Free Thief by Mark Sullivan

it, Robin?” Antonio asked as Monarch clapped.
    He looked at Sister Rachel and then back at the children, said, “I think that may be the best Christmas present I’ve ever gotten.”

 
    11
    TWELVE OAKS
    NORTH OF NEW ORLEANS
    CHRISTMAS EVE MORNING CAME cold and clear. A steady northerly breeze was blowing when seven mallard ducks set their wings and floated in through the canopy of the flooded oaks on the backside of Beau Arsenault’s sprawling plantation. The mogul crouched in the water against the base of a big tree, his black Labrador, Malthus, beside him shivering with anticipation.
    â€œTake ’em now,” he growled.
    Arsenault’s son-in-law and his eleven-year-old grandson raised their shotguns and fired. His son-in-law missed twice. The boy dropped one mallard drake and missed the second.
    The billionaire threw his Benelli autoloader to his shoulder, thought about the goddamned thief who ripped him off for twenty million to give to fucking poor orphans, and imagined the man was each and every one of the other ducks. He blew three out of the sky with three shots. The birds plummeted, splashed out in the decoys.
    â€œMalthus, fetch,” Arsenault said, satisfied. “Fetch ’em up.”
    The dog exploded off the stand and swam toward the fallen birds.
    â€œNice shooting, Beau,” his son-in-law said.
    â€œNothing you couldn’t do with a little more practice, Peter. I’m thinking your boy there is a better shot than you.”
    Peter was in his mid-thirties and shot his father-in-law a withering glance, muttered, “Always something.”
    â€œWe limit out, Big Beau?” asked his grandson, who was shivering.
    â€œYou cold, Little Beau?”
    â€œMy toes some,” the boy admitted.
    â€œYeah, you and I are done,” he said. “Your daddy’s still got three left.”
    â€œI’ll wait,” his grandson said.
    â€œNonsense,” the mogul said. “I’ll take you in, and your daddy can come back in with Cecil and Hank. Get you some of Big Mama’s hot, spiced cider. That good with you, Peter?”
    â€œI’m done,” his son-in-law said.
    â€œNonsense,” Arsenault said. “You finish up. Hear?”
    Peter’s jaw set, as if he were going to argue, but the mogul beat him to the punch, saying, “I’ll leave you another box of fours in case you run out.”
    He turned to end the discussion, glanced at the two African American men in hunting gear sitting in one of two green johnboats floating back there behind them forty yards. “Cecil, you call for Mr. Peter, here? When he’s limited out, you pull the set, make sure Malthus is dried and fed, and then you go looking for a place we can hunt day after tomorrow.”
    â€œYes, sir, Mr. Beau,” Cecil said.
    â€œWhen you get back, you come up to the house, Miss Louisa’s got something for you and your families for Christmas.”
    Both men smiled, and Cecil climbed out of the boat to help Arsenault and his grandson case their guns. Then the mogul hoisted Little Beau into the other johnboat, and climbed in after him. He pulled the anchor, started the outboard, and swung them away toward the slough bottom and the bayou. As he did, the bow crossed the image of his son-in-law glaring at him.
    Arsenault nodded to him, thinking, It’ll do the little Jewish prick some good to understand he’s still just a pussy.
    Peter Solomon was everything the billionaire didn’t like in a man. He was liberal, an academic, and the outdoors made him uncomfortable. Worse, his income was a joke. He made a little over sixty grand a year as a history professor at Northwestern, far from enough to support his oldest daughter and his oldest grandson in the style an Arsenault should expect.
    But Sophia loved Peter, so the mogul had set up a trust that kicked them an extra three hundred K a year. Funny how feeding a man, clothing a man, putting