Ice Fire: A Jock Boucher Thriller (4 page)

After this brutal session, the bag shown no mercy, he returned to his locker for his shower flip-flops and a towel. There was an envelope at the bottom. He picked it up and looked around. Intent on the bag, he hadn’t seen anyone near his locker. He opened the envelope and took out the single page. The handwriting was illegible, but he knew the author. Like doctors, scientists had horrible handwriting, as if it were a part of their training. In this case it was a geophysicist. He read:

They want me dead. I have to go. Marcia Whitcomb was also killed, just a poor legal assistant. Ruth Kalin disappeared, lawyer in his office. The Jessups are a pretty impressive family, right? Where’s the justice, Judge?

P.S.
If I were you, I’d stay out of places like this.

B.P.

The old man had spunk. Boucher was sure that he’d gotten himself picked up yesterday after learning of Judge Epson’s heart attack and had followed him home last night, and followed him to the gym this evening. Timid men didn’t go around tailing federal judges. But Palmetto was scared enough now; scared enough to run. He put the letter in his pocket. Looking around the gym, Jock Boucher realized the scientist was right. If a stranger off the street could walk in and access his funky old locker with no one noticing—or caring—maybe this was no longer the best place for him. Anonymity minimized security concerns, but federal judges were not exactly anonymous. He emptied his locker for the last time.

Arriving home, he didn’t even make it ten feet before the phone rang; Judge Epson was calling.

“Hello,” Boucher said. “How are you feeling? I tried to stop by yesterday evening, but your doctor said you couldn’t have any visitors. He said he especially didn’t want you discussing any court business. . . . Well, I’ve got to get something to eat first. . . . Eight o’clock? You sure that’s not too late? . . . Okay, see you then.”

The hallway outside of Judge Epson’s hospital room was deserted when Boucher arrived. He knocked on the closed door.

“Jock, that you?”

“It’s me, Judge.”

“Come on in.”

The patient was sitting up in bed. He was clean-shaven and his gray hair was neatly combed. He looked like he could get up, put on street clothes, and walk right out. He motioned his visitor to take a seat in a recliner next to the window. “Thanks for coming,” he said.

“You’re looking really good, Judge,” Boucher said, “but is this okay with your doctor? He sure didn’t want me talking to you last night.”

“He worries too much. How are things going?”

“Better than I expected, at least for me. I’m afraid you’ll have a plateful when you get back. Just about every lawyer has rescheduled pending your return. At least the newly filed cases are being split evenly with the other judges.”

“I heard you handled one of my bench warrants, an old contempt case.”

“I did. The judgment was void. I dismissed it and let the fellow go.”

Epson frowned and looked straight ahead. “Wish you hadn’t done that. You know where this fellow is now?”

Boucher wondered if he’d made himself clear. He’d dismissed the matter. Epson’s court no longer had jurisdiction over the man.
He studied the judge’s face and answered simply, “No.” He decided not to tell of his subsequent run-in with Palmetto. The interest in this single matter, with everything else the senior judge had going on, not the least of which was his heart attack, was unsettling. He didn’t like the feeling. Judge Epson seemed to sense this and forced a smile.

“Well, it’s water under the bridge,” Epson said. “Probably best to get that ancient history off the books. How did the old guy look? I have a vague memory of him being an odd sort.”

“He was skinny as a stick, with a beard halfway down his chest. Looked like he’d been living in a cave. After he shaved the beard, he looked almost normal.”

“I expect to get out of here day after tomorrow,” the judge said, changing the subject. “I’ll convalesce at home. Get some work done from there. My situation shouldn’t be too much of a burden on the rest of you.”

“The important thing is for you to get well. Like I said, everything is under control. Maybe you should think about taking some time off.”

“I might,” Epson said.

Boucher knew the meeting was at an end. Epson was beginning to tire. He stood. “If there’s anything you need, just call.”

“Thanks, Jock. And thanks for coming by.” A tepid handshake was offered, the judge staring into space. Maybe it was just fatigue.

In the hallway, waiting for the elevator, Jock Boucher slapped himself on the forehead. “I’m an idiot!” he muttered. He knew why Epson had suddenly had such a vacant look on his face. Palmetto’s damned beard. He’d mentioned how he looked clean-shaven. He’d admitted seeing the man after the hearing—apparently not something Judge Epson wanted to hear.

Alone in his room, Epson made a call from his cell phone. When the party answered, he said, “We might have a problem.” Then he hung up.

Jock Boucher slipped out of bed late that night. He went to his study and turned on his laptop. He went online and confirmed that Marcia Whitcomb, assistant of the assassinated lawyer Dexter Jessup, was deceased. Oddly enough, she had died within days of her employer. He could find nothing on the other lawyer Palmetto had mentioned, Ruth Kalin. She seemed to have vanished without a trace.

He turned off his computer and the desk lamp and sat there in the dark. Everything Palmetto had told him so far had checked out. He thought about the FBI report allegedly given to Judge Epson. Could it still be in his records? The question stayed with him as he returned to bed and, finally, to sleep.

B
OB PALMETTO LAY IN
the dark on the lumpy mattress of the cheap motel, hands folded behind his head, skinny bare legs crossed at the ankles, reminiscing. How many dumps like this had there been? Twenty years times three hundred and sixty-five was over seven thousand, and at least a third of that number had been spent in one fleabag or another. Cheap hotels and motels preferred cash and didn’t give a damn about driver’s licenses or credit cards. Their accounting was as ghostlike as their patrons, and that suited him fine. In fact, it had kept him alive.

He had prepaid for the night and as usual was awake before the dawn. A metabolism like his didn’t require a lot of sleep. There was no checkout in this kind of a joint; you grabbed your stuff and walked out. He would do some walking today, making about four miles per hour, maybe eight hours, maybe more. He would walk to a smaller town and if it took him a day to find one, it didn’t matter. Small-town bus stops, like cheap motels, weren’t too curious about a cash customer either. He wanted to put a good walk, then a good bus ride between him and the town where there were people who wished him harm.

For the last twenty years, Bob Palmetto had spent his nights in cheap dives, but he lived his days in public libraries and Internet cafés. There was a time when he traveled with a pack of diskettes, then disks, then flash drives. Now he carried nothing. He’d discovered cloud computing and his whole life’s work was—at least at this moment—in the ether, waiting for him no matter where the long and winding road took him. And no documents, at least not in paper form. He was not the only one who lived in a paperless world. Some of the world’s greatest scientists made their work available for their own use and others’ via the Internet. Infinite galaxies of information were now available anywhere in the world. Now a cyber-discovery he had recently made determined his direction and his next destination.

Palmetto was impatient to get going, but knew it was best to wait till the sun was full in the sky. Not many men hiked the open road as in days past, and those who did might arouse the curiosity of a passing patrol car—especially in the dark. When he judged the time to be about eight o’clock both by the sun and the amount of traffic on the road he would travel today, he left the motel. He carried a backpack and wore hiking boots, aiming for a woodsy look that also helped to avoid unwanted attention from the local constabulary. If you looked like you were passing through, they tended to leave you alone, and a hiker by definition was on his way somewhere else. He crossed the highway in order to walk against the oncoming traffic. It was safer and he had an understandable aversion to things moving up on him from behind. He started getting hungry about ten, but kept pushing until the sun shone straight-up noon.

Palmetto realized that with the old contempt charge expunged, he wouldn’t have the same worry as before about checking into places, but caution was still his companion. It was still best not to leave a
trail for the wolf pack to follow. As he hiked the highway, he talked to himself. It was a habit he’d developed as his walks had gotten longer and longer. It was a comfort to him and made the loneliness a little more bearable. It was a one-way conversation. He’d promised that if he started answering himself, he’d stop.

Palmetto checked the position of the sun in the sky. He was heading northeast. He had a long way to go, but he’d be closer to his destination by the end of the day, and even the slightest progress gave him peace of mind. It was a paradox. He was excited, he was eager, but he was not hurried. A good day’s walk, a good night’s sleep, maybe tomorrow he’d continue his overland journey by bus, maybe even by rail. Watching the country pass during the next several days, he’d have time to think and to plan his strategy for his next objective. He knew what he needed and he knew where to find it. The challenge was to obtain it for his particular use, and in this he knew he must not fail.

There was a new spring in his step as he thought about his destination. He was going to a place where like-minded people shared his respect for earth’s final frontier, the ocean. Bob Palmetto was headed to the Marblehead Oceanographic Institute, Marblehead, Massachusetts. He needed a submarine.

“Can’t find him anywhere,” the caller said. “A photo taken twenty years ago and the description of a skinny old man in dirty clothes is not a lot to go on. We know he did not take any public transportation out of New Orleans. We don’t think he has a credit card or a driver’s license. This guy’s a needle in a haystack.”

“Keep looking,” John Perry said. He hung up, then called Judge Epson in his hospital room. “You up for a visitor?”

“You’ve been blacklisted,” Epson said. “Nurse took my blood pressure just after you left last time. Your visiting privileges have been revoked. Can it wait till tomorrow? The doctor said he might release me if there are no more ‘surprises.’ It will be better at home anyway, more private.”

“Fine. I wanted to tell you that the judge who’s taken over your court was asking about me when he was at the hospital the other night.”

“He hasn’t taken over my court!” Epson said. “He was appointed to assist with my caseload because he’s the new kid on the block. Just about every case is being continued till I get back.”

“You know him well?” Perry asked.

“Nobody does.”

“Let’s talk about him next time we get together.”

“We can if you want, but he’s not getting close to my business.”

“Good. We’ll talk soon.” Perry hung up.

Jock Boucher couldn’t keep his mind on his work, not good for a federal judge. He’d done a little more research and learned that Marcia Whitcomb died of natural causes in her home. No autopsy. She was twenty-eight. What natural cause took a young woman in her prime? Ruth Kalin had graduated magna cum laude from Loyola University College of Law. She could have had her pick of top law firms in New Orleans, yet went to work for a sole practitioner, then just disappeared. Why’d she pick Dexter Jessup as her first employer—because he was a crusader? A crusader who ended up a martyr? Were those other lives sacrificed as well in whatever was going on then? He turned off his laptop, stood, and paced around his desk.

The lawsuit against Palmetto had been dismissed almost two
decades ago. Back then, paper files were kept in the building for ten years, then sent to federal archives. He didn’t want to go that route if he could avoid it. He was pacing when there was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” he said. It was Julie, his law clerk. She had papers in her hand.

“Anything wrong, Judge?” she asked.

“No. Why?”

“You seem distracted. This motion, you signed it in the wrong place.” She showed him the misplaced signature.

He shook his head and sighed. “What was I thinking?”

“Obviously not about a request for extension of time.”

He looked at her. She was bright and self-assured, mature enough to know the world was no bed of roses.

“Julie, did you know what you wanted to do when you finished law school?”

She looked at him. She’d worked for him a short time. He had not asked much about her. Her academic record spoke for itself.

“Your Honor, I have the next twenty years of my life mapped out.”

Boucher was thinking about Ruth Kalin. She too must have planned her future. Working for Dexter Jessup was no fluke, and her disappearance was not an act of caprice.

While in law school and thinking about his own future, Boucher had briefly considered the FBI as a career path. He’d had two interviews with a young agent named Ted Neely. They’d even gotten together a couple of times to play handball during the courtship before Boucher decided neither was for him: neither the Bureau nor handball. But he’d run into Neely over the years and greetings were always cordial and on a first-name basis. None of which was sufficient reason for Boucher to be calling him late that afternoon with a question of
a sensitive nature. Neely replied with a tone of bonhomie that they revive their old friendship, even suggesting they meet that same afternoon, why waste time. He’d not acknowledged his question, Boucher noted as he hung up, which in itself was some sort of answer. Neely had proposed they meet halfway between the district court and the FBI building. His choice of venue was odd, a Baskin-Robbins near 610 and Elysian Fields Avenue.

The FBI man was already there when Boucher arrived, their two cars the only ones in the parking lot. Not a lot of call for ice cream on a chilly, cloudy late afternoon. He bought a single scoop of Rocky Road and joined the agent at one of the small tables away from the window.