Ascension Day

‘Is that it?’ Roche quizzed. ‘No address, town or even a country? Just a mailbox — which we don’t even have the number of — and Chris?’

‘ ‘Fraid so. All we know from “frozen north” is that it’s either close to the Canadian border or, more likely, Canada itself. Or maybe Alaska.’

‘Well, that really narrows it down.’ Roche waved one arm effusively. ‘Do you want to head up there with your snow shoes and start looking? Or should we call on America’s finest, who’ve been searching for Bin Laden for the last few fucking years?’

Nel-M nodded in resignation, his face flushing. Roche rarely swore. ‘We just have to hope for a break. Hope that they speak again and we get more detail.’

Roche raised an eyebrow. ‘But as you and I well know, that might not happen. In fact, probably won’t. Truelle will just send his envelope, and they might not speak again for six months or a year. Maybe longer. And we don’t have that sort of time. We’ve only got thirty-four days.’

‘I know. I know.’ Nel-M closed his eyes for a second in submission. ‘I’ll think on how I can push things on. Like I did with the lawyer.’

‘I grant you,’ Roche shrugged, raising one hand, ‘you did well there.’ This was how he liked Nel-M: the puppy dog seeking approval, rather than posturing and cocksure, kidding himself he had anything like equal say on their best next move. And for the same reason, control, Roche loved what Nel-M had just laid in his grasp: the option of destroying Jac McElroy’s career at the drop of a hat. But the last thing he wanted to do was let Nel-M know that. ‘Although we still have to worry that if we get rid of McElroy, Clive Beaton might simply put someone else in his place. And someone that might be more able and competent.’

‘Yeah, but surely once Durrant gets to know the e-mail is false,’ Nel-M pressed, ‘it’s going to be game-on again with him wanting to die. And the clemency bid and all the lawyers with it then go straight out the window.’

‘True. And it’s nice to know that Durrant’s finally got the message of what everyone wants from him.’ Roche smiled thinly, but it faded just as quickly. ‘However, the problem is that in achieving that we’d also show our full hand. And apart from the legal lines crossed in taping McElroy, not to mention phoning Francine Durrant and posing as a prison liaison officer — some awkward questions might arise of just why we were doing all of that. So, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to give it just a tad more thought before deciding the best way to proceed.’

Nel-M felt stung by the meeting with Roche.

He’d gone there with such high hopes: the situation with Truelle’s insurance policies eighty per cent there, and the whole caboodle about Durrant’s apparent death-wish and the fake e-mails uncovered. What the fuck more did Roche want?

Nel-M popped back a blue pill from his glove compartment and pointed his car towards the French Quarter. He felt he had to take his frustrations out somewhere, and right now Misha seemed as good a bet as any.

Nel-M had been married once, a disastrous three years when he was only twenty-three. No children — though his wife blamed her two miscarriages on their arguments and his verbal abuse. He had never hit her.

Since then he’d taken solace at a number of cat houses in the city — the age gap between the girls and himself becoming ever wider. Though in the last few years he’d managed to narrow it down to a handful of regular favourites, of whom Misha at Madame B’s was top of the list. A bubbly, curvy, African-French mix with wild red hair and nipples like mahogany door stops.

‘Not your normal Friday night, then?’ Madame B greeted him.

‘No.’ Nel-M kept things short and sweet as he paid and was led to a bedroom by Misha.

He couldn’t wait to get down to business, couldn’t wait to be inside her, even cutting short halfway through their normal ritual of her slowly undressing him and kneeling before him, allowing only a half-dozen languorous slides between her lips before throwing her back on the bed and entering her.

As she felt the urgency of his thrusts, Misha commented, ‘Someone lit a fire on your tail tonight.’

‘Damn right. Damn right.’ And as he felt her responding, felt that her gasps were somehow stronger than before, he remembered from a couple of past visits that she enjoyed mild asphyxiation, that it seemed to heighten the sensations even more. He raised one hand to her throat, gently pressing.

‘Oh… Ohhh. Yes… yesss!’ Misha closed her eyes in abandon, hissing through clenched teeth as her breath became shorter.

Though at some stage it became Roche in his grip, and he started pressing harder, harder — Want to give it a tad more thought, do you? — oblivious to the fact that Misha’s gasps of pleasure had suddenly turned to ones of panic. Her eyes were wide and pleading, and she started beating at Nel-M’s shoulders and arms.

But Nel-M had already shut his eyes, lost in reverie that it was Roche beneath him, the tortured breathing convincing him all the more that it was him. Or maybe you’d like to put on your snow shoes and search up there yourself? With your stump legs and emphysema, you’d be lucky to get five miles from the fucking Canadian border. Squeezing harder, harder, a tingle of pleasure rising as he felt the last life ebbing from Roche, the beating at his arms becoming weaker.

The breathing was just short, strangled bursts now, almost non-existent. Nel-M kept up the pressure, felt one hand now clutching at his hair in desperation, the other…

Nel-M’s eyes opened sharply with the sting of the fingernails digging in and raking down his back — suddenly snapped back to reality of who was beneath him, saw Misha’s eyes stark and bulging with fear, her face starting to turn blue… but he was too close, felt his orgasm snaking up the back of his legs, and so he held her there for his last few thrusts, only letting go as he came, his ragged, tortured breathing finally matching hers.

Misha rolled quickly away, coughing and spluttering for her first full breaths. It sounded for a moment as if she was going to vomit, and when she’d finally got her breathing back to near normal, she glared at him.

‘What’s wrong wit’ you? You half-killed me there.’

‘Sorry. Bad day at work.’ Nel-M forced a lame smile.

‘Yeah, well. Next time you have a bad day — don’t come seeing me. In fact, bad day or not — don’t come seeing me again. Yer hear?’

Nel-M nodded dolefully. Frustrations all around, and so when he got back to his apartment, he was pleased to hear the message from Vic Farrelia, particularly when he phoned back and gained more detail.

Nel-M drove straight over to hear the latest tape offering from McElroy’s phone line, his trademark sly smile firmly back in place as it finished. Roche wouldn’t be able to delay any longer in making a move against McElroy.

‘Freedom… oh, freedom. That’s just some people talking.’ Mike Coultaine looked wistfully across the City Marina and the Mississippi river beyond from the back deck of his cabin cruiser. ‘So that’s what Durrant’s after these days? He doesn’t ask much.’

‘It wasn’t a straight-out request.’ Jac filled in the background with Durrant’s initial death-wish. ‘Although now I’ve finally convinced him to put in a plea — he has little interest in that possibly extended life still behind bars. It only has appeal to him if he might gain freedom — either now or in the near future. So, as part of putting in clemency, I promised.’

‘Oooh, promised. That’s something a lawyer should never do.’ Coultaine’s teasing smile faded as he looked at Jac directly. ‘But if Candaret turns down that appeal — which he probably will given recent history — we’re talking now rather than near future. How long left?’

‘Thirty-two days.’

Coultaine looked out pensively across the marina again.

Three days, and everything had changed.

Alaysha had come on the line exuberant that she’d finally got the tone right with the e-mail; so when Jac had told her, no need now to send it, Joshua Durrant had already sent one, she’d immediately felt deflated. ‘You’ve got no idea how long I sweated over that, Jac McElroy. No idea.’ And then in protest didn’t speak to him for twenty-four hours before finally softening. Durrant too let him stew; and when after two days he still hadn’t heard anything, he put in a call to Rodriguez.

‘I tell you, Counselor, he was like cat’s-got-the-cream with that e-mail from Josh. But you know what Larry’s like — proud, stubborn — so it don’t surprise me he hasn’t called you. I think it’s gonna be down to you givin’ him a