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  “What’s goin’ on?”

  He stopped the car at the prescribed spot and turned off the engine. “I have to go somewhere.”

  “Where? Why can’t I—”

  “Just listen—I’ve only got a few seconds.” He checked the mirror again; the guard was approaching from behind. “Stay under the blanket—whatever you do, don’t show yourself. In a few seconds you’re going to hear me get out and close the door. When I do, you wait a few minutes—then go and find Beth.” He reached over the backseat and dropped the keys on the floor. “Hear that? That’s the keys; take the keys to Beth and tell her what happened. Stay with her; whatever she tells you to do, you do it—understand?”

  “I want to stay with you, Nick.”

  “Well, you can’t—not right now. Find Beth and tell her what happened—and don’t let anybody see you. Think you can do that?”

  “Sure.”

  “Stay with her, J.T.—that way I’ll know how to find you.”

  Nick could hear the guard’s feet crunching on the macadam. He opened the door and stepped out. “What’s going on?” he asked lightly. “Did I set off a metal detector or something? Darn those fingernail clippers.”

  “Do you have any personal items in your car, sir?”

  “Just my equipment bag in the trunk.”

  “Get it, please, and follow me.”

  Nick made no further attempt at levity; he did as he was instructed. The guard led him into the DPMU and directly to Denny’s office, then opened the door and stepped aside, motioning for Nick to enter.

  “Thanks for the ride in the patrol car,” Nick said. “I know where the principal’s office is—you could have just pointed.” He stepped into the room and found Denny seated at his desk. Denny didn’t bother to rise or even look up.

  “Hey, Denny, what’s the deal with all the—”

  “Sit down.”

  Nick heard the door click shut behind him. He turned and looked; the officer was standing with his hands folded at his waist, blocking the exit.

  Nick swung the equipment bag from his shoulder and dropped it on the floor. He pulled a chair up across from Denny’s desk and sat down. “Well, here we are again,” he said. “Talk about your déjà vu.”

  Denny looked up. “You’re going home, Nick.”

  “What?”

  “You pushed the wrong buttons this time; you jerked the wrong chains. I tried to warn you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about. I told you not to recover bodies—you did it anyway. The DEA said you were endangering an important investigation—you ignored them. You recovered two bodies and stored them illegally on an abandoned floor of Charity Hospital.”

  “I only did that because—”

  “I don’t want to hear it. You’ve been conducting your own private investigation again, haven’t you? Just like you always do.”

  “Denny, let me explain.”

  “I’m not looking for explanations. I don’t care why you did it. I’m here to tell you that you’re going home. Sorry—it’s nothing personal.”

  “You’re right about that,” Nick said. “This wasn’t even your decision, was it?”

  “It might as well have been.”

  “Who initiated this? Tell me, Denny—you at least owe me that much.”

  “I don’t owe you anything. I’ve been covering your backside for years now: your rule-breaking and your disregard for authority and your compulsive work habits—not to mention your wacky pet-conspiracy theories.”

  “Which usually turn out to be true.”

  “I’m tired of taking the heat for you, Nick. Every time you screw up, I get called into somebody’s office. Some pretty powerful people want you to go home this time, and I don’t have time to argue with them. Go home, Nick—go back to NC State and teach freshmen about bugs. Screw up there—let them deal with you.”

  Nick glanced over his shoulder at the St. Gabriel police officer. “Am I under armed guard?”

  “The officer is here to escort you directly from the building.”

  “Do you think we could ask Barney Fife to step out in the hallway for a minute?”

  “Why?”

  “I’d like to speak to you personally.”

  “You have nothing to say to me personally.”

  “Denny—please.”

  Denny hesitated and nodded to the officer, who then stepped out and closed the door.

  “Thank you,” Nick said.

  “Make it quick.”

  “I’ve got a wacky pet-conspiracy theory for you.”

  Denny closed his eyes and hung his head.

  “Just hear me out, okay? I’ve been looking for bodies in the Lower Ninth Ward. The DEA asked me to—they told you so. The only rule I broke was to bring a couple back—and that was only to collect forensic evidence before it was destroyed. I couldn’t bring them here—you told me not to. So I hauled a couple to Charity Hospital and looked them over there. Why not? The whole floor was underwater—what harm did it do? The bodies I took to Charity—I found them in the Lower Nine. One of them was inhabited by caddis flies just like the one I found before; the materials that made up the caddis-fly cases showed that the bodies originally came from out in the bayous. So how did they get back to the Lower Nine after they were already dead? They sure didn’t swim back.”

  “Nick, where are you going with this?”

  “So I went out to the bayous and took a look, and guess what I found? An abandoned meth lab, that’s what—and while I was there somebody took a shot at me. Somebody didn’t want me there, Denny—somebody is using this flood to cover up some unpleasant business. Somebody pulled those bodies out of the bayou and dumped them in the Lower Nine along with the folks who died in the hurricane; they figured that after a week or so they’d all look the same. And they would have been right—except that I found them first.”

  “Nick—”

  “And last night I was checking out another body—a man who died in his own attic. His body was pink, Denny—you know what that means: He died of carbon monoxide poisoning, like a guy who offs himself in his garage—only this guy wasn’t in the garage, he was in the attic. There were no wood-burning stoves around, no furnaces or heaters—nothing that would have produced carbon monoxide. Somebody gassed the guy, Denny; somebody murdered him in his own attic—and judging from the body, it was after the hurricane. You see what I’m getting at? Somebody is still using the flood as a way to cover up killings.”

  “And who’s behind this vast conspiracy of yours?”

  Nick paused. “I think it might be the DEA.”

  “Nick. C’mon.”

  “Or somebody in the DEA—somebody acting independently, without authority. Is that so crazy?”

  “Of course it is. Do you have any physical evidence to support these claims?”

  “How could I? People keep taking it away from me—but I’ve seen it.”

  “And on that basis you want to accuse the DEA of murder.”

  Nick shook his head. “Somebody doesn’t want me collecting this evidence.”

  “Nobody wants you collecting this evidence—that’s what I’ve been telling you from the beginning. Why can’t you get that through your head? The DEA is involved in this, Nick—they told you so themselves. You’re screwing up one of their investigations—that’s why they want you to go home. That’s right, it’s the DEA that wants you out of here—add that to your conspiracy theory. Just get out of here and stop making things harder for the rest of us.”

  Nick just sat there and looked at him. There were a dozen more things he could have added: the fact that Jerry had disappeared; the fact that he was being followed; the fact that someone had tried to kill him in a flaming attic. But what was the point? Denny hadn’t seen the evidence; he had no reason to believe. It would all just sound like more wild and groundless accusations, just paranoid rantings from a sleep-deprived man.

  “Okay,” Nick said.
“I’ll go.”

  “I wasn’t asking you, Nick—I was telling you.”

  “Is it okay if I take care of a few things on the way out?”

  “No, it isn’t.” Denny walked to the door and opened it, motioning for the guard to reenter. There was a second officer with him this time; he was carrying Nick’s duffel bag packed with all of his belongings.

  Nick frowned. “Is this really necessary? I feel like a shoplifter.”

  “I’m just following orders,” Denny said. “You should try it sometime.”

  “Thanks for the advice.”

  “This officer has been instructed to drive you directly to the Baton Rouge Airport, where he’ll drop you off. After that it’s up to you. Go wherever you want—just don’t come back here.”

  “I hope you know you’re being used,” Nick said.

  “It’s happened before. You should know—you’re usually the one doing it.”

  “I’m right this time, Denny. I know you can’t see it yet, but I’m right.”

  Nick walked to the door and looked at the officer carrying his bag. “I hope you folded things neatly,” he said. “I’m a stickler about creases.”

  40

  “Excuse me—where is the gift shop?”

  The Delta Airlines ticket agent pointed across the hall. “Right there, ma’am.”

  “Thank you.”

  Beth hurried across the wide hallway, straightening her hair as she went, the heels of her shoes rapping like gavels on the glossy terrazzo floor. She entered the gift shop and glanced both ways; there was Nick Polchak, standing at a kiosk and squinting at an inflatable fleece-lined neck support.

  “Nick—there you are. I came as soon as I could.”

  “It’s amazing,” he said. “I’ve been standing here looking at all this crap, and I’m actually starting to think I need one of these.”

  “J.T. said someone came and took you away. I had no idea where you were until you called.”

  “Do people actually use these things? Do they take them out on the airplane and blow them up in front of everybody else? What would other passengers think—it looks like you brought your own flotation device.”

  “Nick, what happened? What’s going on?”

  “It could have practical applications, I suppose. If the flight attendant wants to know if you’ve had too much to drink, she could just test the air in your neck support.”

  “Nick!”

  He turned and looked at her. “This time you look terrible.”

  She glared at him. “That’s because I keep getting calls from desperate men in the middle of the night.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “Nick, be serious. What happened tonight? What are you doing at the airport?”

  “They sent me home, Beth.”

  “What?”

  “The DEA pulled some strings and had my credentials pulled. They’re sending me home.”

  “Oh, Nick, I’m so sorry.”

  “It makes perfect sense, if you think about it. They don’t have to kill me—they just want me out of the way. All they need is time—just a few more days for the water to finish the job. There won’t be any evidence left.”

  “But what about Jerry? Someone will eventually find him.”

  “Sure, in a week or so—probably at the Superdome, tucked away in a dark corner somewhere. What will that prove? Jerry worked for FEMA—half the people in the Superdome would have killed him if they had the chance.”

  She stepped closer. “Nick, listen to me: You tried—that’s all anybody can do. No one could have worked harder. What you did for J.T.—what you did for the people of the Lower Ninth Ward—Jerry would have been proud of you. I’m proud of you.”

  He looked at her. “Will you miss me?”

  “Of course I’ll miss you. I know we don’t always see eye-to-eye, but I look forward to seeing you at these deployments; they’d be boring without you. The truth is—I still care about you.”

  “You do?”

  She kissed him on the cheek. “What time is your flight?”

  He looked at his ticket. “Noon.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “No, a week from Thursday.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “What?”

  “You didn’t think I was really going home, did you? I don’t have to leave town—I just can’t go back to DMORT again. New Orleans is full of civilian volunteers; there’s no reason I can’t be one of them.”

  “Then why did you buy a ticket?”

  “The government’s paying for it—besides, I get frequent-flier miles.”

  She glared at him. “Why did you let me go on like that?”

  “It’s healthy to express your emotions. You can’t keep things like that bottled up inside—you might explode.”

  “I still might,” she growled.

  “Did you leave a lipstick mark? That’s so embarrassing.”

  “If you’re not leaving, then why did you call me?”

  “I need transportation.”

  “I’m not a shuttle service,” she said. “Call a cab—get your own ride.”

  “I don’t need a ride, I need transportation. I want you to rent me a car.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because I don’t want it in my name. If they’re watching my credit card, I don’t want them to know I’m still here. They dropped me at the airport and I bought a ticket; as far as they know, I’m gone.”

  He took her by the arm and led her out into the ticket lobby, past the security entrance and baggage claim and toward the rental car counters at the opposite end of the terminal. “Where’s J.T.? Is he all right?”

  “I left him sleeping in my bed,” she said.

  “Keep a close eye on him, Beth. He’s just a kid, but you never know.”

  They stopped at the first rental car location they came to. “I need a car,” Beth said. “What’s the cheapest thing you’ve got?”

  Nick frowned. “You drive a Lexus and you’re sticking me with a Kia? I thought you cared about me.”

  “I said that under false pretenses,” she said. “That’s called ‘entrapment.’”

  Nick turned to the agent. “Have you got anything with GPS?”

  “Only on our luxury cars, sir.”

  “She’ll take it.”

  “Wait a minute—” Beth complained.

  “It’s a business expense—you can deduct it.”

  Ten minutes later, Nick was dropping his duffel bag into the spacious trunk of a midnight-blue Lincoln Town Car. “Now, this is me,” he said.

  “No, this is me. Don’t fall asleep at the wheel—it’s on my credit card.”

  “Relax, I bought their insurance. I’ll try to call you when I get settled in someplace. I’ll have to find a pay phone somewhere; I sure wish they’d get the cell phones working again.”

  “Nick, where will you go?”

  “I know just the place,” he said. “It’s cheap, it’s out of the way—and the folks there don’t like federal agents.”

  It was after midnight by the time Beth got back to St. Gabriel. She slipped off her shoes and tiptoed into the dormitory, hoping not to wake either the boy or the female DMORT personnel sleeping nearby.

  When she got to her bed, she found it empty.

  She checked the floor on either side. She got down on her knees and looked under the bed. She tiptoed to the bed nearest hers and shook the woman awake.

  “Wha—”

  “Andrea, it’s me. Did you notice anybody come in or out of here tonight? Did you see a young boy leave, about ten years old?”

  “I didn’t see anyone. What’s wrong?”

  “Never mind—go back to sleep.”

  She checked the bathroom—it was empty. She went to the DPMU and checked the cafeteria—maybe the boy was hungry, maybe he had gone off in search of an MRE—but there was no one there. J.T. had disappeared without a trace, and there was no one she could ask about him—no one else had seen him enter, and he wasn’t supposed to be
there.

  She stepped outside and looked around. The grounds around the DPMU were dark and still. She hurried across the parking lot to Nick’s trailer; she quietly pulled the door open and stuck her head inside. She saw the abandoned spaces that Nick and Jerry had once occupied—but no sign of J.T.

  She felt panic rising inside her like a tide; she could feel her heart pounding in her throat. She took long, slow breaths, trying to push it all down. She needed to think.

  Where would the boy have gone? Maybe he had gone looking for Nick. He knew he wasn’t supposed to, but he’d done it before—he had walked five miles alone in the darkness across the city of New Orleans. It was only ten miles to Baton Rouge—but the boy didn’t know that Nick was in Baton Rouge—he wouldn’t have known where to go. Would he have gone back to the city—back to the Lower Nine? Nothing she considered seemed to make sense.

  Suddenly a thought occurred to her: The entire DPMU is surrounded by cyclone fence topped with razor wire—the only way in or out is through the main gate.

  She hurried to the guard gate and found the officer on duty. “Did you see a boy go out of here earlier tonight—in the last two or three hours? He would have been about ten years old—about so tall.”

  “Civilians aren’t allowed on the grounds, ma’am.”

  “No, of course not.” She stopped and thought. “What about cars? Have any cars passed by here other than mine?”

  “We changed shifts at midnight,” he said. “I’ve only been on duty for half an hour, and I haven’t seen anybody.”

  “Do you keep any kind of gate log?”

  He took a clipboard from the fence and handed it to her.

  “I don’t recognize any of these names,” she said.

  “They’re all guests. People who work here, people with valid ID, we just wave ’em through. That’s what they told us to do.”

  She checked the column marked “Time In/Out”—the final entry was at 4:45 p.m. “I don’t see any guests listed for tonight.”

  “Looks that way. Is there a problem?”

  “Do you know this area very well? The area around New Orleans, I mean?”

  “Yes, ma’am—lived here all my life.”

  “Can you give me some directions then?”