Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller by David Lyons

overlapping strip on his shoes in place of laces. His short dark gray hair was neatly trimmed, and his nails were clean and manicured. His appearance was one of pride, not surrender, though his slouching posture warned of a possible change in this attitude. After minutes of a silence to be found only on a woodland lake, he straightened up and asked, “Fitch, what did you two talk about?”
    It hit Boucher that he’d been deaf and dumb to his friend’s dilemma before this moment and only now understood the courage, perhaps the necessity, of the journey. The father was voicing the doubt Fitch himself was wrestling with—did he say something that had led the young man to his death?
    “Wait a minute,” Freeman said, “I’m being rude. You haven’t introduced me to your friend.”
    “This is Jock Boucher, federal district judge in New Orleans,” Fitch said.
    “Pleased to meet you, sir. Excuse my manners.” His handshake was firm, perhaps a sign of the strength and resignation that would be needed to carry him through this tragedy.
    “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” Boucher said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
    Fitch began his response to the unanswered question. “The judge and I took my boat out and went fishing in the gulf last Sunday. We found a body floating and brought it in.”
    “You know, I was real pleased when they assigned him to criminal investigation,” Freeman said. He was staring, it seemed, right into the sun above the cypress and mangrove trees that encapsulated his private world. “I knew they’d arrange it so he would run less of a chance of coming under fire. They could have let him go after his cancer. I’m sure they kept him on because of what happened to me.” He turned to Fitch. “I interrupted you. I’m sorry. You two went fishing.”
    “Decedent had been working an offshore service vehicle. Body was found in state jurisdictional waters, and your son got the case. He came to me after visiting the company that owned the vessel. He happened to catchone of the seamen who’d been on the ship. When he and I talked, he told me he had this ‘feeling’ after talking to the guy, and”—Fitch paused and took a deep breath—“I told him he should talk to the entire crew, even arrest the vessel if he thought there was sufficient reason. He was going to do just that, he said, then he left my office.”
    “Who owns the vessel?”
    “Dumont Industries.”
    “Aw, fuck,” Freeman said. “That’s like screwing with God. You don’t screw with God. Not in Louisiana.”
    For this assertion, no explanation was needed, no dissenting opinion expressed.
    Fitch had borne his burden and laid it down. There was nothing more to say, nothing more to be done.
    “Can we get you something?” Fitch asked. “Go to the store, maybe?”
    Freeman ignored the offer. He spoke barely above a whisper. “My son was dying of cancer. I felt so fuckin’ helpless.” He looked at the men sitting with him. A sneer curled his lips. “I couldn’t do nothin’ against that killer, but I can make life hell for those bastards who left my boy lying there on the road.
    “I appreciate you coming, Fitch. I really do. You too, Judge. You’re both busy men. Why don’t you go along and do what you’re paid to do. I got me some fish to catch.”
    Fitch stood and said, “I’ll do what I can, Tom.”
    “You won’t do a damn thing,” Freeman said, not a challengebut an order. “It’s not your jurisdiction. Those responsible will do what they can. I’m going to make damned sure they do. Now, go on. Get out of here.”
    It was hard to leave him there so alone, his mantle of grief visibly pressing down on his shoulders. Fitch took one more look at the profile of Tom Freeman as he sat behind the wheel.
    “I just gave him a new lease on life,” he said bitterly. “Now he’s got something to hate.”
    “You told him what he wanted to know, what he needed to know. And he was right. It’s the responsibility