Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (43 page)

He listened. There was no answer.

He felt his stomach growl. He hadn't eaten since yesterday, and he'd vomited up anything that was left. He had no food and no water, and he felt weak and empty—but maybe it didn't matter; he felt too sick to eat anyway. But he couldn't help thinking about those MREs . . .

He crossed to the dark end of the attic and tested the wall. There seemed to be a three-sided section at the top, just like at the other end, only there were no slats to let in the light—just solid boards. He ran his fingers along the edges and felt splintered wood. He squatted down and felt along the floor; he found long thin sections of broken wood—the slats.
Somebody busted them in
, he thought. He stood up and pushed on the boards—they were thick and hard.

He crossed back to the center of the attic and looked around the empty room—dark on one side, light on the other, with no way out. He felt a jolt of fear.

Then he remembered Nick—Nick had been in an attic just like this, and he had gotten out.

He looked around the floor; he saw a place where the boards framed a rectangular opening with a folded wooden ladder in the center. He worked his way over to it and squatted down beside it. He put one foot on the ladder and pushed down, testing it; one end lowered just a little, then sprang back tight. Now he crawled onto the ladder with his full weight, and it began to slowly descend. He rode it down into the water until he was chest-deep—then the ladder stopped and locked in place.

He climbed back up the ladder and sat down on the edge with his legs dangling into the hole. He looked down into the opening.

I'm a good swimmer
, he told himself.

The water smelled like garbage. It looked like ink.

I can hold my breath a long time.

Sweat dripped into his eyes and burned them; he scrubbed his face with both hands and twisted his fists in his eye sockets. His tongue felt thick and sticky; he looked at the water and wondered if it was okay to drink just a little.

“Nick! Beth!”

He stood up again. It was even hotter at the peak of the roof now—it was like sticking his head into an oven. He felt weak and light-headed.

“Help! Somebody help!”

He pounded his fists against the roof and felt stabbing pain. He jerked his hands back and looked at them. He saw blood dripping from tiny ragged holes where the roofing nails had punctured his skin. He put his fists to his mouth and sucked at the wounds; he felt tears welling up in his eyes.

He looked down at the opening again.

44

The monotonous drone of the boat's engine was putting Beth to sleep. The gentle, rhythmic rocking of the bow wasn't helping, either, lulling her like an aluminum cradle. Her eyes kept drooping and her head slowly nodding until the boat struck a chunk of debris or unexpectedly crossed the wake of another boat—then she jerked upright again and stretched, blinking at her surroundings.

She turned and looked at Nick in the stern; he kept glancing back and forth between his GPS receiver and the surrounding buildings. He looked no different than he had the night before; she wondered how she must look to him. She was tired—mind-numbing, tongue-tying, bone-dragging tired. Nick should have felt far worse; but if he did, he didn't show it.

It had taken an hour to make the drive back from the remote bayou to the city, and once they got there they still faced the task of finding another boat. Nick had briefly considered dismantling the old johnboat and hauling it across the bridge in their two cars, with the aluminum hull strapped to the roof of one and the Evinrude and gas tank in the trunk of the other. But the process would have taken hours, and they weren't sure the two of them could have lifted the motor by themselves. They decided instead to head directly into the city, counting on the growing number of search-and-rescue teams to make it possible to beg, borrow, or steal a boat there. They eventually managed to do so, but it took hours more; by the time they located a boat and put out into the flooded downtown, the sun was already high overhead—and Beth was already exhausted.

They set out from the central business district just north of the Convention Center and headed into the heart of the city. They passed the Superdome several blocks away to the left, then crossed under Interstate 10. They were in mid-city New Orleans now, still headed west-by-northwest—exactly where, Beth didn't know. Nick didn't know either; the GPS unit would allow them to retrace Detwiler's path and to stop where Detwiler stopped—but what they found once they got there was anyone's guess.

After Interstate 10 the neighborhood began to change—the steel-and-glass business buildings gave way to more-industrial surroundings. The water looked deep here; a street sign barely protruding said “Tulane Avenue.” The road was wide—maybe six lanes across—and they cruised down the exact center, making Beth feel vulnerable and exposed. She had been followed once before—she wondered if it could happen again. At the intersection of Tulane and Broad Street, Nick slowed the boat to a crawl. On their left was a long gray three-story structure with a multicolumned front. The center six columns rested on a wide stone stairway that disappeared into the water just a few steps down.

Beth looked at Nick. “Is that the place?”

“It has to be,” Nick said.

“I don't see a sign.”

“Maybe it's underwater.” He motored slowly up to the stairway; when he did, the massive front door swung open and a man dressed in the uniform of a sheriff 's deputy stepped out.

“The building's closed,” the deputy said. “You can't stay here, folks—sorry.”

Nick held up his DMORT credentials. “We're not looking for a place to stay—we're looking for information. What is this place?”

“Orleans Parish Criminal District Court.”

“Was this some kind of evacuation center?”

“For a couple of days. When the city first flooded, a lot of court employees were trapped here—judges, staff, their families—then folks from the surrounding area started coming too. We had about a hun dred and fifty at the peak, but we cleared the last of 'em out last Friday and sealed the building.”

“You're still here.”

“I'm a sheriff 's deputy. A few of us stayed behind to secure the building.”

“Looks like you got hit pretty hard here,” Beth said.

“Yeah, the water's about eight feet deep.”

“Did it do much damage?”

“Flooded the basement completely—right up to the ceiling.”

“What's in the basement?” Nick asked. “Anything important?”

“Judges' parking lot, jury rooms, the coroner's office—it's all underwater. The big problem is the evidence rooms.”

Nick blinked. “The what?”

“We've got seven evidence and records rooms down there, all of 'em flooded. It's a real mess—stuff dating back seventy years.”

“What do you keep in the evidence rooms?”

“Everything—case files, court records, evidence submitted during trials—we store it all down there. They'll have to wait until the water goes down just to see what's left—then they'll have mud, and slime, and mold. They say they'll have to bring in salvage experts just to see what they can save.”

“That's got to slow things down around here.”

“Are you kidding? It's a disaster. We had three thousand cases pending before the storm, and every one of them just ground to a halt—some of them won't ever make it to court now.”

“Why not?” Beth asked.

“How can you have a trial? Defendants, witnesses, they all fled the city—there aren't even enough people left to fill a jury pool. Then there's the evidence—you lose a critical piece of evidence and the trial's over.”

“Yeah,” Nick said. “That's exactly right.”

“It's a problem for the higher courts too. The Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals—that's down by Lafayette Square—they count on us for evidence and records too. When a man files an appeal, the appeals court sends over for his trial record; if we don't have a record for them to review, they order a retrial. But how can there be a retrial without the original evidence? There can't be—if the evidence is lost, the conviction gets overturned.”

“And bad guys end up back on the streets,” Nick said. “That's got to be frustrating for a lot of people—a lot of hard work down the drain.” “You have no idea,” the deputy said.

Nick looked at Beth. “Actually, I think we do.”

“That was very educational,” Nick called over the engine's roar. “I just love field trips, don't you?”

“Is that why Detwiler stopped at the courthouse—to try to find out what evidence had been lost?”

“Looks that way to me,” Nick said. “Try to see it from their perspective: The courthouse is underwater—evidence has been destroyed—a lot of indictments might never make it to trial, and a lot of hard-won convictions might get overturned. That means a lot of bad people back on the streets and a lot of work to do all over again. That's got to be tough, watching years of work about to go down the drain—literally. If I were in their shoes, I might have been tempted to cut a few corners too.”

“Is that what you think they did?”

“I'd bet on it. I think Turlock and Detwiler saw the legal system about to break down and decided to settle a few debts on the side. If we could ID the bodies I recovered from the Lower Nine, I'll bet we'd find that every one of them was involved in the drug trade in some way. No wonder they didn't want them identified.”

“Would there be some way to connect them all to Turlock and Detwiler?”

“Maybe, through prior arrest records. Some of the victims might have been under investigation by the DEA—that would establish a definite connection. The clincher would be establishing time of death—proving that each of the men died after the hurricane. That would definitely indicate foul play—that's what would set off all the bells and whistles with the authorities.”

“Sounds great,” Beth said. “Can you do all that?”

“No, I can't. The problem is, I don't
have
the bodies—and by the time they're recovered again, there won't be enough evidence left to establish time of death. If the DNA degrades enough, we might not even be able to identify them.”

“Then how does it help us to know all this?”

“Knowledge is power,” Nick said. “All we need right now is a better bargaining chip with Turlock—maybe I can construct a better bluff than I did last night. Besides, we've got one more stop to make. Let's hope this next field trip is as educational as the last one.”

Nick tried the back door—it was open. That didn't surprise him; why lock the door of a castle when it's surrounded by a moat? The entire neighborhood of Lakeview was underwater, inundated by a breach in the Seventeenth Street Canal half a mile to the west. This house was one of the fortunate few: Situated on a slight elevation, the water came up to the front door and then stopped; the house appeared to be sitting on the water like a barge.

Nick could have sailed right up to the front door. After all, the entire neighborhood was abandoned—who would see? But he thought it best to exercise caution. He didn't know why Detwiler had stopped here, and he had no idea what they might find inside.

He pushed open the door and stepped in; Beth was right behind him. He instinctively reached for the light switch and flipped it several times, but he knew that nothing would happen. The house was already in deep shadow from the late afternoon sun. Nick switched on his flashlight and held it at shoulder level like a knife.

He stopped and listened; he heard no sound from anywhere in the house.

“Hello!” Beth called out. “Anybody home?”

There was no response.

“We're with FEMA,” Nick offered, thinking it best not to mention a mortuary team just yet. “Sorry to bother you—we're in the neighborhood, just checking things out. No reason to be alarmed. Anybody here?” They worked their way deeper into the house as they spoke.

“I think we're alone,” Beth said.

“Looks that way.” They were in a small kitchen now. Nick pointed the flashlight around the room; it was a scene frozen in time, a three-dimensional photograph of someone else's life.

“It's creepy,” Beth said. “Like visiting Hiroshima after the bomb went off.” She reached for the refrigerator door.

“I wouldn't,” Nick said. “The power's been off for a week—the place stinks bad enough as it is.”

She noticed it too. It wasn't just the mold and mildew; it was the smell of filth that filled the air—a combination of dust, sweat, and lingering body odor.

Nick pointed the flashlight at the kitchen sink; it was stacked high with dirty dishes, utensils, and glasses. “Somebody needs to tidy up—somebody who's been here since the storm.”

“How do you know?”

“The water shut off when the power did—that means the dishes were either there before the storm or somebody's been adding to them since. That's a pretty big stack to let pile up, even for a guy like me. I think somebody's been staying here—somebody who works for the government.”