by Tim Downs
“Are you okay?” she asked.
He didn’t answer.
“Nick.”
“What?”
“I was talking to you.”
“Oh. Did I miss anything?”
“I just asked if you’re okay.”
“Why don’t you lower that seat back and get some sleep?”
“That’s just your way of saying you don’t want to talk to me.”
“I have no problem saying, ‘I don’t want to talk to you.’ It doesn’t work, but I have no problem saying it.”
“I was thinking about tonight. Do you think the man who tried to shoot us was really a federal agent?”
“He wanted us to think he was. It might have just been a way to get us to step out into the open. People respond to authority.”
“You don’t.”
“I have authority issues—my psychiatrist told me so.”
“If you hadn’t pulled me back, he might have killed me.”
“What else could I do? You had the car keys.”
“Thank you for saving my life.”
“Any time.”
“On the other hand, I wouldn’t have been in danger if it wasn’t for you.”
“Boy, talk about fickle.”
“I don’t know whether to thank you or shoot you.”
“That pretty much sums up my whole relationship with women.”
“I think you owe me an apology.”
“What for?”
She shuddered. “For those swamp rats.”
“They’re called nutria,” Nick said. “They’re harmless herbivores. What is this thing you have about rodents anyway? It doesn’t make sense.”
“It’s not supposed to make sense, Nick—that’s why they call it an irrational fear. Take it from me: Nothing is harder to comprehend than someone else’s neurosis.” She looked out the window. “I felt like such a weakling.”
“Why? You faced your worst nightmare and came through it—the Mickey Mouse Club from Hell. How many people can say that? You should be proud of yourself.”
“I don’t feel proud. I climbed up in your lap—I had my arms around your neck.”
“It wasn’t the first time.”
She looked at him. “I didn’t think you remembered.”
He shrugged. “What do you know about methamphetamine?”
“What?”
“Methamphetamine: speed, meth, crank.”
“I know what it is, Nick.”
“What do you know about it?”
“I’m familiar with the psychopathology of addiction, if that’s what you mean. I’ve treated lots of addictive personalities in the past. In my level of practice, I mostly get cocaine users; heroin addicts usually can’t afford me.”
“I forgot what a high-class shrink you are. What about meth?”
“Different drugs attract different kinds of users. Methamphetamine isn’t like cocaine; people don’t take it just for the euphoria, they take it because they have the need for speed—the need to stay awake or focus for extended periods of time. It’s traditionally been a white, blue-collar drug—truck drivers, people like that. But young professionals are getting into it now. Computer programmers seem to go for it; so do college students—you can get a lot of studying done when you can stay awake for two weeks straight. It’s a pretty bad way to make the dean’s list, though; it can lead to psychosis. Eventually you just burn up—you die from heart failure, or brain damage, or stroke.”
“Sounds like you’ve dealt with a meth user before.”
“I thought so.”
“You thought so?”
“Yes. You.”
Nick turned and looked at her. “I don’t do drugs, Beth. I never did.”
“I know that now. I wasn’t sure then.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Face it, Nick, when you get focused you manifest some of the classic symptoms of meth addiction: insomnia, suspiciousness, hyperactive behavior. I had to watch you very closely at first. It took a long time before I realized that you got your neurosis the old-fashioned way: You earned it.”
“So how did you know I was clean?”
“You lacked some of the other classic symptoms: confusion, tremors, pupil dilation, impaired speech. You’ve never had trouble talking—you just don’t make any sense. Why are you asking about this?”
“That shack we found in the bayou tonight—I think it was a clandestine meth lab.”
“How do you know?”
“The smell. Remember?”
“Yes—it smelled like ammonia.”
“The Cajuns thought the guys who owned that shack were trappers—they thought they must have been trapping foxes because the place smelled like urine. That’s a dead giveaway that somebody’s been cooking meth: anhydrous ammonia. It’s used in the manufacturing process.”
“How do you know all this? Maybe I was wrong about you.”
“I’ve worked with the DEA before—it’s part of what forensic entomologists do. Sometimes when they make a major drug bust they call me—they want to know where the shipment came from. I go through the stuff and look for insect parts; if I’m lucky, I can pin the point of origin to a specific location. I’ve learned a few things about the drug industry; I’ve learned a few things about the DEA too. Tough business, tough people. You don’t want to mess with the DEA.”
“Is that what you think we’re doing?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“The shack was burned out. What do you think happened?”
“Hard to say—might’ve been the ammonia. Pure ammonia is dangerous stuff, and it’s hard to come by. You can find it on any cotton farm; sometimes meth producers steal the stuff but store it in improper containers, like propane tanks. But the tanks weren’t designed to hold ammonia, so they blow up. Meth labs blow up all the time—that’s another dead giveaway. Maybe that’s what happened to this one; maybe that’s why the smell was so strong.”
“The man who tried to shoot us—he did it when we were looking at the shack. Do you think it was just a convenient place to try—just the first place we happened to stop? Or do you think he fired at us because we found the shack?”
“You’re full of good questions,” Nick said. He glanced over at her. “So you thought I might be a drug addict.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Was it? You thought I was hallucinating tonight.”
“I never said you were hallucinating. I said you could have been.”
“The point is, I wasn’t.”
“No. The point is, you could have been. People depend on you, Nick—that’s what I was trying to tell you. My life was in your hands tonight.”
“And things turned out just fine.”
“Yes, because you were thinking clearly—because you made good judgments. But what if you weren’t thinking clearly? What if you had let me try to swim to shore?”
“In other words, what if I was hallucinating when you were out of your mind?”
“Yes, if you want to put it that way. The point I’m trying to make is, people depend on you. You throw yourself in harm’s way without thinking twice about it—but you forget sometimes that there are other people with you.”
“You’re talking about Jerry.”
“Jerry’s a big boy. Jerry’s known you as long as I have; he knows what he’s getting into. I was thinking about J.T.”
“What about him?”
“You take him out in that boat with you every day. I was in a boat with you for one night, and look what happened to me.”
“Nothing happened to you.”
“Are you sure it’s a good idea, Nick—taking J.T. out there with you every day? He’s a boy—he’ll throw himself off a cliff if you dare him to. Can he count on you to make good judgments for him?”
“He’s safer with me than he would be anyplace else,” Nick said.
“Even after tonight?”
“What does that mean?”
“You didn�
�t answer my question earlier.”
“Which one? There were so many.”
“The man who tried to kill us—do you think he really was a federal agent?”
Nick paused. “I don’t know. I don’t believe we just happened to bump into him out there, especially in the middle of the night—and I can’t believe it was a coincidence that it happened at an abandoned meth lab. Whoever he was, he must have followed us. I think he waited to see if I’d find that lab before he tried to kill me.”
“You mean us.”
“No, I mean me. Bringing you along was a last-minute decision; I think he was only looking for me.”
“But he would have shot me too.”
“Yes, he would have—just to cover his tracks.”
“And what about J.T.? This man, whoever he is—he’s still out there. If he decides to come looking for you again, will J.T. be with you?”
Nick didn’t reply.
She watched his face carefully when she spoke her next words: “By the way, I spoke with the Department of Social Services yesterday.”
“Did you get the name of his social worker? What did you find out?”
She paused. “Can I ask you something first?”
“I’m sure there’s no way to stop you.”
“I’ve never seen you form an attachment with a child before. What’s different about this one?”
“What do you mean? I’ve always liked kids.”
“Come on, Nick, this is me you’re talking to. There’s never been room in your world for a child. You’re a scientist and a professor. If I asked you to list the ten things you love most, bugs would be nine of them—and children wouldn’t make the list. What’s different this time?”
Nick shook his head. “I took him to the New Orleans Convention Center the other night; I wanted him to have a safe place to sleep and something to eat. Do you know what he did? He hiked five miles across town in the dark and slept in a boat by himself.”
“Who does that sound like?”
“He’s quite a kid.”
“You sound proud.”
“Well, you’ve got to appreciate that kind of initiative.”
“Some people would call that rebellion. What did you say to him?”
“I told him he needed to follow orders next time.”
“You were angry with him?”
“Sure, a little.”
“Good. That means you were afraid.”
He frowned. “You know, you really are annoying sometimes.”
“Fear can be a healthy thing, Nick. It means you know what might have happened; it means you know what could happen still. Fear is like our headlights: It illuminates things, it lets you anticipate what might be coming down the road.”
“Headlights also project,” Nick said. “That’s the problem with fear: You can never tell when you’re just imagining things—like our ‘kidnappers’ tonight.”
“Okay, I was wrong about them. They turned out to be nice fellows—a little rough around the edges, but nice.”
“I think the uncle likes you,” Nick said. “You know, if you play your cards right, you could get a fur coat out of this.”
“Just think about what I said, okay?”
“Don’t I always?”
“I seriously doubt it.”
“Now, what about Health and Human Services? What did you find out about the boy?”
She stopped and looked him over; she wasn’t sure whether to tell him or not. He had a right to know—but something inside her told her to wait. There was something different about Nick—something about the way he was connecting with this boy. Nick Polchak had always thought of himself as an insect, but somewhere deep inside he seemed to be feeling the first stirrings of pride and anger and fear for another human being—and the therapist in her wanted those feelings to continue. In her heart she still wasn’t certain whether Nick was good for the boy, but one thing she felt sure of: This boy was good for Nick.
“Nothing yet,” she said. “I’ll let you know when I find out anything.”
They arrived at the gate of the DPMU. Nick stopped at the guardhouse and handed their credentials to the guard.
“I suppose you’ll head back to the city,” Beth said.
“I have to,” Nick said.
“No, you don’t—you want to. Take responsibility for your choices, Nick.”
“Okay, I want to. It won’t be long before daybreak—I need to wake up Jerry and J.T. so we can catch a ride.”
“J.T. slept in your trailer last night? You know that’s against regulations. I could report you, you know.”
“You won’t.”
“How do you know?”
Nick leaned closer. “When have I ever invited you to ‘take a nice walk down some quiet country road’?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I asked you why you came along tonight, and that’s what you told me. Who are you kidding? You knew what you were getting yourself into.”
“You think I wanted to sit in a boat full of dead rats?”
“I think you wanted to get out of that stuffy little office before all your arteries hardened. I think you wanted to get out of people’s heads and into the real world for a change. I think you wanted what the rest of us want—to feel like you’re alive while you still can.”
“I think you’re nuts.”
“Take responsibility for your choices, Beth—that’s what I always do.”
“Get out of the car,” she said angrily.
Nick got out and closed the door—then he leaned in the window and smiled. “You broke the rules,” he said. “You were out all night. You defied the orders of a federal agent. You broke curfew. You broke the law. You’re a bad girl now, Dr. Woodbridge—welcome to the club.”
27
Saturday, September 3
“Somebody shot at you? Are you sure?”
“Gee, let me think,” Nick said. “I heard a gun fire, and then a bullet whizzed by my head—yeah, I’m pretty sure. Give me a break, Jerry, I know when somebody’s shooting at me.”
“Did you get a look at him?”
“It was pitch black. Some guy followed Beth and me out into the bayous last night. He identified himself as a federal agent and ordered us to come out; when we refused, he opened fire.”
“You were with Beth? Are you sure she didn’t shoot at you?”
“Very funny, Jerry.”
“What were you two doing out in the bayous?”
“Long story. The point is, somebody took a shot at me, and I wanted you to know.”
“This is bad,” Jerry said. “You’re usually on the job at least a week before somebody wants to kill you. Do you think the guy was really a fed?”
“That’s not their usual way of doing business,” Nick said. “I made somebody mad, that’s for sure.”
“You make everybody mad, but they don’t usually try to shoot you for it. Are you planning to report this to somebody?”
“Yeah, how about that LaTourneau guy? I’ll ask him to check it out in his spare time. Half the cops in the city are off-duty and the other half are working overtime; there’s nobody to report it to. Besides, who’s going to pay any attention to one random shooting? There are guns all over the city right now.”
“At least tell Denny. He should know.”
Nick didn’t reply.
Jerry rolled his eyes. “You weren’t supposed to be out there, were you?”
“Let’s just say that, given the current status of my relationship with Denny, it might be best not to mention it right now.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to keep looking at bodies, that’s what. Somebody’s upset with me, and it’s not because I’m helping out with the rescue efforts. I’ve been told three times now not to recover bodies, and somebody just let me know they’re serious about it. I want to know who they are—and I want to know why.” He looked at Jerry. “All kidding aside—we’re working together, so I
thought you should know. I don’t expect anybody to try anything out here in broad daylight, but let’s keep our eyes out; keep that head down on that enormous body of yours.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
Suddenly J.T. stamped his foot on the center bench and pointed across the water. “Over there!” he shouted. “Down the end of this street and go left.”
Nick squinted but as usual saw nothing. He called up to Jerry: “Do you see anything?”
“I never do,” Jerry said. “Trust the kid—he’s never wrong.”
Nick took the boat down a long row of houses and swung around into a wide-open area, where they found a collection of coffins of various shapes and colors tightly roped together and floating half-submerged like a raft of logs.
“The kid’s amazing,” Jerry said. “He can spot bodies inside coffins.”
“What’re they doin’ here?” J.T. asked.
“They came up out of the graveyards,” Nick said. “There’s air inside the coffins—that’s what makes them float.”
“Like the refrigerators.”
“That’s right—like the refrigerators. Looks like somebody’s collecting the coffins and storing them here until the water goes down. I guess they’ll eventually have to figure out who they are and where they came from and bury them all over again.”
“What a headache,” Jerry said.
“Yeah, the fun never stops around here.”
They heard the sound of another engine now; Nick spotted the boat and waved it down. This time it was a FEMA Urban Search and Rescue Team.
“Afternoon!” Nick shouted over the engine. “We’re with DMORT up in St. Gabriel. We’re looking for—”
“—my father,” J.T. called out. “Have you seen him?”
The crew looked at the boy, then at one another.
“The boy’s searching for his dad,” Nick explained. “They got separated in the storm. We’ve been looking for him ever since.”
“Have you tried the Superdome yet?”
“Not yet.”
“That’s where I’d look—that’s where most everybody went after the storm. I hear they finally got buses through; they’re lined up to take people to the Astrodome in Houston. They hauled five thousand off on Thursday; they say the whole place could be empty in a day or two. If you’re gonna look there, you’d better do it soon.”