Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (32 page)

She turned the flashlight and illuminated her own face; she wore nurse's scrubs and a stethoscope around her neck. The flashlight cast dramatic shadows across her face, making her look like a camper in front of a fire—or a demon. Based on Nick's past experience with nurses, it was probably the latter.

“Can you take me to the you-know-whats?” Nick asked.

“Follow me.”

“Then they're still here?”

She frowned at him. “Where do you think they'd go?”

Nick felt a wave of relief.

She led them down the long corridor to the opposite stairway. The entire hallway was in darkness, except for the glow of an occasional candle and the flashlights blinking off and on like fireflies, illuminated for seconds at a time to conserve dwindling batteries. Nick glanced in the rooms as they passed. He could see the silhouettes of patients tossing fitfully in the sweltering heat; he heard moans and calls for assistance from everywhere.

“How are you holding up?” Nick asked.

“Better than they are.”

“How long have you been without power?”

“Since the day after the storm. We had emergency generators for a day or so, then they went under too. Been dark ever since.”

“How can you run the medical equipment?”

“We can't. Why do you think you're here?”

The opposite doorway bore a hand-scrawled sign that read: “KEEP OUT—HOSPITAL PERSONNEL ONLY.” The nurse unlocked the dead bolt and glanced back down the hallway before opening the door. The stairwell was black; she switched on the flashlight and started up the stairs.

“This way,” she said. “We keep them upstairs to hold down the smell.”

On the fifth-floor landing five bodies were laid out side by side, covered only in white hospital linens.

Nick blinked. “There are five of them.”

“I hope you can take them all.”

He took the flashlight from the nurse's hand and knelt down beside the shrouded forms. He pulled the sheets back one by one and examined each body; they were fresh, dead less than a week, still dressed in hospital gowns.

He looked up at the nurse. “These aren't the bodies I'm looking for.”

“What?”

“They told me there were only two.”

“Well, they told you wrong. We lost three of them the first day when the ventilators went off. We ambu-bagged them as long as we could, but you just can't do the work of a ventilator. We lost the other two to the heat.”

“These are hospital patients. I was sent to pick up two bodies that were found downstairs on the second floor.”

“Oh, those. Somebody beat you to it.”

“Who? When?”

“Your people, I suppose. Just yesterday.”

“Did they say they were from DMORT? Did they show you any identification?”

“They were willing to take the bodies away, that's all we cared about. Those two were stinking to high heaven—they were scaring all the patients. Who were those poor souls, anyway? How did they manage to end up on the second floor?”

Just then they heard the sound of the stairway door open below them. A moment later, a flashlight beam flickered up the shaft between the stairs.

“Who's up there?” a man's voice called out. “This stairwell is off-limits.”

“It's me, Doctor,” the nurse called down. “They finally sent somebody to take these bodies away. Come on up—he's got a question for you.”

Nick could hear the scratchy echo of leather-soled shoes as the doctor climbed the two flights of stairs. As the doctor approached, Nick extended his hand. “Dr. Nick Polchak,” he said. “Disaster Mortuary Operational Response Team.”

“Well, it's about time,” the doctor said.

“There seems to be some confusion here. I was sent to recover two bodies that were discovered on the second floor, but your nurse tells me they were already taken away.”

“That's right. Two men came by yesterday.”

“Two men. Did you see them?”

“Yes, I met with them briefly.”

“Did they identify themselves?”

“I didn't catch their names. They said they were with the DEA.”

Nick paused. “You're sure about that?”

“That's what they told me. I thought it was a little strange, but they said everybody's pulling double duty right now.”

“That's true,” Nick said. “Tell me, did any of your hospital staff help with the cleanup?”

“What cleanup?”

“I was expecting to find two bodies downstairs, but it looked like the whole room had been cleaned out.”

“You'd have to ask them—they handled the whole thing.”

Nick slowly nodded.

“How do you plan to remove these?” the doctor asked, pointing to the bodies.

“What?”

“I'd appreciate it if you'd take them downstairs and out through the second floor. I don't want you carrying them through the occupied floors—the patients would freak out.”

“I'm not taking them,” Nick said.

“What?”

“I was sent to collect two specific bodies. I'm not equipped to take five.”

The doctor looked at J.T. for the first time, then turned to the nurse. “Would you excuse us for a minute? I'd like to talk to Dr. Polchak alone.”

The nurse shrugged and started back down the stairs.

The doctor waited until he heard the click of the door before speaking again. “Do you mind telling me what's going on here?”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm not a moron, Dr. Polchak. Two bodies show up mysteriously on the second floor, but they have no wristbands—they weren't hospital patients. We pass the word, and the same day two DEA agents show up to collect the bodies—
the same day
. They can't get us the food, water, or medical supplies we need—they can't even medevac our critical patients out unless we boat them across the street to Tulane first—but they can come to remove two dead guys? Now you show up claiming to be with DMORT, and I give you five cadavers—but you're not interested in any of them. You only want the ones the DEA took away. Who were those two, anyway? What did they do?”

“I don't know,” Nick said.

“You mean you won't tell me.”

“If I did know, I probably wouldn't tell you—but the truth is, I don't know.”

“Who's the boy?”

“A kid I rescued from a rooftop in the Lower Ninth Ward. I'm trying to figure out what to do with him.”

“I'm looking for my father,” J.T. said.

The doctor looked straight at Nick. “You thought you'd carry two bodies away with no one to help you but him? Who are you kidding? You didn't come here to take away any bodies at all. Why are you here? What is it you want?”

“I can't tell you,” Nick said, “and if I did it wouldn't help you anyway.”

“Then you're wasting my time,” the doctor said. “I've got work to do, and you don't belong here. You need to go—now.” He stepped aside and motioned for Nick and J.T. to go first.

Back on the third floor, the doctor brushed past Nick and into a patient's room. Nick spotted a flashlight flickering a few doors down and headed for it; he poked his head into the doorway and found the nurse.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” he said. “I need a favor.”

The nurse glared at him. “You need a
favor
?”

“I need to leave the boy with you.”

J.T. looked at Nick. “No
way
. I ain't sick!”

“Let me get this straight,” the nurse said. “I've got five stinking you-know-whats in my stairwell, but they're not the ones you're looking for, so you're leaving them here. And not only that, you want to leave me one more mouth to feed.”

“That's about the size of it,” Nick said. “No wonder they call you ‘ladies of mercy.'”

“I ain't stayin' in no hospital,” J.T. said. “I'm coming with you, Nick.”

“No, you're not,” Nick said, taking him by the shoulders and pulling him aside. “Remember that talk we had about following orders?”

“So?”

“So I need you to do it now. I'm leaving you here, and I want you to stay.”

“No way!”

“Listen to me. I think something bad happened to Jerry—do you understand? I think somebody tried to hurt him, and he might be trying to hurt us too.”

“I ain't afraid.”

“I know you're not—but I am. I can't keep you with me, J.T. I know I told you I would, but things have changed. I need to leave you someplace where I know you'll be safe—someplace where there are lots of people around, where you'll have food and water and someplace to sleep. I can't take you back to the Superdome; it's not safe there, and by now the Convention Center might not be any better. You'll be safe here. The nurse will watch out for you.”

“I'm stayin' with you, Nick.”

“You can't stay with me.”

“I'm lookin' for my father.”

“That will have to wait.”

“You promised!”

Nick straightened up and looked at him. This wasn't about keeping promises anymore; this was about keeping the boy alive, and Nick wished he knew a way to do it without breaking the boy's heart—but he didn't.

“I don't want you around anymore,” Nick said.

“What?”

“You're no good to me. You get in the way.”

“I got good eyes. I can see things.”

“I can't have you in the boat with me. It's against the rules.”

“You don't follow no rules.”

“You're staying. That's final. Get used to it.”

Nick turned and started down the hall.

“Liar!” J.T. shouted after him. “You promised! You lied!
Liar!
”

Nick didn't look back.
This isn't about promises
, he told himself.
This is about life and death.
But when the door closed behind him, he still felt sick to his stomach.

He waded back to the second-floor lab and climbed into the john-boat again. He put the palms of his hands against the ceiling and turned the boat back toward the open window. He stopped and stared out into the darkness, considering his next move—but he couldn't seem to focus his thoughts.

Jerry is dead
, a voice inside him said.
You know it's true—and it's all your fault. You got him into this. He trusted you, and you let him down. People depend on you, Nick. People depend on you, and you let them down.

He shook his head. The DEA had removed those bodies, and they had probably destroyed his maggots too. By now Turlock knew what Nick was up to—that he was disobeying orders and removing bodies from the water to preserve forensic evidence, evidence from victims the DEA didn't want identified.

Jerry was dead, he felt sure of it. But he couldn't go to the authorities—he was disobeying the authorities. Besides, he had no body to point to, and no one would bother to search for one until it was too late.

Someone was using the hurricane to cover up a series of murders, but Nick had no way to prove it. There were no bodies; there were no maggots; there was no physical evidence. Without evidence, he had no way to justify his actions to the DEA. Without evidence, his accusations would sound like nothing but paranoid delusions—which, Beth would probably point out, fit very neatly within his psychological profile.

He looked out the window again. He had to get back to the Lower Ninth Ward—not by the way he had come, but working his way block by block down flooded side streets and alleys so that no one could spot him or lie in wait. He would hide in the Lower Nine, under the magnolia tree where he kept the boat chained up each night; he would wait until daylight, when the boat ramp would be swarming with SAR teams putting in for the day; he would mingle in among them and head out into the neighborhood again, staying close to other boats while searching for any evidence that might still remain. It wouldn't be easy, but it was the only way. There was safety in numbers; Jerry had died alone.

Jerry.

Nick felt something like a warm blanket sliding up his back and around his shoulders. He felt his mind misting over, as if a thick bayou fog were settling in, confusing his thoughts and clouding his logic. It was something he had felt many times before—something Beth tried to warn him about—but he never listened, and he couldn't listen now. Nick needed to find evidence, evidence that was being destroyed with every passing hour.

He had to find it—and he couldn't stop until he did.

32

Sunday, September 4

Nick awoke at the first sound of an approaching vehicle. It had taken most of the night to work his way back from Charity Hospital to the Lower Nine, hiding in the shadows of buildings and houses, rowing most of the way to avoid running his engine. He'd arrived at the old magnolia tree less than an hour ago and stretched out facedown in the bottom of the boat. He was unconscious in seconds—a dreamless, deathlike sleep that satisfied nothing but his body's basic requirement to survive.