Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle

by Tim Downs

  “Thanks. By the way, we’re looking for bodies. Spread the word, will you? When you pass other boats, tell them the guy with the glasses is the man to call.”

  “How do they contact you?”

  “Any word on when cell phones might be working again?”

  “Sorry, haven’t heard a thing.”

  “Well, I’m out here every day; just tell them to wave me down.”

  “Will do. You fellas have a good day; be careful out here.”

  “Yeah, you too.”

  They watched as the powerful FEMA boat roared away.

  Nick looked at his watch. “It’s about one o’clock, and we don’t have any bodies to look at right now. I suppose we could keep cruising around and hope that old Hawkeye here finds us some more, but I think this might be a good time to visit the Superdome.” He looked at J.T. and smiled. “What do you say?”

  The boy just shrugged. Nick was a little surprised at his lack of enthusiasm. Maybe he knew that their chance of finding one man among thousands was slim; maybe he was afraid that Nick was trying to dump him off again. It didn’t matter; if there was a chance of finding the boy’s father at the Superdome, Nick wanted to try. He kept remembering Beth’s words from the night before: People depend on you. Yesterday he was in no hurry to be rid of the kid, but that was yesterday; last night someone had tried to kill him, and he knew he owed it to the boy to get him back to his father and out of harm’s way.

  “We’re not planning to leave you there,” Nick told him. “We’re looking for your dad, that’s all. If we find him, you go with him; if we don’t find him, you stay with me—fair enough?”

  J.T. grinned and nodded.

  Nick looked at Jerry. “I’m just trying to keep my promise here. If his dad gets on a bus for Houston, there’s no telling when we’ll be able to find him. Are you okay with this?”

  “Might as well try,” Jerry said. “Like the man said, it’s now or never. So how do we get to the Superdome?”

  “The same way we got to Charity Hospital—they’re just a few blocks apart. That’s the quickest way I know.”

  Nick turned the boat around and headed back for the break in the Industrial Canal. From half a mile away they could already feel the heavy beating of helicopter blades. Lumbering Chinook helicopters formed a dotted line in the sky overhead, hoisting three-thousand-pound sandbags and dropping them into the breach one by one. The Army Corps of Engineers had been at this seemingly futile task for days now; at first, the bags had just disappeared into the water without a trace. But persistence was paying off, and the massive white sacks now protruded from the water like garbage bags at a landfill; the breach was slowly beginning to close from south to north.

  “They’re making progress here,” Nick said. “We may not be able to pass this way much longer.” He guided the boat through the remaining opening and out into the Industrial Canal.

  They followed the same route they had before, through the Upper Ninth Ward and across the neighborhoods of Bywater, St. Claude, and St. Roch. Nick found that his memory was a poor guide; everything looked different in the light of day. At night the entire city blended together into a vast black landscape; now he could make out individual buildings and rooftops. The shingles looked newer here; gables had been repainted. This neighborhood looked better than the Lower Nine—but, then, they all did.

  They could see the Superdome from blocks away; the sun, just past its zenith, reflected brightly off the mustard-yellow surface of its damaged roof. They stopped their boat a few blocks back and surveyed the area; the sidewalk surrounding the stadium was a teeming mass of lawn chairs, mattresses, garbage, and people.

  They sat silently and watched.

  “So how do we do this?” Jerry asked.

  “Good question,” Nick replied. “We can’t just sail up to the front door—that’s a good way to lose a boat. Some of these people have been here for almost a week.” He searched the area and discovered a narrow alley just two blocks from the stadium. It was concealed by shadow from the afternoon sun, and Nick saw a way that he could approach the alley unseen. “We’ll hide the boat in that alley,” he said. “We’ll wade in from there.”

  “Wade? In the water?”

  “That’s where most wading is done, Jerry.”

  Jerry looked at the water and frowned. “Isn’t there some other way?”

  “We could use you as a raft and row ashore, but either way you’d get wet. Have you got any other ideas?”

  He didn’t.

  Ten minutes later, the boat was chained securely to an alley downspout and the two men lowered themselves into the sickly green water. Nick’s elbows just touched the surface.

  “It’s filthy,” Jerry complained. “It’s hot too.”

  “Let’s not do any snorkeling then,” Nick said. “J.T., climb onto my back. You’re a little short on clothing right now—let’s keep you as dry as we can.” The boy leaned out of the boat and wrapped both arms tightly around Nick’s neck. Nick hunched over, dragging J.T. out of the boat and onto his back. The boy was heavier than Nick had anticipated, and the sudden weight made him stumble forward.

  “You got me?” J.T. asked.

  “No problem,” Nick said. “Beth helped me train for this.”

  They slowly waded down the alley and out into the street toward the stadium, carefully shuffling forward like men testing thin ice, keeping their center of gravity back in case they encountered underwater debris. The going was hard at first, but it got easier as they went; the water gradually grew shallower until they arrived dripping wet on the hopelessly congested sidewalk.

  Nick half-expected the crowd to fall silent and part down the middle when they emerged from the water—after all, it was a pretty good entrance. It didn’t happen; he had to push his way through the crowd, stepping over blankets and water bottles and shoving aside piles of garbage with the sides of his legs. He was wading through a sea of humanity and their refuse; compared to this, the water had been easy.

  People were everywhere—thousands of them. Some sat calmly in lawn chairs, watching the chaos around them as if it were a passing parade. Others lay on mattresses peacefully asleep, as if some prankster had transported them here from a nearby hotel. The heat was oppressive in the heart of the crowd; no air could move between the people. Women fanned themselves; men stood shirtless and cussing; children wandered in their diapers or in nothing at all. People seemed to rotate from the center to the perimeter like bees in a hive, releasing the heat and taking their turn for the relief of a passing breeze.

  Debris covered everything. Evacuees had come to the Superdome six days ago hauling whatever precious possessions they could carry, spreading them out around them and establishing little settlements. There were laundry baskets, boxes, pillows, houseplants, televisions—even framed paintings and upholstered chairs. None of it looked precious now; it was all in ruins, just part of the burden of staying alive.

  The stench was almost overwhelming. Disposable diapers had been dropped everywhere, some not even folded; men and boys urinated in the street or against the stadium walls; the air reeked of sweat, and feces, and rotting food. The stench was nauseating, but somehow people seemed oblivious to it. Nick found it astonishing how quickly the human species grows dull—especially to itself.

  The noise was nearly deafening, and the buses only made it worse. There were shouting and panic as families tried to stay together, calling out family names and searching frantically for wayward children. People gathered up remnants of their household possessions only to be turned back at the bus doors; there was room for people, but almost nothing else. Many ignored the buses altogether, either waiting for some better option or just paralyzed by the stupor that hopelessness can bring.

  Nick leaned back and let J.T. slip off onto the sidewalk. “You’ve got legs,” he said. “Time to use them.”

  They pushed forward until they reached the stadium and went inside, eventually finding their way onto the playing field itself.
They looked up; the arena looked like a half-empty salad bowl. The same debris that covered every square foot of pavement outside was scattered across every section of the stands.

  “Look at this place,” Jerry said. “Who’s in charge here?”

  “Don’t expect anybody to raise their hand,” Nick said. “C’mon—over there.”

  Two National Guardsmen in full combat gear stood near the goalposts in the Saints’ end zone. They were armed to the teeth, with formidable-looking M16s slung from shoulder straps and angled at the ground. Nick almost laughed; he knew it was just a show of force, a vague reminder to troublemakers that law and order still existed in some parts of America and might even return to New Orleans one day. It won’t be today, Nick thought; if this crowd got nasty, they could overwhelm two soldiers in seconds.

  Nick pulled out his credentials and held them up as he approached the first Guardsman—a healthy thing to do when approaching an armed man in a crowd.

  “Afternoon,” he said. “Aren’t you guys hot in all that gear?”

  The Guardsman studied his credentials before responding. “We’re dying. What can I do for you gentlemen?”

  “You can help us find somebody.”

  The Guardsman rolled his eyes. “He’d better be twenty feet tall, or you’ll never find him around here. Who you looking for?”

  “This boy’s dad.”

  “Good luck. There’s no power, so there’s no public-address system. The JumboTron is down; so are the scoreboards. There’s no way to get a message out around here; you’ll just have to look for him.”

  “Anybody got a megaphone?”

  “Our people do; we’re using them to organize food distribution and get people to the buses. There’s no way they’ll let you use one just to look for somebody—half the people here would want to use one.”

  “I’m with a federal agency,” Nick said. “Maybe I could pull rank.”

  The Guardsman grinned. “Friend—you’ve got no rank around here. And if you don’t mind a suggestion: I wouldn’t tell anybody I’m with a federal agency right about now.”

  Nick pointed to the binoculars hanging around the Guardsman’s neck. “Mind if we borrow those? You’re not using them standing here.”

  “I suppose not,” he said, lifting the leather strap from around his neck and looping it over the boy’s. “You know how to use these, son?”

  “Sure,” J.T. said, beaming.

  “He’s a smart guy,” Nick said. “He knows everything.”

  J.T. immediately turned and ran toward a stairway that headed up into the stands.

  “Whoa!” Nick called after him. “Where you going?”

  “Up top,” the boy said, pointing to the bleachers. “Can’t see from down here.”

  Nick shook his head. “I’d better go after him—I’d hate to get separated here. That’s all I need right now: two lost people.” He turned to Jerry. “Do me a favor, will you? The father’s name is Bastien Walker. Make a loop around the sidewalk and yell his name—see if you get any takers. Try the main concourse and mezzanine too.”

  “You think he’ll hear me over all this noise?”

  “It’s the best we’ve got, Jerry. You’re a good baritone; breathe from the diaphragm—project. The kid’s got the eyes, but you’ve got the voice; if anybody can do it, you can.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll stick with J.T. We’ll go up top and look for faces in the crowd. We’ll meet you back here in one hour, okay?”

  “What do you think the odds are of us finding this guy?”

  Nick looked at the Guardsman. “How many people do you have here?”

  “About thirty thousand, last count.”

  “There you go,” Nick said. “One in thirty thousand—about the same odds as your getting married.”

  “Thanks. I’m a bundle of hope.”

  Nick started for the stairs. “One hour, Jerry—right here.”

  Outside the Superdome, another man waded ashore. He bent down and picked up a discarded black ball cap with the logo of the New Orleans Saints.

  28

  “Bastien Walker!” Jerry shouted. “I’m looking for Bastien Walker!”

  He waited, but again heard no response. He looked from side to side, searching for any pair of eyes attempting to make eye contact, but there were none. He was starting to feel a little silly; what was the point? In a normal setting, the very fact that he was shouting would have turned at least a few heads, but not here. He heard a dozen other voices shouting someone else’s name with even more volume and more urgency, and no one was paying any attention to them either. These people were immune; they had lived with the roar of the crowd for so long that a single voice no longer stood out—even a shouting voice. What were the chances of finding the boy’s father this way? He’d almost have to stumble over the man, and what were the odds of that?

  Still, he’d promised Nick he would try.

  Jerry finished his search of the sidewalk without success and decided to try inside instead. That’s where he would be if he were the man—even without air-conditioning it was better than standing in the brutal Louisiana sun. He headed into the main concourse and was just about to call out the man’s name again when someone poked him on the shoulder from behind.

  He turned to see a man about his own height in a black cap with a gold fleur-de-lis logo.

  “Are you with the government?” the man demanded.

  “Well . . . sort of,” Jerry said.

  “I want to know who’s responsible for this.”

  “For what, exactly?”

  “For what? For all this. I been here since Sunday night—that’s a week ago tomorrow. ‘Head for the Superdome,’ they told me, ‘they got everything there.’ Only there was no food and almost no water—they forgot to mention that. ‘You’ll be safe there,’ they said—except the hurricane ripped the roof right off the place and rain came pouring in. Then the power went out—no electricity. Then the johns overflowed—no bathrooms. Still no food, still no water, and every day they tell us, ‘Trucks are on the way! Buses any minute to take you all out of here!’ I saw my first truck day before yesterday—it took four days to get here, and it didn’t have but a handful of supplies!”

  The man kept moving closer to Jerry; he was becoming more and more agitated.

  “Sir, please keep your voice down,” Jerry said.

  “Don’t tell me to keep my voice down! People are dyin’ here, man, don’t you know that? We got old people, sick people; we got women and children. I want to know what you people are going to do about it.”

  “Sir, I’m not in charge here.”

  “You’re with the government, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “You can do something, can’t you? We got people who need medicine. We got bodies pilin’ up in the hallways.”

  Jerry blinked. “What bodies?”

  “Are you kidding? Don’t you people know nothin’? We’ve had murders here, mister—we’ve had old folks dyin’ in their sleep. The bodies started to stink—we had to haul them off to a back room just to keep people from getting sick.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Am I sure? I helped haul them there myself.”

  “How many bodies are we talking about?”

  “Who knows? Twenty, maybe thirty—we had to stack ’em up.”

  Jerry looked at his watch; he still had a few minutes. “This back room you mentioned—can you take me there?”

  “Sure, if you want. Follow me.”

  The man led Jerry down a service corridor that grew darker as it went; there were doorways on either side that opened into pitch-black rooms. The man stopped at each doorway and poked his head inside, though Jerry couldn’t imagine what he could see. Maybe he wasn’t trying to see; maybe he was sniffing the air. Jerry did the same.

  Finally, the man stepped aside and gestured to one of the rooms. “In here,” he said. “Watch your step.”

  Je
rry stepped past the man and into the darkness.

  Suddenly, he felt a hand grip his chin and jerk his head back violently. He felt a body press up against his and a searing pain in his right side just below the rib cage—and then, strangely, all the lights went on. The light was brilliant, almost blinding—

  And then it slowly faded into nothing.

  29

  Nick looked at his watch. It was almost 6:30—if they left right now, they would just have time to make it back before dark.

  “Where’s Jerry?” J.T. asked.

  “I told you, I don’t know.”

  Nick and J.T. waited at the edge of the sidewalk where they had first waded ashore. It had been almost four hours since the two men had parted company, and there was no sign of Jerry anywhere. Nick kept reviewing their departure in his head: He was supposed to follow J.T. into the stands, and Jerry was supposed to circle the stadium to call out the father’s name. “We’ll meet you back here in one hour,” he told him—those were his exact words. “One hour—right here”; there was no room for confusion or doubt.

  Jerry was now three hours overdue, and Nick had a very bad feeling.

  Nick and J.T. had spent their hour searching the stands for any familiar face. J.T. had taken up position on the fifty-yard line in the final row of seats, planting his elbows on his knees to hold the binoculars steady while he scanned the crowd. He was delighted with his new toy; he spent as much time looking at the binoculars as through them, and Nick had to keep reminding him of the task at hand. At first they looked only for his father; then Nick suggested that they widen their search to include neighbors, friends, anyone who looked at all familiar who might have knowledge of the boy’s dad. They found no one; after an hour of futile searching, they returned to the playing field to see if Jerry had had any better luck.

  But Jerry wasn’t there.

  Nick told himself that the trip around the stadium could have taken longer than he estimated, especially considering the crowded conditions. And if conditions in the main concourse and mezzanine were no better, even more time might be necessary—another hour, maybe more. But that explanation didn’t satisfy him; there was no reason that Jerry wouldn’t at least check in to let Nick know his need for more time.