Ice Fire: A Jock Boucher Thriller (30 page)

“You boys have pretty much ruined something I’ve been working on for a long, long time.”

“Something you stole from me,” Palmetto said. “Innocent people died because of your greed and ambition.”

“Ambition I’ll admit to, but not greed,” Perry said. “Money’s not my motivation. You of all people should understand that, Mr. Palmetto. We both wanted energy independence for this great country of ours. I was a patriot, but because of your meddling, I’m now a wanted criminal.”

“You’re delusional,” Boucher said. “In this ‘great country of ours,’ we don’t permit the murder of innocents to further one’s dreams, no matter how grand.”

“Now who’s delusional,” Perry said. “Lives are sacrificed for the greater good every day. Sometimes they’re called accidents, but people die when they get in the way of progress, Judge Boucher. People die.”

“I’d like to repeat an earlier question,” Palmetto said. “What do you want with us?”

“The real question is, what do I want with you?” Perry addressed Palmetto. “The judge is just here as a bystander—well, almost.”

“All right then, what do you want with me?” Palmetto asked.

“I want it all,” Perry said. “I want everything you have on methane hydrate. Everything. What you sent in Judge Boucher’s little scheme wasn’t nearly all you’ve got. Cantrell thought he could fill in the gaps. Well, Cantrell’s gone. I want it all.”

Now Palmetto leaned back in his chair. “I don’t have it,” he said smugly. “I don’t carry it in my shirt pocket, you know.”

“I asked myself about that,” Perry said. “I couldn’t see you traveling like a vagrant all over the country, carrying a computer, even if they have become very portable over the years. When I found out you weren’t dead, I knew you had sent files to Boucher. I figured you were using cloud computing. It’s in the cloud, isn’t it?”

Palmetto’s expression was his answer. His shoulders sagged. He slumped in his chair.

“I thought so,” Perry said. “You are going to give me the key to your cloud.”

“You won’t be able to use it. You’re going to jail for murder. And stock manipulation.”

“I’m not going to jail. I’m going to follow a suggestion Judge Boucher gave me early in our relationship. He said if I wouldn’t buy the information he was selling, he would take it to India. That’s what I plan to do. I’m going to India. If the U.S. isn’t ready to invest in this resource, I know who will. If not India, there are other options. Far from these shores, far from extradition treaties.”

“I’m not going to do it,” Palmetto said.

“I think you will.”

“What are you going to do, torture me?”

“No,” Perry said. “Him.” He pointed the gun at Boucher.

Perry marched them through the house to the backyard, talking as they went.

“I’m guessing you sent me what, twenty percent of your work product? Thirty percent? It was enough to give me an idea of what you
had been up to all these years, but not enough to duplicate it. I think Cantrell would have gotten there, but I think he underestimated the time it would have taken.”

“But you were still going hell bent for leather into something you didn’t understand. Your actions were reckless and dangerous.”

“Energy is a dangerous business. Sometimes we have to make mistakes to learn.”

They had stepped out into the backyard. A large barbecue grill was over to one side, on the other, what appeared to be a water well, abandoned before completion. Several pieces of rebar jutted out from the brick wall surrounding the shaft. Perry directed them toward the well, picking up a length of rope from one of the outdoor tables.

“Okay, stop,” he said as they stood at the well.

“I know you both share the same love for this state as I do. That’s one thing we have in common. Here in Louisiana we enjoy a more abundant variety of wildlife than anywhere else on this whole continent. We’ve got gators, we’ve got bears, birds of every description, and forty-six varieties of snakes, seven of which are venomous. A neighbor is a herpetologist. He showed me his collection once. I borrowed it, or at least part of it. The interesting part.”

“No,” Palmetto said. “You’re not going to . . .”

“I’m not going to do a thing. You are. Take this rope and slip it over the judge’s head.” Palmetto hesitated. “Do it,” Perry ordered, “or I’ll blow a hole in him your skinny ass could crawl through.”

Boucher stood with his arms hanging down at his sides, his fists tight in impotent anger. The barrel of the pistol pointed at him looked like a small cave.

“Slide the rope down to his feet and tighten it around his ankles,” Perry said. Palmetto did. “Good. Now, you see that piece of rebar
sticking up from the wall? Tie the rope to it, about four of your arm lengths from the end. I’m going to need about twelve feet of play. I suggest you make it your very best knot.”

Palmetto measured, then tied off the rope as ordered.

Boucher was as taut as a bowstring. His arms unbound, he prayed for a chance to use them. “Shit,” he said. “Why don’t you just shoot me?”

“Not a bad idea,” Perry said. He stepped forward. Boucher clenched his fists. Perry took another step. He was within arm’s reach. Boucher tensed, ready to strike. Then Perry raised his gun and fired. Right next to Boucher’s head. The concussion from the shot nearly knocked him out. His ears rang like cathedral bells as he stood there dazed and wobbling. Perry raised his left hand and pushed him over the edge like he was flicking a flea. Boucher fell down the shaft. The rope snapped taut, nearly ripping his legs from his body. Perry aimed his pistol at Palmetto, admonishing him to stand fast. He then leaned over.

“You hear me down there, Judge?”

“Fuck you,” Boucher said through clenched teeth.

“There’s no water down there,” Perry said. “This was a dry hole. So you don’t need to worry about drowning. Also, you are not alone. I have managed to get one each of the magnificent seven. They’re all slithering together on the bottom. Judge Boucher, meet your new playmates.”

Perry walked to where Palmetto stood and motioned him to step back. He set his gun down and checked the rope, retying it, watching Palmetto all the while.

“You move a muscle and I’ll dump him down there with some of the deadliest critters on earth. Now, watch and learn something. This knot is a variation of the sheepshank,” he said, “called a kamikaze. It’s
used in rappelling, and I’ve added my own little adaptation to fit the circumstances.” His fingers danced. He didn’t even need to look at the rope. He finished, picked up the gun, and leaned over the shaft.

“You have nothing to worry about, Judge,” Perry said. “The striking distance of each one of those bad boys is no greater than its body length. I, uh, didn’t measure them precisely, but I don’t think there’s one down there longer than six feet, and several are much shorter. I think the shaft was dug to twenty feet before we quit. You’re about six feet tall, so you’ve got maybe eight feet of margin. Of course that margin is going to be decreasing if your pal Palmetto doesn’t cooperate with me. I’ll just keep lowering you down a notch. Like this.” He adjusted the knot, then called down.

“Judge Boucher, let me tell you a little bit about those critters down there. First you’ve got a canebrake rattlesnake. He’s close to six feet long. Scientific name is
Crotalus horridus.
I love that name, don’t you? Despite his name, he’s a bit of a pansy. He’ll do a lot of rattling to scare you away before striking. He releases a lot of venom, though. It’s a neurotoxin that induces paralysis. Death to humans is rare, but no picnic either.

“Next is your average copperhead. The one down there is about four feet long. His bite causes intense pain, swelling, and respiratory distress—which I imagine will be compounded by the fact that you’re hanging upside down. Then you’ve got a cottonmouth. You can die from his bite; his venom has tissue-destroying enzymes. You’ll probably be able to see him in the dim light down there. He’ll throw back his head and open his mouth wide. It’s white. Looks scary as shit in the shadows.

“Then I’ve got something special for you, an eastern diamondback rattler, the most venomous snake in North America. Death can occur within minutes. Intense pain, lots of bleeding, cardiac arrest. The
rest are lightweights. You’ve got a harlequin coral snake, a pygmy rattlesnake, and a Texas coral snake. I’m not saying they won’t give you a world of hurt, but they rarely kill folks. Can you see any of them? Judge Boucher?”

Boucher refused to answer.

“Okay. You hang out there and think about things. Palmetto and I are going into the house and hopefully do a little cloud computing. I’ll be back in a while and tell you how it’s going. You know something, Judge? You just might be able to answer a fascinating scientific question. Just how long does it take a man to die of bites from each and every venomous snake in the great state of Louisiana?”

“Don’t do it, Bob,” Boucher yelled from the depths of the shaft, his voice reverberating in his ears. “He’s going to kill us anyway. Don’t do it.”

But Palmetto was walking away, Perry’s gun digging into his side.

B
OUCHER LISTENED FOR THE
sounds of stirring beneath him, but there was nothing at first. Then he heard a rattle, like dried peas in a pod. A warning, but to him or was one of the snakes warning off another? Some of them did eat other snakes. The rattling stopped. He spread his arms to try to gauge the width of the shaft. He was hanging with his back against one side. He pushed away from the wall with his arms. The width was more than an arm’s length, but was it wide enough? He raised his head, his headache from the blow to his head increased by the pressure of hanging upside down. This in itself was dangerous enough. Blood could pool in his brain and cause a stroke. It could fill his lungs and cause him to suffocate. The venomous creatures below weren’t his only problem.

He rested his back flush against the brick wall and tried to press the backs of his legs against it. He raised his torso. It was like an extreme sit-up. He had done thousands of them with his feet raised forty-five degrees, but at this angle? He reached out his hands. Maybe if he could grab his trousers at the knees. He reached up, looking at the light in the sky above the shaft. His fingers clutched only air. He lowered his back, took a breath, and tried again. Nothing. Did he
reach any farther on the second effort? The pain in his abdomen was certainly greater on the second try. He rested for thirty seconds, if you could call it resting when straining every muscle in your neck and upper back just trying to raise your head to a horizontal position. He finally lowered his head and it hit the wall, his muscles already tiring. There was a shadow overhead.

“Sorry to tell you, Judge, but your pal Palmetto is not cooperating. Here. Have a word with him. Tell him how it’s going down there. Oh, but first, let me do this.”

Boucher free-fell several feet. The rope snapped taut and he again felt as if his ankles were being ripped from his legs. He cried out. Palmetto leaned over the well.

“I’m going to give him what he wants,” he said. “Even if he is going to kill us, that’s no way to die.”

“Bob, these snakes haven’t done a thing. They’re more scared of me than I am of them.”

“Oh?” Now Perry was leaning over the shaft. “Then let’s just get you in range.”

Again he was dropped. Again the excruciating pain in his ankles. And there was a whoosh of a reptile striking. It missed, but he could feel the air caused by the sudden motion. He was in the range of one of them.

“Afraid we must leave you again,” Perry said. “Mr. Palmetto is expressing a wish to oblige. Perhaps we can offer you a more suitable fate. We’ll see. Be back in a few. Hang loose down there.”

Now there were several rattles, and Boucher thought he could hear the sound of scales slithering over the bottom of the pit. He turned his head and out of the corner of an eye could see the white mouth of the cottonmouth, open wide. There was another whoosh, as a strike just missed the top of his head. Boucher gritted his teeth
and bent at the waist, lifting his upper body, reaching out, fingers extended. Fingertips touched fabric. He bent further upward. His right hand grabbed at his knee, then his left, grabbing fistfuls of chino. He pulled himself up, using the muscles of his hands, wrists, forearms, then biceps; walking his hands up his legs to his ankles. He grabbed his ankles. If the muscles in his lower back could have screamed their pain, the noise would have been deafening. He was a closed jackknife, his forehead resting against his knees. But it wasn’t enough. There was still an impossible task. He felt the rope around his ankles, then stretched his arms as if he were trying to remove them from the shoulder joints. He felt around his heels till he could get one hand on the rope, then the other. He had the rope in both hands. So what? What could be done from this position? He was doubled over, his head pressed against his knees, his hands reaching above his feet. There was no movement from this position.

Yes, there was. Houdini did it. The artist’s most exceptional escapes involved using musculature in ways that defied human physiology. Boucher began to reach up the rope and to push his legs away from his body, the jackknife opening. Finally, he was able to straighten out. He grabbed the rope between his knees. From this point it was rope climbing, just like in his high school gym. Just like in boot camp. He pulled himself up to the lip of the well shaft, loosened the rope from his ankles, climbed out, and fell on the soft ground, gasping for breath, staring at the blue sky above, the smell of pine replacing the smell of terror in his nostrils.

Palmetto and Perry were huddled over a notebook computer.

“So you’ve developed different carbon fiber composites for
decompression, separation of CO
2
, and transmission of methane hydrate from the seabed,” Perry said.

“Yes,” Palmetto said. “The efficient use of carbon fiber composites allows for cost-efficient extraction.”

“Makes sense. They’re now making long-range passenger aircraft from the stuff because it’s half the weight and twice the strength of the metals they had been using.”