Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller Read Online Free PDF Page A

another judicial appointment passed in the Senate.”
    “Makes sense. What else?”
    “I’m not to try any cases, just do whatever administrative work the other judges dump on me. He wants me to help with the disbursement of compensation from the oil-spill settlement.”
    “I like it,” Fitch said. “You’ll get fed up with all that shit, and after a while you’ll beg to serve in your full judicial capacity. Looking after all those folks damaged by theoil spill will probably arouse your compassion more than anything I can think of, and it will teach you the most important thing you need to know about being a judge: that it’s not about you. I think his idea is effin’ brilliant.”
    “Effin’?”
    “I’m trying to watch my language,” Fitch said.
    “I’ll be damned,” Boucher said. “You’ve met a woman.”
    Fitch turned and smiled sheepishly. “Yeah,” he said.
    “Tell me about it.”
    “Not much to tell. I was coming out of a grocery store. This woman parked next to me said I’d lost a hubcap, and I said, ‘Fuck.’ She took offense at my language. I apologized. Next thing, I was asking her if she wanted to have a cup of coffee, and she said yes, and we did. We’re having dinner Friday. She’s a middle-school principal. Name’s Helen.”
    Detective Fitch had lost his wife to Katrina and had spent the years since going through the motions of life. This simple meeting was a real breakthrough.
    “I think that’s great,” Boucher said.
    “It’s no big deal,” Fitch said, but they both knew different.
    The next hour passed with small talk. Though the sun was out, the horizon was hazy, creating the optical illusion that distances were greater than they actually were. Even in the broad expanse of the gulf, traffic could be heard long before it was seen. A ship was speeding toward them, seemingly on a collision course. Fitch grabbed the air horn he keptnext to the wheel and gave three blasts. The ship changed course after coming close enough for them to recognize the logo of Dumont Industries on the bow.
    “We need traffic cops out here,” Fitch said.
    They were several miles out in the gulf when Fitch finally cut the engine. He joined Boucher in the second of the two fighting chairs on the aft deck. They baited their hooks and cast their lines. It was nearing midday, and the sun was high. Once they’d stopped moving, the water was like glass, so smooth that the mere plop of their baited hooks cast ripples.
    “Never seen it this smooth,” Fitch said, “especially this time of the year.”
    The two fighting chairs were complex pieces of new equipment that at first glance seemed to suit a dentist’s office rather than an older sport fishing boat. Fitch grabbed a couple of beers from the plastic cooler, popped them both, and handed one off. He set his rod in the center gimbal, holding it lightly in his free hand, more intent on his beer. “It don’t matter to me if we don’t catch a thing. I like being out on the open water.”
    “Yes,” Boucher admitted, “this was a good idea.”
    An hour later, they hadn’t had a single bite. Fitch rose and went back to the captain’s station and started the engine. They cruised, then tried another spot, chatting in low tones on the still waters about nothing inparticular. It was pure escape. It was an affirmation of their friendship.
    “I think we’re going to have to chalk this up as a dry run,” Fitch said as the afternoon deepened. “You ready to call it a day?”
    “What’s that over there?” Boucher said.
    Fitch turned. “Where?”
    Boucher pointed off their starboard side. “Over there. Something’s floating on the surface.”
    Fitch squinted, then retrieved his binoculars. “Can’t quite see. Let’s check it out.” He started the engine and turned the boat about, slowing when he was about fifty feet from the object. Standing at the wheel, he had a better view. Fitch was frowning. He slowed even more, the engine barely above