit of fear in a seaman every time he leaves the port. You don’t want to see it in your captain.”

They gave the ship a half-hour running start and then pulled away from the slip. Boucher was afraid they’d lose her.

“I got her on radar,” Arcineaux said. “We’re going to stay
out of her sight. I’ll also be doing a little evasion. Remember, we’re a deep-sea charter fishing vessel, a sports cruiser. We have to appear like we’re looking for fish. They’ll have us on their radar too. Don’t worry. I know their speed and have an idea of their direction. I don’t plan on getting close enough to make them wonder who we are. Another thing—we’ll both be crisscrossing some of the busiest maritime routes in the world. They’re going to see a lot of traffic on their screen. They won’t even notice us.”

“Plenty of gas?”

“Full tanks,” the skipper said. “Like I told you before, I could drive this baby to Cancún.”

“I hope it won’t be that far.”

They motored at the lowest possible speed through the canal. Boucher smelled oil and gasoline on the still night air, and their own lights reflected the sheen of muck clinging to the sides of the watery trench carved through the bayous. How much longer would this forgiving land tolerate man’s abuse? he asked himself.

Arcineaux must have read his mind. “You got any kids, Judge?”

“My wife died of breast cancer. We were planning a family.”

“Sorry to hear that. Dora and I thought about having kids too, then decided against it. Weren’t sure what kind of a world we’d be able to leave them. Know what I mean?”

“You think we’re destroying the planet.”

“Evidence is there. You’re gonna see some more of it on this trip. There’s a dead zone out there that no fish can live in. Size of Delaware and getting bigger. Damned shame.”

Boucher looked out over the side. “When we’re gone,” he said, “all traces that we were ever here will disappear in the blink of an eye.”

“Hey, enough of this. We’re two guys on a fishing trip. We got a good boat under us, and the weather looks clear for the next couple of days. Let’s enjoy it.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Anyway, smell that? That’s Sweetwater Pond. Then Terrebonne Bay, the Barrier Islands, and we’ll be in open water. A sunrise on the gulf makes a man glad to be alive. When that sun comes up, I want to hear you say it: it’s good to be alive.”

Boucher smiled, recalling the downcast, downhearted drunk he’d first met, compared to the man now preaching faith to him.

Arcineaux’s timing was perfect. They were passing the Barrier Islands when the sun came up. Pelicans and great white egrets mingled on the shore, the first of them shaking off their lethargy and taking flight. The egrets were as beautiful on land as in the air. Not so the pelicans. Onshore, the few moving waddled awkwardly, comically. Most still slept, their beaks cocooned in wings like a babe in swaddling. Two stretched and yawned, then attempted a takeoff from a running start. There was metamorphosis. In the air
the bird was graceful, its lines sleek, aerodynamic. As two took to the sky, others shook themselves awake and joined them. Soon there was a V in the sky; a squadron of brown pelicans. Boucher counted an even dozen.

“They mate for life,” Arcineaux said. “Only time you see one alone, it’s lost its partner. I remember a pelican’s body washed ashore during the oil spill. Its mate stood next to it, mourning, for three days.” He did not look at Boucher; his eyes were on the horizon, glistening perhaps from the glare of the rising sun.

“You still have them on radar?” Boucher asked.

“Yep. Their speed’s fifteen knots. ’Fraid you won’t be able to do any fishing on the outward journey. Maybe on the way back. With just the two of us, this is going to be a demanding voyage. Even with autopilot and all the gear we got, we need eyes on the water at all times. You okay with that?”

“I’m good.”

The morning chill was soon burned away by a blinding sun in a clear blue sky. They were out of sight of land but not far from human activity. They passed container ships, flat floating fields of steel piled several stories high with multicolored boxes that looked like a child’s building blocks. The ships were as long as several city blocks and as high as midrise towers. There were fishing boats, oyster luggers, and shrimp trawlers, and there were a few sports fishermen in smaller craft.

“Told ya we’d have lots of company,” Arcineaux said. “ ’Course, we’re not that far from land. I’ll head out to deep water this evening. Get us a little elbow room. And before you ask again, yes, I still got ’em on my screen.”

Boucher looked at his watch. “Can I make a phone call? I’ve got to call my assistant. I am not looking forward to this.”

Arcineaux handed him a phone. “It’s an Iridium satellite phone for ship-to-shore.”

Boucher called his office. “Good morning, Mildred. How are you?”

“Where are you, Judge Boucher? What’s that noise in the background?”

“Mildred, there’s been a personal emergency, and I won’t be back in the office until . . .”

“That’s too bad,” she said. “Judge Giordano just called. She asked if you could hear some motion hearings she has scheduled. She wanted you to take the bench in her place. I thought it was a good sign. I guess I’ll have to call her and tell her you have a personal emergency.”

“Thank you, Mildred. Will you be able to—”

“I will do everything I can. There will be documents for your signature when you return. You will have a lot of work waiting for you, Judge Boucher.”

She believed none of it—not a word—and told him so with her withering tone of voice.

Boucher sighed. He paced the bridge. “Can I do anything?”

“You can do pretty much what you want to. There’s a TV below with a DVD player. Got some books—”

“I mean can I do anything to help?”

“Can you cook?”

“I can. I’m a pretty good cook.”

“Why don’t you look over the galley? I think you’ll find most of what you need to throw something together. If we’re still followin’ them when evenin’ comes, you can fix us a nice dinner instead of warmed-up beans and franks.”

“Got any fresh shrimp?”

Arcineaux smiled. What a question.

•  •  •

That evening they enjoyed one of the best étouffées either of them had ever tasted. Boucher had set up a small table on the flybridge and timed the meal to coincide with the sunset. They were far from land, feeling alone in the world, when a fire came into view. A fire on the open sea.

“Offshore rig,” Arcineaux said.

“Think they’re in trouble?”

“I would have heard something on the emergency frequency. They’re probably just flaring some associated gas or something like that. It should stop soon.” He was right. A minute later and there was nothing to compete with the view of the sun sinking into the sea.

Unlike summer, when the sun’s light seems to linger after it sets below the horizon, on this spring evening
darkness came quickly. A hurricane lamp was a functional centerpiece, and they finished their meal by its light. The ship was on autopilot and the water calm. Arcineaux was relaxed, though always with an eye on the horizon.

“Damn, that was a good meal,” he said. “Best New Orleans chef couldn’t have done better.”

“If you were to choose the best New Orleans chef . . .” Boucher said.

“I gotta say Paul Prudhomme. Man’s done more for Louisiana cookin’ than any man alive. More’n that, he’s trained great chefs too—several named among the best in the whole U.S.”

Conversation continued as the ship motored into deeper, darker waters. Donning sweaters and jackets, they remained in the open air till the brisk sea breeze drove them below.

“You get some sleep,” Arcineaux said. “I’ll wake you when it’s time to spell me. You won’t have to drive; ship’s on auto. But we need eyes. You understand?”

“Of course.”

Boucher slept in his clothes on top of the bedcovers and dozed soundly for several hours. The light switched on in the salon woke him.

“I’m awake,” he said.

“Okay, you take her for a while. Water’s calm. Just keep your eyes open. You can still see the
Gulf Pride
on radar. Wake me if she starts movin’ off the screen.”

“I don’t know what I was expecting,” Boucher said as he headed toward the bridge, “but I didn’t think it would be this uneventful.”

Arcineaux yawned. “Save that for when the trip’s over. You know what they say—don’t count your money when you’re sittin’ at the table.”

“Right. Sleep well.”

“I generally do when I’m at sea.”

It was a gently rolling ocean, and
Daddy’s Little Girl
was making good speed. It was a stable craft and rode well in the water. Boucher stood with his hands on the wheel even though gyros and magnets, springs, pinwheels, flywheels, propellers, and satellite-connected computers actually controlled the vessel. He looked at the radar screen but could make out nothing. Radio frequencies were silent. He had only one function, to keep his eyes on the horizon—which he couldn’t even see in the total darkness. At least the black void meant they were not on a collision course with another traveler in the night.

WHUMP!

The ship struck something with such force that Boucher’s hands were shaken from the wheel and he almost lost his footing. His first thought was that they had run aground; impossible, at this distance out to sea. He’d kept a lookout and seen nothing. He ran to starboard and port and looked over the sides. Arcineaux rushed up, rousted from his sleep. He dashed to a storage shelf next
to the wheel and pulled out a flashlight. He ran to the stern and scanned the beam over the water’s surface.

“I thought so,” he yelled up to Boucher. “One of those damn containers got loose. It’s out there afloat. I gotta check for damage to the hull.” He went below, then came back up minutes later and joined Boucher on the bridge. “Everything seems okay,” he said.

“I’m sorry, I was watching. I just didn’t see it.”

“No way you could’ve seen it. It’s pitch black out there. Rolling sea and just the top corner of the damned thing is above water. Loose containers are one of the greatest dangers on the ocean. They are designed to sink when they fall overboard, but sometimes they can stay afloat a pretty long time. Anyway, I didn’t notice any damage. Why don’t you make some coffee?”

Boucher brewed a pot and came back up to the bridge with two cups.

“I see them,” Arcineaux said, taking the cup and pointing to the radar screen. “They’re not slowing down. I got a feelin’ this might be a long journey. End of this day, if you still say this trip is uneventful, I’ll be a happy camper.”

T
HEY CRUISED AT TOP
speed for almost six hours. All that time they saw no other vessel on the water. Finally, Arcineaux pulled back on the throttle. It was midafternoon, the sea calm, the sky a hazy blue-gray. Arcineaux had the
Gulf Pride
on the radar as well as another blip they assumed was the second ship. Theirs was the third point of the triangle. There was not another ship in the ten-mile radius but several just outside the perimeter, their speed and direction indicating that they were going about their business. “Where are we?” Boucher asked.

“About fifty miles due east of Matamoros, Mexico.”