Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle

by Tim Downs

  “Oh, those. Somebody beat you to it.”

  “Who? When?”

  “Your people, I suppose. Just yesterday.”

  “Did they say they were from DMORT? Did they show you any identification?”

  “They were willing to take the bodies away, that’s all we cared about. Those two were stinking to high heaven—they were scaring all the patients. Who were those poor souls, anyway? How did they manage to end up on the second floor?”

  Just then they heard the sound of the stairway door open below them. A moment later, a flashlight beam flickered up the shaft between the stairs.

  “Who’s up there?” a man’s voice called out. “This stairwell is off-limits.”

  “It’s me, Doctor,” the nurse called down. “They finally sent somebody to take these bodies away. Come on up—he’s got a question for you.”

  Nick could hear the scratchy echo of leather-soled shoes as the doctor climbed the two flights of stairs. As the doctor approached, Nick extended his hand. “Dr. Nick Polchak,” he said. “Disaster Mortuary Operational Response Team.”

  “Well, it’s about time,” the doctor said.

  “There seems to be some confusion here. I was sent to recover two bodies that were discovered on the second floor, but your nurse tells me they were already taken away.”

  “That’s right. Two men came by yesterday.”

  “Two men. Did you see them?”

  “Yes, I met with them briefly.”

  “Did they identify themselves?”

  “I didn’t catch their names. They said they were with the DEA.”

  Nick paused. “You’re sure about that?”

  “That’s what they told me. I thought it was a little strange, but they said everybody’s pulling double duty right now.”

  “That’s true,” Nick said. “Tell me, did any of your hospital staff help with the cleanup?”

  “What cleanup?”

  “I was expecting to find two bodies downstairs, but it looked like the whole room had been cleaned out.”

  “You’d have to ask them—they handled the whole thing.”

  Nick slowly nodded.

  “How do you plan to remove these?” the doctor asked, pointing to the bodies.

  “What?”

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d take them downstairs and out through the second floor. I don’t want you carrying them through the occupied floors—the patients would freak out.”

  “I’m not taking them,” Nick said.

  “What?”

  “I was sent to collect two specific bodies. I’m not equipped to take five.”

  The doctor looked at J.T. for the first time, then turned to the nurse. “Would you excuse us for a minute? I’d like to talk to Dr. Polchak alone.”

  The nurse shrugged and started back down the stairs.

  The doctor waited until he heard the click of the door before speaking again. “Do you mind telling me what’s going on here?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not a moron, Dr. Polchak. Two bodies show up mysteriously on the second floor, but they have no wristbands—they weren’t hospital patients. We pass the word, and the same day two DEA agents show up to collect the bodies—the same day. They can’t get us the food, water, or medical supplies we need—they can’t even medevac our critical patients out unless we boat them across the street to Tulane first—but they can come to remove two dead guys? Now you show up claiming to be with DMORT, and I give you five cadavers—but you’re not interested in any of them. You only want the ones the DEA took away. Who were those two, anyway? What did they do?”

  “I don’t know,” Nick said.

  “You mean you won’t tell me.”

  “If I did know, I probably wouldn’t tell you—but the truth is, I don’t know.”

  “Who’s the boy?”

  “A kid I rescued from a rooftop in the Lower Ninth Ward. I’m trying to figure out what to do with him.”

  “I’m looking for my father,” J.T. said.

  The doctor looked straight at Nick. “You thought you’d carry two bodies away with no one to help you but him? Who are you kidding? You didn’t come here to take away any bodies at all. Why are you here? What is it you want?”

  “I can’t tell you,” Nick said, “and if I did it wouldn’t help you anyway.”

  “Then you’re wasting my time,” the doctor said. “I’ve got work to do, and you don’t belong here. You need to go—now.” He stepped aside and motioned for Nick and J.T. to go first.

  Back on the third floor, the doctor brushed past Nick and into a patient’s room. Nick spotted a flashlight flickering a few doors down and headed for it; he poked his head into the doorway and found the nurse.

  “Can I talk to you for a minute?” he said. “I need a favor.”

  The nurse glared at him. “You need a favor?”

  “I need to leave the boy with you.”

  J.T. looked at Nick. “No way. I ain’t sick!”

  “Let me get this straight,” the nurse said. “I’ve got five stinking you-know-whats in my stairwell, but they’re not the ones you’re looking for, so you’re leaving them here. And not only that, you want to leave me one more mouth to feed.”

  “That’s about the size of it,” Nick said. “No wonder they call you ‘ladies of mercy.’”

  “I ain’t stayin’ in no hospital,” J.T. said. “I’m coming with you, Nick.”

  “No, you’re not,” Nick said, taking him by the shoulders and pulling him aside. “Remember that talk we had about following orders?”

  “So?”

  “So I need you to do it now. I’m leaving you here, and I want you to stay.”

  “No way!”

  “Listen to me. I think something bad happened to Jerry—do you understand? I think somebody tried to hurt him, and he might be trying to hurt us too.”

  “I ain’t afraid.”

  “I know you’re not—but I am. I can’t keep you with me, J.T. I know I told you I would, but things have changed. I need to leave you someplace where I know you’ll be safe—someplace where there are lots of people around, where you’ll have food and water and someplace to sleep. I can’t take you back to the Superdome; it’s not safe there, and by now the Convention Center might not be any better. You’ll be safe here. The nurse will watch out for you.”

  “I’m stayin’ with you, Nick.”

  “You can’t stay with me.”

  “I’m lookin’ for my father.”

  “That will have to wait.”

  “You promised!”

  Nick straightened up and looked at him. This wasn’t about keeping promises anymore; this was about keeping the boy alive, and Nick wished he knew a way to do it without breaking the boy’s heart—but he didn’t.

  “I don’t want you around anymore,” Nick said.

  “What?”

  “You’re no good to me. You get in the way.”

  “I got good eyes. I can see things.”

  “I can’t have you in the boat with me. It’s against the rules.”

  “You don’t follow no rules.”

  “You’re staying. That’s final. Get used to it.”

  Nick turned and started down the hall.

  “Liar!” J.T. shouted after him. “You promised! You lied! Liar! ”

  Nick didn’t look back. This isn’t about promises, he told himself. This is about life and death. But when the door closed behind him, he still felt sick to his stomach.

  He waded back to the second-floor lab and climbed into the john-boat again. He put the palms of his hands against the ceiling and turned the boat back toward the open window. He stopped and stared out into the darkness, considering his next move—but he couldn’t seem to focus his thoughts.

  Jerry is dead, a voice inside him said. You know it’s true—and it’s all your fault. You got him into this. He trusted you, and you let him down. People depend on you, Nick. People depend on you, and you let them down.

&
nbsp; He shook his head. The DEA had removed those bodies, and they had probably destroyed his maggots too. By now Turlock knew what Nick was up to—that he was disobeying orders and removing bodies from the water to preserve forensic evidence, evidence from victims the DEA didn’t want identified.

  Jerry was dead, he felt sure of it. But he couldn’t go to the authorities—he was disobeying the authorities. Besides, he had no body to point to, and no one would bother to search for one until it was too late.

  Someone was using the hurricane to cover up a series of murders, but Nick had no way to prove it. There were no bodies; there were no maggots; there was no physical evidence. Without evidence, he had no way to justify his actions to the DEA. Without evidence, his accusations would sound like nothing but paranoid delusions—which, Beth would probably point out, fit very neatly within his psychological profile.

  He looked out the window again. He had to get back to the Lower Ninth Ward—not by the way he had come, but working his way block by block down flooded side streets and alleys so that no one could spot him or lie in wait. He would hide in the Lower Nine, under the magnolia tree where he kept the boat chained up each night; he would wait until daylight, when the boat ramp would be swarming with SAR teams putting in for the day; he would mingle in among them and head out into the neighborhood again, staying close to other boats while searching for any evidence that might still remain. It wouldn’t be easy, but it was the only way. There was safety in numbers; Jerry had died alone.

  Jerry.

  Nick felt something like a warm blanket sliding up his back and around his shoulders. He felt his mind misting over, as if a thick bayou fog were settling in, confusing his thoughts and clouding his logic. It was something he had felt many times before—something Beth tried to warn him about—but he never listened, and he couldn’t listen now. Nick needed to find evidence, evidence that was being destroyed with every passing hour.

  He had to find it—and he couldn’t stop until he did.

  32

  Sunday, September 4

  Nick awoke at the first sound of an approaching vehicle. It had taken most of the night to work his way back from Charity Hospital to the Lower Nine, hiding in the shadows of buildings and houses, rowing most of the way to avoid running his engine. He’d arrived at the old magnolia tree less than an hour ago and stretched out facedown in the bottom of the boat. He was unconscious in seconds—a dreamless, deathlike sleep that satisfied nothing but his body’s basic requirement to survive.

  He lifted his head; his neck and shoulders ached from the rowing. He touched the left side of his face and felt a deep crevice running from his chin to his cheekbone, impressed into his flesh by the seam in the bottom of the boat. The left side of his face was as cold as a cadaver and numb, drained of life by the aluminum hull; the right side of his face was still soft and warm. That’s how he felt right now: half dead and half alive. He would have killed for a cup of coffee—black, light, espresso, cappuccino, even the sweet fluffy crap from Starbucks—anything to help bring the rest of him back from the dead.

  He pushed himself onto his knees and reached into his equipment bag, feeling around for the slick Mylar MRE bags. He pulled one out and looked at the label, but it was barely daylight, and in the shadow of the magnolia it was too dark to read. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, it didn’t matter; it was food, and that’s what he needed right now—fuel for his sputtering engine. He tore through the bag with his teeth and began to eat.

  He lifted the lower branch of the old magnolia tree and peered out at the growing line of boats and vehicles awaiting put-in on the St. Claude Avenue “boat ramp” fifty yards away. A FEMA Urban Search and Rescue Team was first in line; their rubber inflatable was already in the water and just about to shove off. A Wildlife and Fisheries trailer was just behind them, backing toward the water with two khaki-clad men guiding the way. He counted seven trucks and boat trailers waiting their turn, and more were coming across the bridge. There were men everywhere—hauling fuel cans, hoisting coolers, checking equipment bags, and loading rescue gear. Nick’s plan was to wait until several boats had put in, then slip out from under the magnolia’s branches and tag along close behind—but then he saw him, walking down the center of St. Claude Avenue between the boat trailers and the 4x4s, with his hands stuffed deep in his pockets and his head hung low.

  J.T.

  Nick muttered a curse and slid the boat out from under the tree. Halfway to the avenue he vaulted over the side and into the water, dragging the johnboat up onto the pavement.

  “You’re out early,” one of the FEMA crew called out.

  “The early fly gets the cadaver,” Nick said.

  “What?”

  “Watch my boat—I’ll be right back.”

  He met J.T. coming down the road; the boy looked up at him without saying a word. There was no anger in his eyes—no look of defiance or contempt—just a simple matter-of-fact expression that said, “So what did you expect?”

  Nick opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He just stood there looking at J.T., imagining what it must have taken for the boy to make his way here once again. It was a hard enough trip from the Convention Center, but that was all dry ground; Charity Hospital was completely surrounded by water. He must have jumped from a third-floor window, or at least found his way back to the second floor and then out through the broken lab window. The boy had to swim to dry ground, possibly several blocks—and then once again make his way through the looters and the armed gangs wandering the downtown streets.

  That’s when Nick noticed that the boy had a black eye—and that his binoculars were missing. He felt as if he had been punched in the stomach.

  “I didn’t expect to see you this morning,” Nick said.

  “I’m looking for my father.”

  “So I’ve heard. You don’t give up easy.”

  The boy just shrugged.

  “What happened to your binoculars?”

  “Lost ’em.”

  “Did you get that black eye in the process?”

  He shrugged again.

  “I’ll get you another pair,” Nick said. “We’ll need them to find your dad.”

  Now he knew that the boy had to stay with him—there was no place in New Orleans where his safety could be guaranteed. He couldn’t leave him at DMORT—the facility was strictly off-limits to civilians. All they would do would be to transport the boy to one of the evacuation centers—the Superdome or the Convention Center. But the evacuation centers had become places of violence. The hospitals were overcrowded and understaffed, working without power or supplies, and the streets weren’t safe either—the boy had been lucky to get away with a black eye. There was only one place where J.T. had a chance of being safe—with someone who cared about him. And in all the city of New Orleans—maybe in all the world—Nick might have been the only one who did.

  “Okay,” he said. “Let’s get the boat and get going. I’m going to need those eyes of yours today.”

  They sat in the boat and allowed several other teams to go before them. When Nick finally spotted an armed National Guard unit preparing to put in, he called out, “Mind if I tag along today? I’m a little shorthanded. I’m with DMORT. I’m looking for bodies. You guys can handle the living, and I’ll take care of the dead—how does that sound?”

  “Sounds good to us,” one of the Guardsmen called back.

  Nick followed the National Guard boat deep into the Lower Nine. The Guard boat was much larger and heavier than the johnboat; it had a deeper draft and left a much bigger wake. Nick stayed close behind and kept to the middle of the wake; it was like sailing down the center of a ditch. J.T. no longer took a standing position on the center bench—Nick told him to sit in the bow. He told him that without Jerry he needed the boy’s weight in front to balance the boat, but that was a lie; seated in the bow the boy was a much smaller target.

  Nick wasn’t sure what was supposed to happen next. Was he just supposed to wait until the Guardsmen
stumbled across a body, then examine it for anomalies? How long would that take? The Guardsmen had their eyes peeled for the living, not the dead. And what if they came across a body with no living rescuees in sight? Would the Guardsmen wait for them? Nick knew he couldn’t just head off by himself—he needed the protection of the Guardsmen’s rifles.

  He needed evidence, but he needed safety. He motored along silently, lost in thought, considering how to satisfy those two seemingly irreconcilable goals—when a thought suddenly occurred to him.

  They knew we’d be at the Superdome.

  Their decision to go to the Superdome had been made last-minute, on the boat, just among the three of them: Nick, Jerry, and J.T. No one could have been waiting for them at the Superdome; no one could have known they’d be there.

  We must have been followed.

  Nick twisted around and looked behind him. A hundred yards away he saw another boat following at a steady pace—a gray-green fiberglass boat not much larger than his own. He turned forward again. Of course there’s a boat behind us, he thought. There are boats everywhere in the Lower Nine. That doesn’t necessarily mean the boat is following us.

  But it might.

  When the National Guard boat finally rounded a corner and took a different street, Nick turned and watched again, measuring the distance to the intersection behind him. Twenty-five yards, fifty, seventy-five—right on cue, the second boat rounded the same corner and followed.

  Once could be a coincidence, Nick thought. The next time I’ll know for sure.

  He twisted the throttle and accelerated, lurching over the Guard boat’s wake and pulling up along its starboard side. “Hey!” he shouted over the engines. “Take a left at the next big intersection—I want to check something out!”

  The National Guard pilot nodded and complied; at the next intersection he slowly veered to port. Nick dropped back and followed, once again watching and measuring the distance behind. Sure enough, a hundred yards back the other boat rounded the same corner and followed.

  Bingo.

  Nick looked at the surrounding area; the neighborhood was congested, with tightly packed houses separated by narrow alleys. He accelerated and pulled up alongside the National Guard boat again.