Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (13 page)

“Yeah,” Nick said. “Looks like he's just getting back.”

The boat was laden with seven passengers and the NOPD officer at the helm; there were no other rescue workers aboard. LaTourneau swung the boat around and lined it up with the avenue; Nick and Jerry stepped aside as he gunned the motor and drove the boat up onto the pavement, killing the engine and rocking it forward at just the right moment.

“Cool boat,” J.T. said.

Jerry nodded. “That's what I said.”

“How's fishing?” Nick called to LaTourneau.

“Not bad,” he called back. “Looks like all you boys got is a minnow.”

“Maybe—but he's a keeper.”

The passengers began to swing their legs over the Zodiac's rubbery sides and slide down onto the pavement. There were men, women, and children in the group, but almost no possessions among them.

“Listen up!” LaTourneau shouted to the group. “This is as far as I can take you. The Superdome has been opened up as a refugee center; you'll find food and water and shelter there.”

“What happens to us then?” someone asked.

“I don't know, sir. I imagine they'll be bringing in buses to take you somewhere else.”

“What about our houses? Our things?”

“I don't know. Right now, we're just trying to keep people alive. You all know where the Superdome is: Take St. Claude Avenue as far as you can and then follow the river if you have to. That'll be the highest ground.”

They all looked at one another; none of them appeared to have any better options. Some of them shook their heads, some of them joined hands, and they all slowly started up the road toward the bridge and the city beyond—all except for J.T.

Nick looked at LaTourneau. It was barely dawn, and the man was already returning with his first load of evacuees. He wondered what time LaTourneau had put in; he wondered what time he had knocked off the day before—or if he had quit at all. In the stark morning sun Nick could see dark circles under his eyes, the first telltale hint of fatigue, but the man still moved quickly, brusquely, as if there were no limit to his energy. His first boatload of grateful passengers had barely set their feet on dry ground, and LaTourneau was already standing ankle-deep in the water beside his boat, preparing to shove off again.

“Hold on a minute,” Nick said. He walked over and extended his hand. “Nick Polchak—we met yesterday morning, but I didn't catch your name.”

“The name's LaTourneau,” he said. “You're the guys collecting bodies.”

“That's right. I'm a forensic entomologist; Jerry there runs a funeral home up in Indiana. The little guy, his name is J.T.”

LaTourneau looked down at him. “Run along now, son. You'd better stay with the others or you'll get lost.”

“You ain't my father,” J.T. grumbled, “and I ain't your son.”

“We told him we'd help him find his father,” Nick said. “They got separated in the storm.”

LaTourneau looked at him. “How do you plan to do that?”

“We're working on it,” Nick said. “By the way, I was wondering: How many officers does the NOPD have, anyway?”

“About sixteen hundred. Why?”

“This is the second morning I've seen you out here all by yourself.”

“It's a big city.”

“It's a big neighborhood too. How many homes did you say—about six thousand? Seems like a neighborhood this size would merit more than one officer.”

“Like I told you yesterday: We have no way to coordinate.”

“I was talking to a guy driving a FEMA rig this morning. He said he heard on CNN that half of your officers failed to report for duty after the storm.”

“That's a lie.”

“That's what he heard.”

“He's with FEMA, and he's complaining about us?”

“Yeah, you've got a point there. Nevertheless,
half
of your officers—any idea what happened to them all?”

LaTourneau glared at him. “Where'd you say you're from?”

“Pittsburgh, originally. Right now I'm at NC State in Raleigh.”

“How's the weather up there in Raleigh?”

“Fine, I suppose.”

“Well, aren't you the lucky ones. That means your homes are nice and dry, and your families are safe, and you're free to jump in your Mercedes and drive down to help out the poor folks in New Orleans. We weren't so lucky here; maybe you've heard, we've had some rain. Our officers are a part of this city, Polchak, and we got rained on just like everybody else. We've got people up in Plum Orchard, and Gentilly Woods, and Pontchartrain Park—they're all underwater just like the Lower Nine, so we've got officers trapped on rooftops and in attics just like the people around here. They've got a right to stay alive, too, don't you think? And they've got a right to look after their families—maybe that's why some of them didn't show up. Did you ever think about that?”

“What about your family?” Nick asked.

“I don't have one—that's why I was free to show up for work. Let me tell you something about NOPD officers: They're some of the most dedicated people I've ever met; they put their lives on the line every day. I know this city; I know every alley and sewer in it. I've been with Vice and Narcotics for almost twenty years now, and believe me—our people are the only reason this place hasn't turned into a cesspool a long time ago. So if you don't mind, people are waiting—it can hit 130 degrees in some of these attics.”

He shoved the Zodiac back into the water and jumped aboard. Once the craft floated free of the pavement, he started the engine and roared away.

“He thinks I drive a Mercedes,” Nick said. “Welcome to public education.”

“Why do you do that?” Jerry asked.

“Do what?”

“Annoy people.”

“It's a gift, I suppose.”

“Well, get off his back. He's trying to do his job, just like you and me.”

“I didn't say those things just to annoy him, Jerry. The NOPD's got sixteen hundred men, and all they can muster is one lousy officer for the whole Lower Nine? The best thing he could do right now is round up some other guys—mobilize some resources. What's he going to do, save the whole city by himself ?”

“You heard what he said: The NOPD's a part of the city too. They got socked in like everybody else. He's got no way to ‘mobilize resources.' At least he's out here doing what he can.”

“I've got to hand it to him, he sure puts in the hours. I hope the NOPD pays overtime.”

They heard automobile engines behind them now and looked back up the road. Two vehicles hauling boat trailers were just coming across the bridge. One vehicle was emblazoned with the logo of the Louisiana Department of Wildlife and Fisheries; the other was packed with uniformed soldiers of the National Guard.

“Looks like we're finally getting reinforcements,” Jerry said.

“It's about time. We better shove off and give them some room.”

“Hang on a minute,” Jerry said, motioning Nick aside. “What about the boy?”

“What about him?”

“Are we taking him with us again?”

“What else can we do with him?”

“Nick, this is dangerous work.”

“So is standing on a rooftop in a hurricane. So is sitting in an evacuation center with thousands of angry people. I'd say he's better off with us.”

“I don't get this,” Jerry said. “You never liked kids before—how come you suddenly want this one around? And don't tell me it's your fatherly instincts—bugs don't have fatherly instincts.”

“The kid's got great eyes, Jerry. He can spot a cat on a rooftop at three hundred yards—can you do that?”

“Nick, the kid's expecting you to help him find his father.”

“And we came down here expecting to recover bodies, but DMORT has us doing something else instead. ‘First the living,' Denny told us. Well, the boy's in the same boat we are, Jerry—
first the living
. I'll get around to helping him find his father, but first he has to help us.”

“Help us? How?”

Nick turned and nodded to the two approaching vehicles. “That's two more search-and-rescue teams, and there are bound to be more on the way. More boats mean more people; more people mean more accountability. We'll be crossing paths with other boats now, and they'll be watching what we're doing. We're supposed to be rescuing people—how can we be doing that if our boat is always empty? Don't you see? As long as the boy is with us, it'll look like we're doing what we're supposed to.”

“What will we be doing instead?”

“Looking for bodies, of course.”

Jerry did a double take. “Nick, are you out of your mind? You know what Denny told you last night.”

“Don't rupture a blood vessel, Jerry. By this afternoon they'll have a dozen SAR teams searching for survivors in the Lower Nine; how many people are checking for bodies? We're working against the clock, too, you know. That body we found yesterday only had a handful of maggots left on it—in another day there would have been none at all. Think about it, Jerry: The very first body we looked at turned out to be a possible murder victim—how many others might be out there? We have to look—you know we do.”

“You're going to get me in trouble again, aren't you?”

“When did I ever get you in trouble?”

“Are you kidding?”

“I mean serious trouble.”

“Are you
kidding
?”

“I mean bone-breaking, bloodletting, life-threatening trouble.”

“You mean you haven't killed me yet.”

“Now that's a more positive perspective.”

Jerry shook his head. “You're using the kid. You can't do that.”

“I'm helping him, and he's helping me.”

“Are you really going to help him, Nick? I need to know that. You need to promise me too.”

“Look,” Nick said. “Tonight we'll take him back to St. Gabriel again, and we'll get a technician to come down from the Family Assistance Center in Baton Rouge. They'll take down his family information and do a cheek swab and get him into their database—that's the best way to start looking for his dad. Fair enough?”

J.T. approached them from behind. “Are we goin' or not? It's startin' to get crowded around here.”

Both men turned and looked at him.

“Maybe we should let him decide,” Nick said, taking the boy by the shoulder. “J.T., I'll give you a choice: You can come with me and Jerry and help us rescue people and look for bodies, or you can stay here and find your way over to the Superdome.”

“I'm coming with you,” he said.

“There you go,” Nick said. “Out of the mouths of babes.”

Jerry rolled his eyes. “Some choice.”

12

Nick steered the boat back along St. Claude Avenue toward the bridge; when he came to the bridge he turned right, following the levee north along the Industrial Canal. In less than half a mile they came to a second bridge, a lift-type structure carrying Claiborne Avenue across the canal. Damaged by the hurricane, the entire center span had been hoisted high above the water and secured in place, rendering the road impassable but leaving the canal open to navigation—whenever the Industrial Lock was repaired, which had also been damaged by the storm.

Beyond Claiborne Avenue they discovered two enormous breaches in the levee floodwall, the apparent source of the water now inundating the Lower Nine. The storm surge in the Industrial Canal had overtopped the floodwalls, thundering over the ledges like a waterfall and quickly eroding the earthen levees that held them in place. Without a supporting foundation, the massive concrete slabs had been shoved aside like so many dominoes; in some places the slabs had vanished completely, allowing an unimpeded view across the canal into the Upper Ninth Ward on the opposite side.

Past the breaches Nick steered away from the canal and into the flooded neighborhood again. Since two more SAR teams were right now putting in on St. Claude Avenue, and since more were sure to come, Nick decided to head deeper into the Lower Nine—no sense covering the same ground as everybody else. Jerry sat in the bow again, serving as both ballast and figurehead, and J.T. took up his usual position—standing on the center bench with both fists on his hips, like Peter Pan patrolling the Blue Lagoon. They talked as they motored along, raising their voices above the constant drone of the Evinrude.

“I still say it's the hands,” Jerry said. “It happens every time.”

“The hands? What are you talking about?”

“You tell a woman you're a mortician, and I guarantee within thirty seconds she'll look at your hands. It's like they wonder if you washed them or not—like they wonder what you've got under your nails.”