Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (36 page)

In the attic
, she said—
look in the attic
.

In his peripheral vision he caught a faint flash of light at the left side of the house. He motored around to that side and found the open attic vent; the flicker of a flashlight inside told him that the house was not empty after all. He was in there, just as she had said.

Forgive me, sweetheart—forgive me for ever doubting you. I keep forgetting that you can see everything now. How could you ever be wrong?

He pulled the thin metal tiller and steered the boat slowly around to the opposite end of the house where the attic vent was still intact. He peered through the narrow slats and saw the beam of the flashlight clearly now. It was pointed at the floor, illuminating the body of a man lying in the water. Someone was bending over the body, examining it.

He leaned back and looked at the slats of the attic vent, then at the house itself. There was something familiar about the place—something familiar about the body inside—but he couldn't remember what it was. No matter; the man inside had to be the one he was looking for. She told him he would find him there, and she was never wrong.

He was one of them—one of the ones who made the pills that killed you.

Now it's his turn to die.

He twisted the fuel line from the boat's gas tank and attached a length of rubber hose to the tank instead; he quietly fed the other end through the attic vent's slats until the hose dangled just above the surface of the water inside. Now he began to pump a metal handle on the fuel tank up and down; it made a low, sucking sound, drawing gasoline up into the hose and pumping it through, pouring it silently onto the water of the attic floor.

Nick knelt over the body and studied it; he held the flashlight as close as possible, illuminating every detail, examining it from head to foot. Where was the anomaly the men had mentioned? There was nothing unusual about this body; there was no advanced stage of decomposition, there were no unusual wounds. In fact, there seemed to be no wounds at all—the cause of death was not immediately apparent. What was it about this body that had caused them to find it “strange”?

Then he saw it—something he would have spotted immediately in the balanced light of day but now was disguised by the bluish beam of the halogen flashlight. It wasn't the condition of the skin that made the body strange, it was the
color
—it should have been turning a bluish-green by now, but instead it was a bright pink.

Nick sniffed at the air and wrinkled his nose; the stench of petroleum was strong here. There was no telling what the polluted water in this part of the Lower Nine might contain; the floodwaters had inundated gas stations and even entire refineries. He looked down at his dripping clothing and wondered what his skin might be absorbing even now. He held the flashlight low to the water and looked; sure enough, he could see the rainbow reflection of an oil film undulating across the surface.

Nick held his own arm up against the cadaver and made a color comparison. There was no doubt about it: Either Nick had recently died or the body was definitely pink—and that could mean only one thing. He looked around the room for some explanation but saw nothing.

When Nick's flashlight swept past the roof vent at the opposite end of the house, something caught his eye, causing him to look back—something out of context, something that seemed out of place. He looked again; he saw a black rubber tube protruding from between two vent slats and hanging down over the water. Some kind of fluid seemed to be gushing from the end.

It suddenly stopped.

Nick stood up.

He saw a flash of light from outside the roof vent—not the steady glow of a flashlight's beam, but the quick flaring glare of a match. He dropped his own flashlight into the water and took a deep breath.

He turned and dived headfirst through the attic doorway into the house below.

36

Nick's feet had barely disappeared beneath the water before the attic above him exploded in brilliant orange fire.

The impact of his dive ripped the glasses from his face; he twisted in the water and felt around frantically for them, but it was useless. The lukewarm water was choked with particulate matter swirling around him like leaves on a windy day; he clutched at the largest pieces and felt nothing but clumps of soggy cardboard and waterlogged wood. He needed those glasses—without them he was blind—but right now there was something he needed even more.

He needed air.

He felt a wave of panic coming over him; a thousand thoughts rushed, screaming at him like madmen in a crowd.

Go back! Better to burn than to drown!

Get out! Swim hard, swim fast, try to find a way out!

Give in! It's no use, you can't see, there isn't time!

He felt adrenaline pulsing through his system, accelerating his heart rate and robbing him of precious oxygen—oxygen that he couldn't spare. In less than a minute his lungs would begin to feel that aching burn; his mind would grow numb and his thoughts confused; he would begin to lose muscular control; his motions would become desperate and spasmodic. Then his limbs would go limp as his body gently settled to the bottom, where the bacteria in his gut would rage and devour, bloating his abdomen with methane and CO2 until he slowly floated to the surface again.

Go back!

Get out!

Give in!

You're going to die, Nick—this time you're going to die.

He squeezed his eyes tight and shut out all of the voices—except for one. It was a woman's voice, and it spoke to him quietly and clearly.

People depend on you, Nick. People depend on you.

He forced his body to hang limp in the water like a fetus in a womb, reining in his racing heart and forcing himself to
think
. His biggest enemies were fear and panic causing him to make stupid choices—flailing around in the water, using up his air, hurrying death along.
Think
, he told himself. Nick had made a living using his mind, and if he had to die, he wanted to die the same way.

He couldn't go up again—the attic was in flames. Even if he broke through the fire and drew in a breath, the superheated air could sear his lungs and cause instant death.

He had to go out—but which direction? What if he swam into a closet or a bathroom with no way of escape? He'd better get it right the first time; he'd only have time to try once.

He opened his eyes and looked around the room. The attic was still blazing above him, casting a shaft of yellow light down through the attic doorway and faintly illuminating the room. If only he had his glasses! All he could make out were dark geometric blurs, but what did they represent? The room was like a circus funhouse—everything was inverted or out of place. He saw a big vertical rectangle on one of the walls—a doorway? But the corners looked rounded and the edges seemed to curve—a sofa, maybe, standing on end? He saw a smaller square shape along another wall, the size of a dresser or a coffee table, but it was up against the ceiling—what was it? He couldn't be sure—and he didn't have time to guess.

Then he spotted it—a large, horizontal rectangle near the center of one wall—a window, the quickest way out of the room and up to the surface above. He twisted off his shoes and swam toward the rectangle, wondering if he would have to smash through the glass—but what he bumped into was solid and hard. He felt along the edge; it wasn't a window at all—it was a picture frame hanging on the wall.

He felt a dull ache starting in the pit of his lungs.

Big mistake, ace—you won't have time for another one.

He didn't have time to swim back across the room and try a different direction. He had committed himself, and, right or wrong, he had to keep going. He leaned back from the wall and looked again; beside the picture frame was a tall vertical rectangle. He reached out to touch it and his hand went right through—a doorway. It didn't matter where it went—at least it led out of this room. He grabbed the edge of the doorway with both hands and pulled himself through.

The next room, whatever it was, was as black as a tomb—no light from the burning attic found its way inside.
Now I'm really blind
, Nick thought, and then he stopped.
I'm blind—I'm just like any other blind man who has to find his way out of a strange room. What would a blind man do?

He closed his eyes again. He knew what a blind man would
not
do: dart back and forth across the room, ricocheting off random objects without gaining any understanding of the space around him. He turned to his immediate right and began to feel along the wall. His head bumped into something projecting from the wall. He felt it; it seemed to be some kind of cabinet. He felt around below the cabinet and found a flat, smooth surface—a Formica counter. He was in a kitchen.

The ache was growing in his chest; he felt his diaphragm contract reflexively, trying to draw breath into his starving lungs.

He grabbed the edge of the counter and pulled himself forward, feeling along the top of the counter as he went, leaving his legs hanging limp to conserve energy and reduce oxygen consumption. He found a twin-basin sink and wondered if he would come to a corner soon. He did, just as expected; he turned left and continued, constructing a mental image of the room as he went.

The counter abruptly ended and he felt metal instead. He reached up and patted the top; he felt the spiraling coils of heating elements—an oven. Beyond the oven should be the refrigerator—but when he got to the appropriate place, the space was empty. Why?

It didn't matter. He had his mental picture, or at least a portion of it: counter, sink, corner; oven, refrigerator—and then what? Every kitchen had an exit door. Where would it be? There were only two walls left to choose from. He consulted his fragmentary mental image again and made a logical deduction—then pushed off and swam to the next wall.

More counters! Was he wrong? Was it the other wall? He felt above the counters and felt glass—a window! But it was a fixed-pane window, too hard to break and too small to pull himself through.

His lungs were on fire now. He couldn't hold back the panic anymore—his mind felt like a wobbling wheel about to spin off into space. He started to feel along the wall, but which way—right or left? He had only seconds of consciousness left. One way meant death, the other life. But there was no way to know—it was a pure guess.

Think!

But Nick could barely hear the word above the dull buzz rising in his head.
Sounds like bees
, he thought—
like angry honeybees
.
Order Hymenoptera, family Apidae, genus Apis . . . Why are the bees so angry? I like bees—I've always liked bees . . .

Right! Go right!

He felt furiously along the wall to the right—and found a door.

His chest was heaving, sucking like a dry pump. He let his adrenaline go now, hoping it would buy him an extra few seconds. He twisted the knob and pulled, but the door moved through the water slowly, heavily, like a spoon through jelly. He couldn't wait for it to fully open; he wedged his body into the opening and squeezed through.

He was outdoors now, the air was just above his head—just a few more inches to go. He pushed off with his half-dead legs, launching himself upward, his lungs about to implode.

His head hit the ceiling.

The impact was crushing, but it was the despair that almost killed him. He reached up with his hands and numbly felt along the surface. The ceiling wasn't smooth—it had ridges and grooves.

Paneling. Back porch.

The sound in his head was a rising shrill note now. He was conscious but had no discernible thoughts. He was operating on instinct; it was all he had left. He pulled his knees up and crawled along the ceiling like a spider until his head bounced against something springy and flat.

Screen.

He pushed against it and it slowly gave way, drifting off as if it were in space. He reached around the edge and felt the gutter.

He pulled with everything he had left.

37

“You look terrible,” Beth said, “the worst I've ever seen you—and that really says something.”

“Thanks,” Nick said. “You look terrific—but then, everything does right now. I suppose that's what happens when you thought you'd be dead.”

“Dead? What happened?”

“It's a long story.”

“I haven't seen you or heard from you in two days. Where have you been? What's going on?”

Nick looked over at J.T., who was wolfing down a Belgian waffle smothered in strawberry syrup topped with whipped cream. “I've seen a lot of disgusting things lately, but I'd put that near the top of the list. You doing okay?”

“Okay,” the boy said, never missing a beat.

“We had quite a night, huh, partner?”

“You left me in the boat,” J.T. said, frowning.

“I had to—otherwise who would have pulled me out of the water?”

“Spotted you when you popped up,” he said.