Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller (6 page)

“I can’t believe you’re the first geologist to discover that the formation goes beyond our border.”

“That’s not my important discovery. Dad, I found the sweet spot. Sweet spots are the biggest secrets in shale oil and gas production. You know what they are.”

“Optimum location for drilling. You found one?”

“I found several.”

“That’s great for oil, but there’s a glut of natural gas on the market right now.”

Charles sat up. “That’s normal after a huge discovery. The price is fluctuating. Right now it’s seventy percent up from its market low and continuing to rise. In the past, most natural gas went to fuel electric plants. Now that we have a secure supply, we’re beginning to create the infrastructure
that will ensure demand. We’re finally beginning to use natural gas in transportation. It’s cheaper, cleaner, than oil. The glut on the market you mention is temporary. It will evaporate in no time, and we’ll be scrambling to firm up long-term supplies. Right now city buses are converting from gasoline to natural gas. DHL has converted its truck fleet to natural gas. Shell produced more natural gas than oil last year, and they are installing liquefied natural gas pumps in truck stops across the entire country for long-distance heavy-duty eighteen-wheelers. Detroit has already designed cars that can run on natural gas. In some countries it’s the exclusive fuel for all cars. It will displace oil. You know it, and I know it. It’s a question of time, and those who get in now will be the next Rockefellers.”

“I’m glad you’re keeping yourself informed on developments in the industry while you’re away.”

“We have satellite TV down there, Dad. I watch Jim Cramer’s
Mad Money,
just like you. He’s been bullish on natural gas for years.”

“If this play is so big, why isn’t everybody running down to Mexico like they did to Texas?”

“The first reason is that I haven’t turned in my findings yet. The second is because at the moment it’s dangerous as hell down there. Cartel violence has practically shut down much of the production in that part of the country and scared off further investment and development.”

“The drug cartels?”

“It isn’t just about drugs anymore. It isn’t even just about Mexico. There’s a criminal insurgency along the northern tier of the country, but they operate up here too, I guarantee you. They kill their rivals, they kill law enforcement, and they kill elected public officials. They’ve become transnational criminal organizations and are also active in Central America, Europe, and Africa. They’ve diversified into almost every criminal endeavor you can think of. They’re killing machines.”

“What you have down there is gang violence, pure and simple.”

“The criminal insurgents are organized armed forces fighting against the state for control of specific regions. They have their own secure mobile phone networks. They’ve built antennas in every state in the country for their own encrypted radio communications. They’ve forced the government to resort to the use of federal troops to combat them. They coerce civil authority to bend to their will, or they kill them.”

“Are you suggesting we intercede in another country’s gang wars? Hell, we’ve got our own.”

“You’re damned right I’m suggesting we intercede if necessary. How long do you think it’s going to be before terrorist suicide bombers cross that dried-up old creek we call the Rio Grande? It sickens me to see the criminal element perverting that society. Mexicans are the friendliest
people I’ve ever met. They are hard workers, passionate about their country and its customs, faith-based, and intensely focused on family.”

Dumont chuckled. “You just described a typical Republican. Anyway, it sounds too dangerous. I don’t think I want you going back there.”

“I’m only a geologist, and I don’t take chances. I’ll finish my report next week, and then I’m done. Dad, with your contacts, I know we can dial ourselves into that play when the time is right, and that time will come. We have the technology to develop shale oil and gas deposits. Mexico is sitting on some of the most massive resources in the world, and they’ve got an energy shortage. Because of bad planning—and, of course, the violence—they can’t supply their own domestic market. We can help their oil and gas industry, their economy, and we can make a fortune doing it. You missed out on the Canadian tar sands oil and the plays in Texas. Don’t miss out on Mexico.”

Dumont looked at his son with pride as he spoke with such knowledge and confidence. His legacy was in good hands. “I’ll give it some thought,” he said. “You finish your work, then get out of there. Just make sure I get a copy of your findings. Now let’s wash up and tackle that turkey.”

It was about two weeks later when he got the phone call in the middle of the night, and since then, any late call
caused his heart to stop. He remembered each word of the brief conversation.

“Mr. Dumont, I am sorry to have to tell you that your son, Charles, is dead.”

“What? Who is this?”

“My name is Bill Patterson. I worked with your son and was asked to call and inform you.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know the details, but he died instantly. We are arranging to have the body flown back to New Orleans. I have one thing to ask—actually, beg. Please, Mr. Dumont, do not open the casket. You will regret it for as long as you live.”

The caller hung up. Dumont sat on the side of his bed, the receiver in his hand until the beep of the disconnected line jarred his consciousness. He hung up the phone and looked at his wife, lying on her side, her back to him. He let her sleep, got up to pace, to ponder, and to weep. He recalled the words he’d said to his son: “You finish your work—and make sure I get a copy of your report.” How those words now haunted him.

Dumont failed to follow the advice he’d been given that night and opened the casket when it arrived, to his everlasting regret. His son’s head had been severed from his body. The face was bruised beyond recognition. He sought out others who had worked with his son, who had abandoned the project in Mexico and returned to the
States. He found Gus Schmidt, the man who had been with Charles when he was killed, and extracted from him details of the killing.

“We weren’t forty miles across the border from McAllen,” Schmidt said. “There was a narco blockade.”

“A what?”

“That’s what they call them when one of the organized criminal gangs hijacks a couple cars or trucks, then sets them on fire to block the road. They do it when the police are chasing them; sometimes they do it just to show they can, like a territorial thing. It’s a way of demonstrating to the police, to their rivals, even to the local civilian population, who’s in charge. Anyway, we were stuck in this stalled line of traffic, trying to turn around and get the hell out of there, when we were dragged from our car. They marched us out to this field. They’d also forced some of the poor folks from the pueblo to come out; men, women, and children lined up on the side of a football field like they were there for a game. They were all so scared they could hardly stand. This guy with a machete picked a couple boys for his gang. Mothers started crying. Charles started yelling at him in Spanish and the guy walked up to Charles and cut off his head with one swing of his machete. He is the head honcho in that part of the country. They call him El Jimador.”

“I speak some Spanish,” Dumont said, “but what’s a
jimador
?”

“It’s a traditional farmer who harvests the blue agave
plant used to make tequila. Machetes are the tools of their trade. Please, sir, you don’t need to hear any more of this.”

“No,” Dumont had insisted. “Tell me everything.”

The man sighed. “He cut off your son’s head, then played soccer with it, in front of all those women and children. Why? To terrify them.”

“With so many eyewitnesses to my son’s murder, why didn’t the police do anything?”

“They wouldn’t even take my statement. The police are powerless against the big guns.”

“I can’t let the man who murdered my son—”

“If the Mexican authorities are helpless against these criminals, there’s not a thing we can do. If El Jimador ever crosses the border, let me know, and I’ll cap him myself. But as long as he stays on his side of the Rio Grande, we can’t touch him.”

Dumont thanked him and hung up, nauseated by waves of anger and futility. It was in this moment that the seed of an idea was sown.

•  •  •

He’d managed to keep details of his son’s death from the media and his wife. After the tragedy, she began to berate him for the slump in their financial standing and the degradation of their life in general, a roundabout way of
blaming him for their loss. Her bouts with depression and the other effects of her bipolar disorder upset him. He dealt with her impulsiveness as best he could, even if it meant destruction of art pieces he had bought to keep her happy in the first place. Elise’s fixation with finances seemed to be bordering on mania, and he did not want to see her slide into a more serious phase of the illness. Her mental instability had provided an unusual incentive of late, he had to admit, inducing him to work harder and in ways he had never thought of and in ways he could not speak of, least of all to her.

“Elise,” he said. “I wish that you would not worry about our finances. I’m in just about every viable business that exists in this state, and I’m doing better than most. I kept everything going after Katrina, the oil spill, and the offshore drilling moratorium. You lack for nothing, and I make sure you live like a queen. What else do you expect from me?” He loosened his hands. The marks from his fingers were red impressions on her pale skin. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“That’s all right, dear. Fetch me a stole from the closet. I’ll wear the sable tonight.”

She stood and examined herself in the full-length mirror. Ray put on his tuxedo jacket and stood beside her. They were once a handsome couple. Time marches on and over everyone. As they looked at themselves, they shared the same unspoken thought. No amount of wealth could compensate
for what they had lost, for what had been so brutally taken from them.

•  •  •

Rosario closed the drapes to the drawing room as Sr. and Sra. Dumont pulled away in their limo. When the car was out of sight, she went to the kitchen at the rear of the house and switched the lights off and on twice. Soon there was a soft rapping at the back door. She opened it, and a swarthy man stepped in, closed the door behind him, and took her in his arms. His kiss was urgent, penetrating, and lengthy. She pulled away only when the need to breathe required, then fell into his embrace, whispering into his neck over and over,
“Mi amor, mi corazón,”
until she could stand his body odor no longer.

“Javier, you stink. Come.”

She led him to her maid’s quarters and drew him a bath. His clothes, even the jacket he wore, she took and threw into the combo washer/dryer with which she was so familiar.

“I would die for something to drink,” he called out to her. She smiled at the sound of him splashing in the tub like a child.

“Water? Iced tea?”

“No, a drink. I’m sure your
patrón
has something I could tolerate.”

Indeed he does,
Rosario thought. There was a wine cellar
that she hated because the dank, dusty cavern with fifteen hundred bottles made her sneeze. There was the liquor cabinet that contained an extraordinary collection of expensive spirits and liqueurs with which she was totally unfamiliar; then there were the two kitchen cabinets that held their everyday “utility” alcohol. There were several bottles of tequila that she assumed were quite good, having seen them on dining tables of tourists in Acapulco, her hometown and that of the man splashing in the tub. She found a shot glass and filled it, leaving the bottle on the counter.

“Please don’t make too much of a mess in here,” she said, serving him the glass in the tub. “I will have to clean up before they get home.”

He caught her wrist as he sat in the steaming water, threw back his head, and had her pour the tequila down his open throat. He swallowed with one gulp, took the empty glass from her, and kissed her fingertips one by one. “Someday you will clean only what is ours.”

She smiled, having no such illusions, then left him to finish. Rosario went to the kitchen and fixed a simple meal, knowing that he would be hungry. Though she was not concerned that any food would be missed, still she chose with care. Two eggs, some presliced ham, bread and butter. She was about to serve his plate. He stood in the kitchen wrapped in a towel. His body was well defined, with the reflection from the overhead light bouncing off his damp skin. His thick black hair glistened, droplets falling on his
shoulders. She felt weak at the sight of him and rushed to his arms. She sat him in the kitchen chair, then, without undressing, spread her skirt and straddled him, grabbing the back of his neck, not kissing . . . devouring.

Javier ate his eggs cold.

“Your clothes will be ready soon,” Rosario said as they sat at the kitchen table. “They are drying now.”

Javier pushed away his empty plate, poured himself a glass of tequila from the bottle he had retrieved from the counter, downed the shot, then poured another.

“I will have to replace that,” Rosario said, “or they will think I drank it.”

Javier shrugged, threw back his glass, and handed her the bottle. “Just water it down and stick it in the back. Gringos won’t know the difference.”

Javier had a simple solution for everything. “Want to show me this place?” he asked.

“I don’t mind. As soon as you’re dry. We can’t stain the carpets or furniture.”

“It’s ridiculous to have possessions that control you. When we have our home, there will not be a table or a chair, certainly not a carpet, where I cannot make love to you any time I choose, wet or dry.” He reached out to grab her arm, but she pulled away with a smile.

“Maybe a little walk would do you good,” she said.

She toweled him dry, got his clothes, he dressed, and they left the kitchen, Rosario leading the way, closing
blinds and drapes, or guiding him through the dark when they walked past windows where they could be seen from the outside. They knew they were surrounded by objects that represented great wealth, though neither could put a monetary value on anything, and the craftsmanship or antiquity made no impression. Javier just tutted constantly about the lack of functionality of everything. Even the master bedroom was inappropriate for its two highest and best uses, he thought. They returned to the kitchen.