by Tim Downs
Nick considered every possible explanation he could think of: Jerry forgot, Jerry was detained—or maybe Jerry was spotted by FEMA officials and called away on some emergency duty. But that was too fantastic, and Nick knew in his heart that there be could only one reason that Jerry didn’t come back.
Jerry couldn’t come back.
They had waited two additional hours with the National Guardsmen. After that, they made their own circle of the sidewalk and still found no trace of Jerry. Nick thought about searching the concourse and mezzanine, but by then the knot in his gut was beginning to tighten, warning him away. He didn’t want to risk taking the boy back into the building again, and he couldn’t leave him behind. The safest place to be was outside, in plain view of everyone. They returned to the spot where they first came ashore, hoping against hope that Jerry might meet them there.
It didn’t happen, and it was getting dark.
“What do I do with these?” J.T. asked, holding up the binoculars.
“They’re yours,” Nick said.
“I can keep ’em?”
“Courtesy of your Uncle Sam. He wants you to have the best.”
Nick looked all around; he had no idea what to do next. He thought about reporting Jerry’s absence, but who would he report it to? There were no authorities here, there was no chain of command. He could at least tell the two National Guardsmen, but what would they do? They wouldn’t help search for him; they wouldn’t be allowed to leave their post.
People depend on you, Nick thought.
He looked down at J.T. and knew what he had to do: He had to get the boy out of here. He looked at the alley where the boat was hidden, growing darker by the minute; someone could be waiting for them there. He thought about the long trip back across all those flooded neighborhoods; he thought about how exposed they would be crossing the Industrial Canal. There could be danger almost anywhere, but Nick knew one thing was certain: If anything did happen to Jerry, it had happened to him here—they had to go.
He looked at the alley again. The sooner the better, he thought. If anybody’s waiting in that alley, better to face him while there’s still some light to see.
“Come on,” he said to J.T. “We’re getting out of here.”
“What about Jerry?”
“Don’t worry about Jerry,” he said. “Jerry’s a big boy—he can take care of himself.”
He hoped to God it was true.
30
Detwiler punched Memory 1 on the satellite phone and waited for the signal to connect.
“Special Agent Turlock,” said the voice on the other end.
“It’s me, Frank.”
“Where are you? I’ve been waiting.”
“I’ve been busy,” Detwiler said. “I’m in the boat. I’m downtown, not far from the Superdome.”
“The Superdome? Why?”
“I followed Polchak and Kibbee there.”
“And?”
“I took care of Kibbee,” he said. “Polchak and the boy got away.”
There was silence on the other end.
“You still there?”
“I’m here. Did Polchak see you?”
“No—and they won’t find Kibbee for days. As far as Polchak knows, his friend just disappeared.”
“I told you to take care of this in the Lower Nine.”
“It’s impossible—there are boats everywhere now. I was following them just like we agreed; they headed across the canal again. This time I went after them, but I had to keep my distance ’cause it’s still daylight—I’d be even easier to spot than before.”
“You’re making this too complicated, John. Pull up beside them, take out your gun, and finish the job.”
“It’s not that easy, Frank. Gunshots carry for miles over water—what if somebody saw me? We’d be in big trouble then.”
“We’re in big trouble now,” Turlock said. “That’s what I can’t seem to get through that thick head of yours.”
“Look, I tracked ’em as far as the Superdome. They must have stashed their boat somewhere nearby; by the time I got there they were already wading in—Polchak, Kibbee, and the boy. I don’t know what they were doing there.”
“I do. Polchak is helping the boy find his father—that’s why the boy’s been with them every day. He must have decided to check out the evacuation centers.”
“How do you know that?”
“Dr. Woodbridge’s phone log; she did a background check on the boy with Health and Human Services. Remember Dr. Woodbridge? There’s another little detail we’ve let slip.”
“That wasn’t my fault,” Detwiler said. “I was under fire out there in the bayou—I couldn’t get a clear shot. Some guy had an assault rifle—where’d he get that?”
“Welcome to Louisiana.”
“Well—at least we know who’s helping Polchak on the inside.”
“And now we’ve got another loose end to take care of. What went wrong at the Superdome?”
“I don’t know. I followed ’em in. The place was a madhouse. People everywhere—it stinks like a pigsty. There’s a lot of angry people there; I figured, a couple of FEMA workers turn up dead—who wouldn’t believe that? And the boy, I figured I’d just haul him off by himself—nobody’d make the connection. It was perfect.”
“Then what went wrong?”
“I couldn’t get them all in one place. I spotted Kibbee first—he was easy enough—but when I finally found Polchak and the boy, they were standing with a couple of National Guardsmen. They must have stayed there for two hours; I thought maybe they were on to me, so I finally left. I went back out to my boat and waited for them to leave—figured I’d let ’em come to me instead.”
“And?”
“They just disappeared. I figured they’d go back the same way they came, so I picked a good spot to do the job and waited for them there—but they never showed up. I can’t understand it—where did they go?”
“Never mind,” Turlock said. “What we need to decide is what to do next—and we’d better think of something fast. Why do you think Polchak was in that bayou last night? He went straight to that lab; somehow he found out about it. He’s making the connections, John—how long before he connects it all to us?”
“What do you want me to do now?”
“The same thing you were supposed to do last night and today: Find Polchak and the boy and finish the job.”
“And the woman?”
“That could get complicated,” he said. “Better leave that to me.”
“Right. I’ll be in touch.”
“And John.”
“Yeah?”
“No more excuses—we need results.”
31
“How come we’re rowin’?” J.T. asked. “We outta gas?”
“I thought you could use the exercise,” Nick said. “Keep going—it’s not much farther.”
The boat glided silently through the flooded streets. Nick kept close to the buildings even though the sky was dark; he didn’t want to risk being silhouetted by a glint of moonlight reflecting off the water. He needed time to think; he needed time to sort things out.
Where was Jerry? Why hadn’t he come back?
Nick knew there were plausible explanations for Jerry’s disappearance; the problem was, there was no way to evaluate the likelihood of any of them. Something utterly unforeseen and unpredictable could have called Jerry away. It was possible; it’s what he wanted to believe—but he didn’t. Someone had tried to kill Nick and Beth just the night before—someone who was still out there, and that fact alone changed everything. He had done the right thing, he had told Jerry about the attempt on his life, but now he wondered if he should have done more. Maybe they should have stayed out of the Lower Nine for a day or two to let things cool off. Maybe they should have split up.
People depend on you, Nick. Beth’s words kept coming back to him. You throw yourself in harm’s way without thinking twice—you forget that there are other people with you.
The sort of guy who would die for you.
Nick felt his stomach twist into a knot.
You don’t know what happened to Jerry, he kept telling himself. No matter what you might suspect, you have no way to know. He kept repeating the words to himself over and over again until he almost believed them—almost.
He pulled off his glasses and wiped his eyes.
“How come you stopped?” J.T. asked.
“Just keep rowing,” Nick said.
He clenched his fists until his fingernails dug into the palms of his hands and almost drew blood. He needed to think; he needed to act; he had to decide what to do next. No matter what happened to Jerry, there was still the boy to think of.
People depend on you, Nick.
If Jerry’s disappearance wasn’t accidental, if someone really was out there, the attacker could be anywhere at all: back at the Superdome, searching for them; climbing into a boat, coming after them; or somewhere up ahead, lying in wait. Nick felt like a man who had just stumbled into a spider’s web and wondered where the spider was now. He knew that he had to anticipate every possible point of attack—and that’s when he realized that they couldn’t go back the way they’d come.
“How much farther?” the boy asked.
“Keep rowing. Don’t wimp out on me now.”
Nick did most of the pulling in the stern; the boy knelt in the bow and paddled with far more enthusiasm than skill. That was good; Nick wanted to keep the boy occupied. It would keep his mind off their missing friend and burn off energy too.
“Hold it here,” Nick commanded, back-paddling until the boat came to a complete stop. Directly ahead of them was an open area of water where they would be easy to spot; just beyond the area was the flooded second floor of Charity Hospital. Nick looked all around; he waited and listened but heard nothing.
“See that building up ahead?” he said to J.T.
“Can’t miss it.”
“See the big broken window? The water goes right up to it.”
“I see it.”
“When I say ‘Go,’ I want you to row straight for it—don’t stop until we pass right through.”
“Into the building?”
“That’s the idea. You ready?”
J.T. nodded.
“Then let’s go—and no more talking until we get inside.”
Three minutes later, they slipped through the broken window and into the darkness of the abandoned lab. They were both panting; their breathing sounded thin and raspy in the cavelike room. Nick held his breath and listened for the sound of any approaching boats; there were none.
“Where are we?” J.T. asked.
“Charity Hospital.”
“What’re we doin’ here?”
“I left some things here,” Nick said. “I need to check on them. We won’t be long.” He fished through his equipment bag for a flashlight; he aimed it at the table in the center of the room.
The bodies were gone.
“What the—”
He shone the flashlight around the room. Everything was gone: both body bags, the specimens, the containers with their coffee-filter lids—all of it. Someone had cleaned the place out.
“There’s nothin’ here,” J.T. said.
“Be quiet—I’m trying to think.”
If the bodies alone were missing, anyone could have been responsible—anyone detecting the odor or making a search of the floor. But at a glance the specimen containers would have looked like nothing more than garbage, and the entire floor was covered with debris. No one would bother to do cleanup in the middle of a disaster; no one would have taken the specimens unless they knew what they were.
Nick tried to refocus his thoughts. He knew he was beginning to see shadows now, imagining bogeymen where they might not really exist. He didn’t know what happened to Jerry, no matter what his gut told him—he didn’t know. And there was a simple and reasonable explanation for the removal of the specimens, the same reason for the removal of the bodies: the stench. The developing maggots had been left to feed on decaying meat, which produced the same gut-wrenching odor as the bodies themselves—not as overpowering, maybe, but just as bad as any six-month-old leftovers found hidden in the back of a fridge. After removing the bodies, someone might have detected the lingering stench of decay and discovered the specimens too. It was a logical explanation; it was simple, and it was reasonable. But was it true?
He had to know.
“Come on,” he said to J.T. He crawled out of the boat and onto the table where the bodies had lain, then lowered himself into the waist-deep water. He steadied the boat while J.T. climbed out after him; the water came halfway up the boy’s chest.
“Where we goin’?”
“Upstairs.”
“How come?”
“I lost something, and I need to know who found it.”
They headed out into the hallway; it was utterly dark except for faint white rectangles of moonlight glittering through open doorways. Nick turned left and started down the corridor, hoping to find a stairway at the end. He felt his way along the walls as he went; he caught his foot on something sodden and heavy and stumbled forward. He turned and looked back at J.T., who was holding his precious binoculars above his head to keep them out of the water.
“Watch your step,” Nick said. “Take it slow.”
Three minutes later, they stood dripping on the concrete landing of the hospital’s third floor. Nick found the door and tried the knob; it was locked. He wondered if the hospital’s exit doors were routinely locked; he wondered if the purpose was to keep looters out or to hold patients in. He knocked politely, but there was no answer—so he pounded with his fist until he heard a woman’s voice on the other side shout, “Who’s out there?”
“My name is Nick Polchak!” he shouted back. J.T. covered his ears; in the hollow stairwell the echoing shout was deafening.
“What’s your business?” the woman demanded.
“I’m with DMORT,” Nick said. “They told me you’ve got a couple of bodies to pick up.”
Nick heard the click of a dead bolt and felt the door slowly open toward him. “Hold your voice down,” the woman scolded. “We can’t have talk of dead bodies around the patients. What’s wrong with you?”
“Sorry,” Nick said.
A flashlight clicked on, directed at Nick’s face. In the pitch blackness of the stairwell the light was blinding; Nick grimaced and squeezed his eyes shut. He heard the woman gasp; the light reflecting off his huge lenses must have taken her by surprise.
“Took you people long enough,” she grumbled, stepping aside. She pointed the flashlight at J.T., who shielded his eyes and turned away. “Who’s this boy?”
“My assistant,” Nick said. “Who’s in charge around here?”
She turned the flashlight and illuminated her own face; she wore nurse’s scrubs and a stethoscope around her neck. The flashlight cast dramatic shadows across her face, making her look like a camper in front of a fire—or a demon. Based on Nick’s past experience with nurses, it was probably the latter.
“Can you take me to the you-know-whats?” Nick asked.
“Follow me.”
“Then they’re still here?”
She frowned at him. “Where do you think they’d go?”
Nick felt a wave of relief.
She led them down the long corridor to the opposite stairway. The entire hallway was in darkness, except for the glow of an occasional candle and the flashlights blinking off and on like fireflies, illuminated for
seconds at a time to conserve dwindling batteries. Nick glanced in the rooms as they passed. He could see the silhouettes of patients tossing fitfully in the sweltering heat; he heard moans and calls for assistance from everywhere.
“How are you holding up?” Nick asked.
“Better than they are.”
“How long have you been without power?”
“Since the day after the storm. We had emergency generators for a day or so, then they went under too. Been dark ever since.”
“How can you run the medical equipment?”
“We can’t. Why do you think you’re here?”
The opposite doorway bore a hand-scrawled sign that read: “KEEP OUT—HOSPITAL PERSONNEL ONLY.” The nurse unlocked the dead bolt and glanced back down the hallway before opening the door. The stairwell was black; she switched on the flashlight and started up the stairs.
“This way,” she said. “We keep them upstairs to hold down the smell.”
On the fifth-floor landing five bodies were laid out side by side, covered only in white hospital linens.
Nick blinked. “There are five of them.”
“I hope you can take them all.”
He took the flashlight from the nurse’s hand and knelt down beside the shrouded forms. He pulled the sheets back one by one and examined each body; they were fresh, dead less than a week, still dressed in hospital gowns.
He looked up at the nurse. “These aren’t the bodies I’m looking for.”
“What?”
“They told me there were only two.”
“Well, they told you wrong. We lost three of them the first day when the ventilators went off. We ambu-bagged them as long as we could, but you just can’t do the work of a ventilator. We lost the other two to the heat.”
“These are hospital patients. I was sent to pick up two bodies that were found downstairs on the second floor.”