Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (42 page)

“He's not going anywhere. Besides, the police have their hands full in the city.”

“Then what do you want the phone for?”

“We have to talk to Turlock—right away.”

He pushed the Redial button and held the phone to his left ear so Beth could listen too.

“Turlock,” a voice on the other end said.

“You people sure work long hours,” Nick said. “Tell me, is this DEA policy or more of a personal work ethic?”

There was no response.

“Hello, Mr. Turlock? Mr. Frank Turlock of the New Orleans Drug Enforcement Administration? Talk to me, Frank. It's a satellite phone—the calls are expensive.”

“Where did you get this number, Dr. Polchak?”

“I don't have your number, Frank, I have your phone—your colleague, Mr. Detwiler, was kind enough to loan it to me.”

A pause. “Is Mr. Detwiler there? May I speak with him, please?”

“That could be a little difficult,” Nick said. “The fact is, he didn't actually
loan
it to me—he sort of
willed
it to me, if you get my drift.”

No reply.

“But, then, this is hazardous work, as I'm sure you know. Take me, for instance: I've only been in New Orleans for a week, and somebody's tried to kill me three times already—four times if you count tonight. Can you believe it? No wonder our insurance rates are so high.”

“Are you telling me that you've killed Agent Detwiler?”

“I don't do that kind of work, Frank—that's more up your alley. No, Agent Detwiler managed to get himself killed.”

“How did that happen?”

“He decided to play ‘Crocodile Hunter'—only they were alligators, because we're in Louisiana. Alligators aren't as big as crocodiles, did you know that? They still get pretty big, though—maybe half a ton. They're not as mean as crocodiles, either, but that doesn't mean you can go swimming with them—I don't think Mr. Detwiler knew that. Big mistake, I'm afraid.”

“What do you want, Polchak?”

“I want the boy. I assume you've got him.”

“You want the boy. And that's all?”

“No, I want you to rot in a federal prison for several years—but one thing at a time. You took the boy, Frank, and you didn't take him to hold him hostage. I want him back—don't hurt him.”

Turlock didn't reply, and Nick felt a twinge of dread in the pit of his stomach. What he said was true: Turlock didn't take the boy to hold him hostage—he took him to eliminate a dangerous loose end, and he may have already done just that. Nick held his breath and asked the big question: “Is the boy still alive?”

“He might be.”

“That's not good enough, Frank—I need to know.”

Again, no reply.

“I can tell you're considering your options,” Nick said, “so let me help you out. The only reason I haven't already gone to the authorities with what I know is that I don't have all the evidence I need yet, and I don't want to just blow the whistle on you—I want to put you away. But you know what? I don't need more evidence—I can cause you all kinds of trouble right now. Forget the authorities—I'll go to CNN. Why not? If the boy is dead, I've got nothing to lose. The entire government response to Hurricane Katrina has been one big screwup—you think the media won't want to hear about a plot by the DEA to settle some old debts outside the law?”

“Lots of crazy stories are being circulated right now,” Turlock said. “Yours would be just one more.”

“Maybe—but I can shine a lot of spotlights your way, at least for a while. Can you really afford that, Frank? There would be so many questions, so much
attention
—just the kind of thing the DEA likes to avoid. But you know what, Frank? I think the DEA would have a few questions of its own—because I've worked with the DEA before, and this isn't like them. This is just a guess, but I don't think you and Detwiler have been acting in an official capacity. I think the two of you screwed up somehow, and you've been trying to cover it up ever since. How'm I doing, Frank?”

“There'd be questions for you, too, Polchak—questions about your work habits, questions about your employment history with DMORT—about your psychological profile. They'd take one look at your résumé and call you a loon.”

“I am a loon, Frank—you can ask my psychiatrist. What do I care if people think I'm crazy? I'm a college professor—I'm supposed to be quaintly eccentric. But what about you? You're a DEA agent; you're supposed to be dignified.”

“What is this boy to you?” Turlock asked.

“None of your business. Is he alive or not?”

Turlock paused. “He's alive. He's alive and unharmed.”

Nick felt no sense of relief. Of course Turlock would say that J.T. was alive—what else could he say? Turlock knew that Nick wasn't bluffing: If the boy was dead, Nick would go to the media—and he would cause trouble.

“Good,” Nick said. “Then let me talk to him.”

“He isn't here.”

“Sorry, Frank. I need to know.”

“I wouldn't keep the kid with me, now would I? That would be a little hard to explain at the office. I can put you in touch with him, but it'll take a little time.”

Nick clenched his teeth; Turlock was stalling. “How much time?”

“Let's say—a day. Call me at this number tomorrow at midnight; I'll let you talk to him then.”

“That's too long. I'm going to the media.”

“No, you're not—you can't take that chance. Think it over, Polchak—if you do go to the media, then
I
have nothing to lose. I'll kill the kid for sure—you know I will.”

Nick did know. Going to the media would sign J.T.'s death warrant. The boy's disappearance might raise questions, but the boy himself could give answers—answers that Turlock couldn't afford to have heard. Turlock was telling the truth: The minute Nick went to the media, the boy was dead.

“How do I know he isn't dead already?” Nick asked.

“I told you, he's still alive.”

“And I'm supposed to trust you.”

“Only for a day—then you can talk to him yourself.”

Nick slammed his fist against the dashboard. He knew what Turlock was doing; he knew what would happen next. Nick would make the call tomorrow night at midnight, and Turlock would ask for another day—and Nick would have no choice but to agree again. And with each passing day the bodies would decompose a little more, until no physical evidence remained. At that point, Turlock would be willing to take his chances; Nick could go to the media—but by that time it might not do any good. Worst of all, J.T. could be dead already. Nick had no way to know.

“C'mon, it's a decent offer,” Turlock said. “One day of the boy's life for one day of your time. Whaddya say, Polchak?”

“And after I talk to him tomorrow at midnight—what happens then?”

“I don't know yet. It's a little complicated. Why don't we both sleep on it and see what we come up with tomorrow?”

Tomorrow.
That's all Turlock needed—time—but Nick needed a whole lot more than that. He needed to come up with something better than the threat of going to the media—a threat that would lose power with every passing day.

One thing he knew for certain: Turlock would never let J.T. go. Nick's only chance was to get to Turlock before the boy was dead.

“Agreed,” Nick said. “One day—and that's all. I'll call tomorrow night at exactly midnight. I'll expect to talk to the boy; we can work out some kind of arrangement then.”

“Deal.”

“Turlock,” Nick said.

“Yeah?”

“I want the boy back—I want him alive and unharmed.”

“We should be able to work that out,” Turlock said. “Let's sleep on it. Let's give it a day. Let's let things—simmer.”

Nick heard a click.

He switched off the phone and sat there staring at it. “You were right,” he said to Beth.

“About what?”

“I'm not thinking clearly anymore. I'm making bad decisions. Turlock knew I was bluffing. I threatened to go to the media—I practically told him that I didn't have any real evidence. He knows if I did, I'd go to the authorities now.”

“There's a dead body back there—that's evidence.”

“Sure, that's evidence—and when the NOPD finds its missing officers, and when they finally have time to send somebody out here, they'll find what's left of it—in the gullets of a dozen alligators. They'll look for a hunk of flesh that isn't fully digested, and they'll take a DNA sample and send it to a lab for a couple of weeks—and then what? Then we'll be able to prove that Detwiler was here, but not why. Don't you get it? It's not about evidence anymore, it's about
time
. Turlock's got J.T. He knows I'm expecting to talk to him tomorrow at midnight—that means I've got one day to come up with a better bargaining chip to use against Turlock—something that might keep him from hurting the boy.”

“Like what?”

Nick thought for a minute. “I tagged Detwiler's boat, remember? I retraced his path all over the Lower Nine, but he crossed the Industrial Canal and stopped two places in the city itself. We've got to check those places out, Beth—Detwiler stopped there for a reason. If we can find out where he stopped and why, we might find something we can use against Turlock.”

Beth looked at him. “Nick—I don't know how to say this—”

“I know,” he said. “There's a good chance J.T. is dead already.”

“I just want to prepare you.”

“Don't prepare me—help me. Get your car and let's go.”

43

Tuesday, September 6

J.T. awoke groggily and blinked. His bed was soaking wet, and he felt aching pains across his hips and back and shoulders—he felt hard ridges beneath him, like the metal bars in Aunt Wanda's pullout sofa bed.

The room was dark but very hot; he could see sunlight streaming in from somewhere to his right. He tried to sit up, but the minute he did he felt a wave of nausea come over him; he rolled onto his left side and vomited.

I messed the bed
, he thought.
Beth's gonna be mad now.

He looked down at the bed and realized it wasn't a bed at all. He was lying on a floor of some kind—wooden boards with some kind of yellow stuff between them. The wood, that's what hurt his back; he was lying on boards, only they weren't close together—they were spaced apart. He pushed down on the yellow stuff; it was mushy, like a sponge filled with water. He pushed harder and the yellow stuff gave way. He pulled his hand out of the soggy mass; he wondered how deep the water was.

He finally managed to sit up without retching and looked around the room. The ceiling was slanted on both sides—it came all the way down to the floor. It wasn't a room at all—it was an attic. One end of the attic was dark; at the other end he saw lines of daylight shining through.

He struggled to his feet. His head was throbbing and he could still taste bile in the back of his throat. He looked at himself. His clothes were soaking wet and his skin was wrinkled like a prune. His arms and legs itched; he picked off bits of the yellow stuff and shook them off onto the floor.

Where am I? How did I get here?

He tried to think back to the night before. He remembered Nick waking him, telling him to go and find Beth; he remembered sneaking his way past the DMORT personnel and finding her; he remembered her taking him to her bed and tucking him in. He remembered her kissing him on the forehead too; he reached up and touched his forehead, as if the kiss might still be there. That was all he remembered—after that, he fell asleep.

But there was something else—something that happened later—something he couldn't quite recall. It was a
feeling
—it was a
smell
. He remembered something pressing hard against his face, causing him to wake up—then when he did, he smelled something bad—like plastic bags, like model airplane glue. Then he closed his eyes again and there was nothing else.

And now he was here—but where was he?

“Nick!” he shouted.
“Nick!”
But the sound of his voice hurt his head and he stopped.

The attic was hot—so very hot, and there was no breeze at all. His entire body was dripping with sweat. He peeled off his shirt and mopped his forehead and chest, then tossed it away.

He held on to the rafters and worked his way toward the sunlight. When he reached the wall he tried to peek out between the slats, but the slats overlapped like window blinds and he couldn't see a thing. He crouched down a little and looked up, but all he could see was the clear blue sky and the blazing sun high overhead. The sun hurt his eyes—he squeezed them shut and turned away.

“Nick!” he shouted again. “Beth! Anybody!”