Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (33 page)

He lifted his head; his neck and shoulders ached from the rowing. He touched the left side of his face and felt a deep crevice running from his chin to his cheekbone, impressed into his flesh by the seam in the bottom of the boat. The left side of his face was as cold as a cadaver and numb, drained of life by the aluminum hull; the right side of his face was still soft and warm. That's how he felt right now: half dead and half alive. He would have killed for a cup of coffee—black, light, espresso, cappuccino, even the sweet fluffy crap from Starbucks—anything to help bring the rest of him back from the dead.

He pushed himself onto his knees and reached into his equipment bag, feeling around for the slick Mylar MRE bags. He pulled one out and looked at the label, but it was barely daylight, and in the shadow of the magnolia it was too dark to read. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, it didn't matter; it was food, and that's what he needed right now—fuel for his sputtering engine. He tore through the bag with his teeth and began to eat.

He lifted the lower branch of the old magnolia tree and peered out at the growing line of boats and vehicles awaiting put-in on the St. Claude Avenue “boat ramp” fifty yards away. A FEMA Urban Search and Rescue Team was first in line; their rubber inflatable was already in the water and just about to shove off. A Wildlife and Fisheries trailer was just behind them, backing toward the water with two khaki-clad men guiding the way. He counted seven trucks and boat trailers waiting their turn, and more were coming across the bridge. There were men everywhere—hauling fuel cans, hoisting coolers, checking equipment bags, and loading rescue gear. Nick's plan was to wait until several boats had put in, then slip out from under the magnolia's branches and tag along close behind—but then he saw him, walking down the center of St. Claude Avenue between the boat trailers and the 4x4s, with his hands stuffed deep in his pockets and his head hung low.

J.T.

Nick muttered a curse and slid the boat out from under the tree. Halfway to the avenue he vaulted over the side and into the water, dragging the johnboat up onto the pavement.

“You're out early,” one of the FEMA crew called out.

“The early fly gets the cadaver,” Nick said.

“What?”

“Watch my boat—I'll be right back.”

He met J.T. coming down the road; the boy looked up at him without saying a word. There was no anger in his eyes—no look of defiance or contempt—just a simple matter-of-fact expression that said, “So what did you expect?”

Nick opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He just stood there looking at J.T., imagining what it must have taken for the boy to make his way here once again. It was a hard enough trip from the Convention Center, but that was all dry ground; Charity Hospital was completely surrounded by water. He must have jumped from a third-floor window, or at least found his way back to the second floor and then out through the broken lab window. The boy had to swim to dry ground, possibly several blocks—and then once again make his way through the looters and the armed gangs wandering the downtown streets.

That's when Nick noticed that the boy had a black eye—and that his binoculars were missing. He felt as if he had been punched in the stomach.

“I didn't expect to see you this morning,” Nick said.

“I'm looking for my father.”

“So I've heard. You don't give up easy.”

The boy just shrugged.

“What happened to your binoculars?”

“Lost 'em.”

“Did you get that black eye in the process?”

He shrugged again.

“I'll get you another pair,” Nick said. “We'll need them to find your dad.”

Now he knew that the boy had to stay with him—there was no place in New Orleans where his safety could be guaranteed. He couldn't leave him at DMORT—the facility was strictly off-limits to civilians. All they would do would be to transport the boy to one of the evacuation centers—the Superdome or the Convention Center. But the evacuation centers had become places of violence. The hospitals were overcrowded and understaffed, working without power or supplies, and the streets weren't safe either—the boy had been lucky to get away with a black eye. There was only one place where J.T. had a chance of being safe—with someone who cared about him. And in all the city of New Orleans—maybe in all the world—Nick might have been the only one who did.

“Okay,” he said. “Let's get the boat and get going. I'm going to need those eyes of yours today.”

They sat in the boat and allowed several other teams to go before them. When Nick finally spotted an armed National Guard unit preparing to put in, he called out, “Mind if I tag along today? I'm a little shorthanded. I'm with DMORT. I'm looking for bodies. You guys can handle the living, and I'll take care of the dead—how does that sound?”

“Sounds good to us,” one of the Guardsmen called back.

Nick followed the National Guard boat deep into the Lower Nine. The Guard boat was much larger and heavier than the johnboat; it had a deeper draft and left a much bigger wake. Nick stayed close behind and kept to the middle of the wake; it was like sailing down the center of a ditch. J.T. no longer took a standing position on the center bench—Nick told him to sit in the bow. He told him that without Jerry he needed the boy's weight in front to balance the boat, but that was a lie; seated in the bow the boy was a much smaller target.

Nick wasn't sure what was supposed to happen next. Was he just supposed to wait until the Guardsmen stumbled across a body, then examine it for anomalies? How long would that take? The Guardsmen had their eyes peeled for the living, not the dead. And what if they came across a body with no living rescuees in sight? Would the Guardsmen wait for them? Nick knew he couldn't just head off by himself—he needed the protection of the Guardsmen's rifles.

He needed evidence, but he needed safety. He motored along silently, lost in thought, considering how to satisfy those two seemingly irreconcilable goals—when a thought suddenly occurred to him.

They knew we'd be at the Superdome.

Their decision to go to the Superdome had been made last-minute, on the boat, just among the three of them: Nick, Jerry, and J.T. No one could have been waiting for them at the Superdome; no one could have known they'd be there.

We must have been followed.

Nick twisted around and looked behind him. A hundred yards away he saw another boat following at a steady pace—a gray-green fiberglass boat not much larger than his own. He turned forward again.
Of course there's a boat behind us
, he thought.
There are boats everywhere in the Lower Nine. That doesn't necessarily mean the boat is following us.

But it might.

When the National Guard boat finally rounded a corner and took a different street, Nick turned and watched again, measuring the distance to the intersection behind him.
Twenty-five yards, fifty, seventy-five
—right on cue, the second boat rounded the same corner and followed.

Once could be a coincidence
, Nick thought.
The next time I'll know for sure.

He twisted the throttle and accelerated, lurching over the Guard boat's wake and pulling up along its starboard side. “Hey!” he shouted over the engines. “Take a left at the next big intersection—I want to check something out!”

The National Guard pilot nodded and complied; at the next intersection he slowly veered to port. Nick dropped back and followed, once again watching and measuring the distance behind. Sure enough, a hundred yards back the other boat rounded the same corner and followed.

Bingo.

Nick looked at the surrounding area; the neighborhood was congested, with tightly packed houses separated by narrow alleys. He accelerated and pulled up alongside the National Guard boat again.

“Find what you're looking for?” the pilot shouted over.

“I think so,” Nick called back. “Stop at the next intersection.”

Fifty yards ahead both boats slowed to a stop. Nick knew that the boat shadowing him would do the same, keeping a discreet distance.

“I spotted something back there,” Nick said to the pilot. “I need to check it out. The alleys are really narrow here—I don't think you guys can follow me. Can you wait here for me? It'll only take a minute.”

The pilot nodded. Nick waved a thank-you and slowly pulled forward, proceeding at a snail's pace until he was sure his shadow had begun to follow again.

Come on, you moron. Take it nice and slow, just like me.

He eased to the right around the next corner at the same trolling speed. When he was sure he was out of sight, he opened the throttle and accelerated to full speed. The propeller dug deep, churning the water into froth; the stern sank low and the bow tipped back, throwing J.T. backward off the bench and into the bottom of the boat.

“Hey!” he bellowed. “What's the big idea?”

“Open up that equipment bag,” Nick shouted. “Get me one of those GPS units. Not the receiver, the little transmitters—the ones we used to tag the floaters, remember?”

The boy fished out one of the fist-sized units and held it up.

“That's the one,” Nick said. “Toss it here.”

The boy lobbed it to him; Nick caught it in his left hand and flipped the power switch with his thumb. With his right hand he kept the throttle wide open, passing three houses before veering right again, rounding a corner at full speed. The boat leaned hard to the right, sending out a wake on the port side that washed a feral cat off a toolshed roof.

They were now traveling parallel to the street they were originally on, moving fast in the opposite direction. Nick stared straight ahead, visualizing the scenario in his mind like a satellite photo: He saw the position of the Guard boat; the position of the boat shadowing him and its rate of speed; the position of his own boat and its greater acceleration. He made a quick mental calculation, then jerked the tiller toward him and veered right again, steering into a narrow alley between two houses.

He shouted up to the boy. “Did you swim from Charity Hospital?”

“What?”

“Can you swim?”

“Are we goin' swimmin'?”

“Somebody is. Hang on tight. Grab ahold of the bench—keep your fingers away from the edge of the boat.”

Thirty yards. Twenty.
Nick rechecked his mental calculations.
Ten yards. Five.
With his left hand he grabbed the port-side gunnel and braced himself.

As if on cue, the gray-green boat appeared from the left just as Nick emerged from the alley. Nick's boat smashed into the fiberglass hull at full speed, throwing the astonished pilot over the edge and into the water. Nick caught a glimpse of the man as he tumbled over: red hair cut in a flattop, dressed a little too nicely for search-and-rescue work—like a man who didn't expect to get his hands dirty out here.

Nick released the throttle and pulled on the tiller, swinging his stern in alongside; he reached across and grabbed the empty boat, steadying it—and lifted the lid on the bait well.

The pilot came up sputtering. “You son of a—”

“Didn't see you there!” Nick said. “A week ago you couldn't find another boat out here—now we're having traffic jams! Go figure!”

He grabbed the man's equipment bag and upended it, dumping its contents onto the bottom of the fiberglass boat. He found a small leather folder and opened it; the identification card read:

Special Agent John Detwiler
Drug Enforcement Administration
New Orleans Field Division

From the right, the National Guard boat slowly approached. “What happened here?”

“Had a little fender bender,” Nick said. “My bad.”

“These streets are narrow,” a Guardsman said. “You came out of that alley pretty fast; better slow it down a little. We don't need to be rescuing our own people.”

“That's good advice,” Nick said, bracing the fiberglass boat while the dripping DEA agent hoisted himself over the opposite side. “My name is Nick Polchak—I don't believe I caught yours.”

The man ignored him, wringing the water from his shirtfront and letting it fall in rivulets into the bottom of the boat.

“I'm with DMORT,” Nick said. “What about you?”

“Fish and Wildlife,” the man muttered, avoiding eye contact.

“No kidding,” Nick said. “I thought you guys wore uniforms.”

“This is volunteer duty,” he said.

“Yeah, I suppose it is. Hey, I know a guy in Fish and Wildlife. Johnny Zubek—you know him?”

“I doubt I'd know anybody that you'd know.”

“How about Jerry Kibbee?” Nick watched the man's face as he said the name, but the man never flinched.

Nick held up the business card. “Your name is John Detwiler,” he said. “You work for the DEA, and you undoubtedly know a man named Frank Turlock.”

Detwiler glared at him. “So?”