Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (15 page)

Nick shook his head. “Maybe we should start putting people back on rooftops.”

“Maybe we should just follow orders,” the soldier said.

“That's always my policy. By the way, have you guys spotted any bodies?”

“Sure, we've seen a few.”

“I'm talking about unusual ones.”

“‘Dead' isn't good enough?”

“I'm looking for bodies with bullet or trauma wounds—bodies in an advanced state of decay—that sort of thing.”

“We saw one like that, 'bout a quarter mile from here.”

“Did you get a GPS reading? Let me have it, will you?”

The Guardsman relayed the coordinates and Nick jotted them down.

“Thanks,” Nick said. “Now here's a tip for you: About a half mile down this road, you'll come to a commercial district; you'll find five guys there looting a store. One of them is an NOPD officer—see if you can knock some sense into him, will you?”

“Glad to oblige,” the soldier said. He signaled to his helmsman to move on, then turned to the remaining two Guardsmen. “Lock and load,” he said. They responded by checking their M16s to make sure there was a round ready in the chamber.

Jerry's eyes were fixed on the rifles as the two boats pulled away from each other. “That's what we need,” he said.

“I've never been much good with guns,” Nick said. “You have to be able to see the guy you want to shoot—they tell me that's an important detail.” Jerry didn't respond.

“C'mon, Jerry, lighten up—we're in the business of recovering bodies, not producing them.” But he knew what Jerry was feeling.

Nick steered as Jerry directed with his GPS unit. Fifteen minutes later, they arrived at the coordinates the Guardsman had indicated and eased up alongside the floating body.

“He was right,” Jerry said. “This guy's in bad shape.”

Nick leaned out over the side of the boat to take a better look. J.T. once again began to do the same, but Nick pushed him back. “Not this time,” he said.

“How come?”

“I need an assistant. I want you to open my equipment bag and get out the same stuff you saw me use yesterday. Can you remember it all?”

J.T. rummaged through the canvas bag while Nick examined the body.

Jerry once again had to serve as a counterweight to balance the boat. “What do you see?” he asked.

“It's already in the third stage of deterioration—
floating decay
. The skin has been thoroughly macerated by the water; it's sloughing off in some places, and it's already turning black. The abdomen has collapsed, but there's still enough gas to keep it afloat. There are some blowfly infestations on the exposed areas, but those are only a couple of days old—this man's been dead much longer than that. If only there were—”

Nick reached back over his shoulder. “Give me the forceps—the long silver things.”

He plucked a single insect from the body and held it up.

“That's not like the other bugs,” J.T. said.

“You're right,” Nick said. “This one's different.”

“You want a jar?”

“No, get me a body bag. Not like the one we used yesterday—look for one made out of mesh.”

“Whoa,” Jerry said. “Nick—what are you doing?”

Nick looked at him and smiled. “Jerry, how long have we known each other?”

13

“Okay, open wide.”

J.T. opened his mouth, and the Family Assistance Center technician wiped a cotton swab over the inside of his cheek.

“What's that for?” the boy asked.

“DNA,” Nick said. “Do you know what that is, smart guy?” Nick held out a small package.

J.T. shook his head.

“I thought you knew everything,” Nick said. “Never mind—I'll explain it to you later. Are you hungry? C'mon, I'll show you what the soldiers eat—then there's somebody I want you to meet.”

The boy was still sporting the same pair of knee-length shorts, but he now wore one of Nick's oversized button-down shirts and a pair of Nike's cadged from a female pathologist of similar stature. He spent a full ten minutes sorting through the selection of black-and-tan MREs before finally settling on “Cajun Rice with Beans and Sausage”—known to locals as “Bayou Beanie Weanies.” Nick chose a “Chicken with Cavatelli” for himself and threw in a “Cherry Blueberry Cobbler” for each of them. Ordinarily, he would have removed the entrées from their plastic bags and microwaved them—but he thought J.T. would enjoy using a chemical ration heater instead. Ten minutes later, the boy's entrée was ready to eat; five minutes after that it was completely consumed.

“I once had a date with a woman who ate like that,” Nick said. “Scary.”

Nick glanced up and spotted Beth in the doorway, surveying the room. He waved to her and she approached.

“This is the lady I wanted you to meet,” Nick said. “J.T., this is Beth Woodbridge.”

The boy looked up and grinned. “You're pretty.”

“And you're sweet.”

“Forget it,” Nick said to Beth. “He's already got plenty of girlfriends.”

“I can imagine. May I sit down, J.T.? I'd like to ask you some questions.”

She pulled up a chair on the opposite side of the table and watched the boy as he dug into his gooey cobbler. “How do you like it here at the DPMU?”

“I like the food,” he said.

“I can see that. Nick likes this food, too, don't you, Nick?”

Nick had a mouthful of cavatelli at the moment. He gave the boy a big thumbs-up.

“Have you ever heard of the Family Assistance Center, J.T.?”

He shook his head.

“It's up in Baton Rouge, just a few minutes from here. We assist families there, just like it sounds. We help people get back in touch with their loved ones when they get separated, like some people have down in New Orleans. We'd like to help you find your father again.”

“Nick's helping me.”

“That's very nice of Nick, but we can help too. We'll put your name into a big database so everybody can see it—not just here, but all over the country. That might help your father find you.”

“They stuck a thing in my mouth.”

“A cheek swab? They'll take that back to Baton Rouge and keep it there. It could come in handy later, but right now we'd like to know a few things about you and your dad. Where do you live, J.T.? What's your address?”

“I forget,” he said.

“Nick says he found you in the Lower Ninth Ward.”

“That's right—that's where I live.”

“What street do you live on?”

“It changes.”

“You mean you've lived in different places?”

“Sure.”

“Where does your father live? Does he live with you?”

“We got separated. I told Nick.”

She glanced at Nick. “What about your mother?”

He shook his head.

“What about brothers? Sisters?”

He shook his head again.

“J.T., can you describe your father for me?”

Nick leaned in. “He told me he's tall, and—”

“I want to hear him say it. Go on, J.T.”

“He's like Nick.”

“Like Nick? How?”

“Tall. Smart. With glasses.”

She paused. “J.T., have you ever been visited by a social worker? Do you know what that is?”

“Sure.”

“Do you remember your social worker's name?”

“It changes.”

“I see.” She watched the boy for another minute before she rose from the table. “It was a pleasure to meet you, J.T. I hope we can talk again. Nick is going to walk me to the door now because he's such a gentleman, but he'll be right back.”

She gave Nick a quick glance before she turned away.

“She's pretty,” the boy said, “but weird.”

“That about covers it. Finish your food—I'll be right back.”

Nick followed Beth through the doorway and just around the corner, out of sight. “What do you think?” he asked.

“I'm getting some mixed signals from him,” she said. “I'd like to contact the Department of Social Services in New Orleans; if I can reach them, they should be able to tell me who was working in the Lower Ninth Ward. If we can locate his social worker, we'll save a lot of time. I'm not sure I'll be able to get through since the phones are out in the city; I may have to go through the state DSS office in Baton Rouge, and that could take a while.”

“Do what you can,” Nick said. “In the meantime, I'll see if I can—”

“You!” a voice said behind him.

Nick turned. It was Denny.

“In my office—
right now
.” He marched by without stopping.

Beth looked at Nick. “What did you do now?”

“Later,” Nick said. “Do me a favor, will you? Take the boy to Jerry—tell him to look out for him until I get back.”

Nick hurried after his boss. “Denny, I can explain.”

“Don't bother—I don't want to hear it.”

“I had to bring that body back. It was a matter of—”

“You just don't listen, do you, Nick? I tried to tell you—we're a part of a team here. That's not just some slogan—that's the way the system works.”

“Denny, if you'll just give me a chance to—”

Denny swung open his office door and stepped aside, motioning for Nick to enter ahead of him. Nick stepped inside and found a man he didn't recognize seated at Denny's desk.

He heard the door click behind him. He looked; Denny wasn't there.

“Come in,” the man said without looking up. “Take a seat.”

“Thanks. I'll stand.”

The man didn't respond; he continued to read from a file folder open on the desk in front of him. A full minute went by.

Nick felt the hair rising like wire bristles on the back of his neck. He didn't mind getting his hand slapped—God knows it happened often enough—but he despised this kind of clumsy attempt at intimidation. “Mind if I get a magazine?” he asked.

The man didn't reply.

A chair had been set strategically near the center of the room—not so close to the desk as to suggest friendship, and not so far away as to allow detachment. It was a spot intended to provide Nick with plenty of room to squirm; all the scene needed was a bare lightbulb dangling overhead.

Nick dragged the chair closer to the desk and sat down.

The man looked up. “So, you're this bug man character.”

“Is that a question?”

He paused. “I'm with the Drug Enforcement Administration here in Louisiana—the New Orleans Field Division. We cover a four-state area: Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, and Arkansas.”

“That's a lot of ground,” Nick said.

“Tell me about it.”

“How'd you guys fare in the storm?”

“I'm over in Metairie—we did okay. Our office in Gulfport was wiped out.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“It's just a building,” he said. “What really fries me is when somebody screws up one of my investigations.”

“That was a subtle transition.”

“I don't have much time for subtlety. Like you said: I've got a lot of ground to cover.” He looked down at the folder again. “Dr. Nicholas Polchak, PhD in entomology from Penn State University.”

“Go Nittany Lions.”

“Currently professor of entomology at North Carolina State University. Distinguished Member, American Academy of Forensic Sciences; Diplomate, American Board of Forensic Entomology; Member of Disaster Mortuary Operational Response Team since 1995.”

“Please. I'm blushing.”

The man rose from his chair and slowly walked around to the front of the desk; he leaned back against it, folding his arms across his chest and staring down at Nick. Now Nick wished he had left the chair where it was; he felt like a schoolboy in the principal's office—which, he supposed, was the intended effect.

Nick judged the man to be about six feet tall, maybe less. He appeared broad-shouldered and large-boned but slender, like an ex-ballplayer who had worked hard to stay in shape. His skin appeared weathered but not tanned, suggesting a man who had moved up to an office after long years in the field. His facial features were sharp, almost angular, with deep creases and hollows around his cheeks and mouth. He was almost bald on top; the hair on both sides had been cut to match, leaving salt-and-pepper stubble that wrapped from ear to ear. Nick wondered if the man wore contacts; his eyes were precisely the right shade of “intimidating blue.”