Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle Page 25

  At the levee they unloaded their passengers and pointed those who could still walk toward the evacuation centers in the distance; they released the old woman to an EMS crew waiting on Surekote Road. Nick sat down on the embankment and took his time refastening the backboard straps, hoping that LaTourneau might follow suit. He did, sinking down on the ground beside Nick.

  “Long day,” Nick said.

  “They’re all long,” LaTourneau replied.

  Nick started to ask, “How are you holding up?” but the question seemed too personal. He looked at his new partner; up close, Nick could see that his face was pale and drawn and the blood had pooled below his eyes in gray half-moons. He wondered if he looked just as bad.

  “The kid’s pretty tough,” LaTourneau said.

  “Told you so.”

  “Not like most kids his age.”

  “Not like any I ever met.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the sun shrink to a brilliant crimson arc. Nick glanced at LaTourneau again; his body seemed rigid, awkward, like a puppet slumping over on a stage. The man could sit, but he couldn’t seem to relax; Nick wondered if his exhaustion was more severe than he knew.

  “I’m so tired,” LaTourneau said unexpectedly. Nick was shocked by the admission.

  “I don’t blame you. You’ve been out here longer than anyone else—even me.”

  “There’s so much left to do.”

  “You don’t have to do it all yourself,” Nick said. “You can’t save everybody.”

  “I can try. I have to try.”

  Nick could feel the hair standing up on his neck; it was like talking to himself.

  “The people,” LaTourneau said. “There are so many.”

  “Too many,” Nick replied. “Somebody’s got a lot of explaining to do.”

  “You keep looking at the dead bodies. Why?”

  “That’s my job. I’m a forensic entomologist.”

  “What is that?”

  “I study the insects that feed on bodies when they die.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “Funny thing,” Nick said. “Everybody loves a caterpillar—but that’s just the larval form of a butterfly. That’s all a maggot is—a larva. Except when it pupates, a fly comes out instead.”

  “I can’t stand maggots,” LaTourneau said in almost a whisper.

  “They’re an acquired taste.”

  “I can’t stand them,” he said again. “Maggots get under your skin; they crawl all over you. You can feel them, especially at night when you try to sleep.”

  Nick gave his partner a puzzled look. He had worked with maggots for years, collecting them in every possible environment from corpses in every imaginable stage of decomposition. Yes, maggots could get on your skin—and yes, they could crawl on your skin—but under your skin? He wondered what LaTourneau was talking about; he wondered if his exhausted partner was in a state of twilight sleep, where dream images begin to mingle with the real world.

  Just then they heard the sound of another boat approaching from the south and both men looked up. It was a FEMA Search and Rescue Team; they pulled up alongside the earthen levee and shut down their engine.

  “Aren’t you that bug man fella?” one of them called out.

  “That would be me,” Nick called back.

  “I thought so. Remember us? You stopped us a couple of days ago—told us to pass the word if we found any unusual bodies.”

  “Yeah, I remember you guys. What did you find?”

  “We didn’t find it—somebody else did. A National Guard team passed the word to us; somebody else told them. Said they found a strange one in an attic somewhere—the kind you said you’re looking for.”

  “What’s strange about it?”

  “They didn’t say—they just said to pass it along if we saw you. Spotted the two of you sitting here; thought we’d stop and let you know.”

  “I appreciate that. Have you got coordinates for me?”

  The FEMA crewman read them off and Nick took them down. The man started his engine again and began to pull away. “Is this all you guys do—sit around?” he shouted. “Cushy job.”

  The two men watched as the boat roared away.

  Cushy job,” Nick said. “I hope we find his body sometime.” He “looked down at the coordinates. “A strange one,” the man called it, an anomaly—this could be just the break Nick was looking for. Nick knew he needed to check it out soon, before the body had a chance to decompose any further. He looked over at LaTourneau, thinking of suggesting one more trip back to the Lower Nine—but one look at the man’s haggard face convinced him not to.

  “Can I make a suggestion?” Nick said.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Try to get some sleep. It’s almost dark; there’s not much you can do before sunup anyway.”

  “I can’t sleep.”

  “I know,” Nick said, “but give it a shot anyway—you get points just for trying.”

  “What about you?” LaTourneau asked.

  “I have to check out that body.”

  “Leave it ’til morning, Polchak.”

  “Can’t do that—time is critical. It’s complicated.”

  “You can’t do any good at night,” LaTourneau said. “Leave it for the day.”

  “I can’t.”

  “A man can’t see at night—you can’t find your way.”

  “I’ll have to do my best.”

  “Then be careful,” LaTourneau said. “This is a great town, but everything changes at night.”

  “It’s the same everywhere,” Nick said.

  “I mean it, Polchak—everything changes at night.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind. See you in the morning, partner.”

  Nick got up and stretched. He looked down the levee to his right. North Claiborne Avenue and its old lift bridge were just a quarter mile away; half a mile beyond it were St. Claude Avenue and his johnboat hidden under the old magnolia tree. They could walk it in fifteen minutes—in their current condition, maybe closer to thirty. By then it would be pitch black, and Nick would have to follow the coordinates in the dark. It wouldn’t be easy, but he couldn’t wait; he had to take a look. Besides, the darkness provided cover; it would allow him to investigate without fear of prying eyes and without the need for an armed escort. He knew he had to seize the opportunity while he could.

  He went to the Zodiac and leaned across the bow, shaking the boy awake. “Let’s take a little walk,” he said. “We need some exercise.”

  Speak to me, sweetheart—speak to me.

  He listened for his daughter’s voice but heard nothing.

  Tell me what to do. Tell me where they are. Tell me who the bad ones are and where to find them. I’ll make things right, I swear I will. I’ll keep my promise—I’ll never rest until I do.

  He rolled his head to the left and looked at the clock: Two more hours had passed. He lay on top of the bed, not in it, as if he were lying on a bed of nails; he could feel the prick of each nail point pressing against his skin. He stared at the glowing red LCD and waited for the minute to change; it seemed to take forever. He stiffened, anticipating the exact moment of transformation; when it finally occurred, he jumped and felt a bolt of electricity surge through his pulsing nerves.

  Liar, he said to himself. You told her you’d never rest, but here you are in bed. She knows when you’re lying—she can see everything. Get up. Get to work. This isn’t where she speaks to you—not here.

  He rolled to his feet and headed directly for the bathroom, where he found the medicine cabinet open and waiting for him. He pried open the familiar orange pill container and found it full again; he took two of the bitter pills and washed them down. He waited a few seconds but felt nothing. He took two more.

  Speak to me, sweetheart. Talk to your daddy.

  He held his breath and closed the cabinet door; he felt a shock of recognition travel through his body like an electromagnetic pulse. There was a message written on
the mirror in lipstick—a street address followed by eight simple words:

  In the attic, Daddy. Look in the attic.

  35

  Nick began to think he had made a big mistake. It was an almost moonless night, and the ink-black water and the forms that protruded from it all merged together into a seamless curtain of black. Again and again he started down alleys only to discover that they had no egress; once he drove directly into a rooftop that he couldn’t even see; twice he fouled his propeller by running across underbrush that he would have easily spotted in the light of day.

  His goal was to examine this body as soon as possible, before the accelerating effects of the environment destroyed any evidence that might remain—but what was the point if it took all night to get there? Maybe LaTourneau was right, maybe he should have waited for morning—maybe he couldn’t find his way through the Lower Nine at night, especially without any help from J.T. fast asleep in the bow. Nick needed the boy’s eyes now more than ever, but he couldn’t bring himself to wake him again. It was one thing to drive himself to utter exhaustion—he had no right to make the same demands of a boy.

  He switched on his flashlight again and checked the coordinates on the GPS receiver, adjusting his course slightly to the east. The GPS unit had its own LED backlight for viewing at night, but Nick used the flashlight instead to conserve the unit’s batteries. He was forced to check the coordinates constantly, and he had no idea how much power remained. If the batteries failed he would be completely blind with no way to move forward or back; his only alternative would be to curl up in the bottom of the boat with the boy and wait until morning—and that would waste the entire night.

  Finally, the coordinates on the GPS receiver indicated that he was near. Nick switched on the flashlight again and squinted into the darkness. Straight ahead of him were two single-story homes, their low-pitched rooftops protruding from the water like books left facedown on a table. The GPS was accurate only to within a few yards; either house might be the one that held the body. He slowly motored around the first one, checking for FEMA search markings or signs of forced entry. He found none.

  But on the second house he found an attic vent completely caved in, leaving a gaping black triangle at the peak of the roof. He shut down his engine and approached by oar, shining his flashlight through the broken roof vent and into the darkness inside. He pulled up alongside the house and looked in; as impossible as it seemed, the attic was even darker than it was outside. It was perfect darkness, the kind you find only in cellars and caves, and Nick’s flashlight beam could barely penetrate it—but it was enough to reveal a human form lying faceup halfway across the room. The attic floor was covered with water, and the body seemed to float on top of it like a bar of pink soap.

  Nick checked the side of the house for a place to tie up the boat. He found nothing—but there was no current to the water, either, and the boy’s weight should have added enough ballast to keep the boat from drifting in the wind. Assuring himself that his transportation would still be there when he returned, Nick swung one leg through the opening and felt around for solid footing inside. When he pulled his other leg through, he inadvertently pushed off slightly from the boat, sending it drifting slowly away. He looked at the boat and muttered a curse; he was hoping for a dry return, and now a short swim might be necessary. Just what he needed to top off a delightful evening—a midnight dip in a pool of toxic waste.

  He stood on the narrow edge of the first floor joist and pointed the flashlight at the water. He knew the joists should have been constructed on standard sixteen-inch centers; he reached out with his left foot and tested the water at the appropriate spot—there it was, right where it should have been. He tiptoed forward and repeated the process, working his way toward the body like a tightrope walker, picking up speed and gaining confidence in his footing—until his left foot disappeared into the water and he plunged in up to his hip, landing with his gut across one joist and his collarbone on another.

  The impact knocked his wind out completely. He lay there motionless, waiting to take his next breath, feeling around in the water with his dangling left leg to find the reason for his mishap. There it was—a folding ladder. Nick had reached out his foot for the next expected joist but stepped instead into the attic doorway leading to the house below.

  The man shut off his engine and rocked it forward, lifting the propeller from the water. He was close now, and he didn’t want to take a chance on being heard. He used the electric trolling motor instead, cruising silently forward toward the darkened house.

  This was the place—this was the address she’d left him—but there seemed to be no one there. Maybe she was wrong this time; maybe she had made a mistake. But she had always been right before, when she left the messages on the bathroom mirror and the bitter little pills that helped him understand—the pills that helped him think the way she did. She left the pills for him too. The bottle was never empty; no matter how many he took, there were always more waiting for him the next night.

  In the attic, she said—look in the attic.

  In his peripheral vision he caught a faint flash of light at the left side of the house. He motored around to that side and found the open attic vent; the flicker of a flashlight inside told him that the house was not empty after all. He was in there, just as she had said.

  Forgive me, sweetheart—forgive me for ever doubting you. I keep forgetting that you can see everything now. How could you ever be wrong?

  He pulled the thin metal tiller and steered the boat slowly around to the opposite end of the house where the attic vent was still intact. He peered through the narrow slats and saw the beam of the flashlight clearly now. It was pointed at the floor, illuminating the body of a man lying in the water. Someone was bending over the body, examining it.

  He leaned back and looked at the slats of the attic vent, then at the house itself. There was something familiar about the place—something familiar about the body inside—but he couldn’t remember what it was. No matter; the man inside had to be the one he was looking for. She told him he would find him there, and she was never wrong.

  He was one of them—one of the ones who made the pills that killed you.

  Now it’s his turn to die.

  He twisted the fuel line from the boat’s gas tank and attached a length of rubber hose to the tank instead; he quietly fed the other end through the attic vent’s slats until the hose dangled just above the surface of the water inside. Now he began to pump a metal handle on the fuel tank up and down; it made a low, sucking sound, drawing gasoline up into the hose and pumping it through, pouring it silently onto the water of the attic floor.

  Nick knelt over the body and studied it; he held the flashlight as close as possible, illuminating every detail, examining it from head to foot. Where was the anomaly the men had mentioned? There was nothing unusual about this body; there was no advanced stage of decomposition, there were no unusual wounds. In fact, there seemed to be no wounds at all—the cause of death was not immediately apparent. What was it about this body that had caused them to find it “strange”?

  Then he saw it—something he would have spotted immediately in the balanced light of day but now was disguised by the bluish beam of the halogen flashlight. It wasn’t the condition of the skin that made the body strange, it was the color—it should have been turning a bluish-green by now, but instead it was a bright pink.

  Nick sniffed at the air and wrinkled his nose; the stench of petroleum was strong here. There was no telling what the polluted water in this part of the Lower Nine might contain; the floodwaters had inundated gas stations and even entire refineries. He looked down at his dripping clothing and wondered what his skin might be absorbing even now. He held the flashlight low to the water and looked; sure enough, he could see the rainbow reflection of an oil film undulating across the surface.

  Nick held his own arm up against the cadaver and made a color comparison. There was no doubt about it: Either Nick had recently d
ied or the body was definitely pink—and that could mean only one thing. He looked around the room for some explanation but saw nothing.

  When Nick’s flashlight swept past the roof vent at the opposite end of the house, something caught his eye, causing him to look back—something out of context, something that seemed out of place. He looked again; he saw a black rubber tube protruding from between two vent slats and hanging down over the water. Some kind of fluid seemed to be gushing from the end.

  It suddenly stopped.

  Nick stood up.

  He saw a flash of light from outside the roof vent—not the steady glow of a flashlight’s beam, but the quick flaring glare of a match. He dropped his own flashlight into the water and took a deep breath.

  He turned and dived headfirst through the attic doorway into the house below.

  36

  Nick’s feet had barely disappeared beneath the water before the attic above him exploded in brilliant orange fire.

  The impact of his dive ripped the glasses from his face; he twisted in the water and felt around frantically for them, but it was useless. The lukewarm water was choked with particulate matter swirling around him like leaves on a windy day; he clutched at the largest pieces and felt nothing but clumps of soggy cardboard and waterlogged wood. He needed those glasses—without them he was blind—but right now there was something he needed even more.

  He needed air.

  He felt a wave of panic coming over him; a thousand thoughts rushed, screaming at him like madmen in a crowd.

  Go back! Better to burn than to drown!

  Get out! Swim hard, swim fast, try to find a way out!

  Give in! It’s no use, you can’t see, there isn’t time!

  He felt adrenaline pulsing through his system, accelerating his heart rate and robbing him of precious oxygen—oxygen that he couldn’t spare. In less than a minute his lungs would begin to feel that aching burn; his mind would grow numb and his thoughts confused; he would begin to lose muscular control; his motions would become desperate and spasmodic. Then his limbs would go limp as his body gently settled to the bottom, where the bacteria in his gut would rage and devour, bloating his abdomen with methane and CO2 until he slowly floated to the surface again.