Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (46 page)

“Nick! What are you doing?”

A minute later they squeezed between two rooftops and emerged into a wide-open area; in the center of the area was a bizarre jigsaw puzzle of wooden coffins, roped together around the edges like a massive log raft. Nick brought the boat up alongside the coffins and killed the engine. He reached over the side of the boat and pushed down hard on the closest coffin, testing its buoyancy. He looked at Beth.

“Get out,” he said.

“What?”

“Get out—I'm leaving you here.”

“What are you talking about? What's going on?”

“The GPS unit—the one I dropped in Detwiler's boat—he must have found it. Somebody turned it off—there was a gap in the time record.”

“So?”

“Anybody could have turned it off, but only one person would have a reason to turn it on again: Turlock. He must have figured out what I was doing. He switched the unit on again because he wanted me to follow him.”

“Then let's get out of here!”

“No. I'm going back.”

“Are you out of your mind? If he wanted you to follow him, he'll be waiting for you. This was never about J.T.—it was just a way to get you out here so he could kill you himself.”

“I came out here on a hunch,” Nick said. “Turlock had the same hunch—he knew I might try to follow him, but he couldn't know that for sure. I still think there's a chance J.T. is out here.”

“Then why wouldn't Turlock let you talk to him? J.T. is dead, Nick—that has to be the reason. You can't risk your life on the outside chance that he might still be alive.”

“Why not? I'm willing to take that chance.”

“Nick, you're tired—you're not thinking clearly.”

“It seems clear enough to me. If there's a chance that J.T. is back there, I have to go back and look. If Turlock has left already, I'll be okay. If Turlock is waiting for me, he'll be planning to kill me—but I don't think he'll do it.”

“Why not?”

“Because of you, Beth. He's forgetting about you; he's forgetting that you know everything I know—about LaTourneau, about the courthouse, about Detwiler and the bayou. If anything happens to me,
you'll
go straight to the authorities—he's forgetting that, but I'll remind him.”

“Nick, that's a terrible risk.”

“I'll take that risk.”

“Then I'm going with you.”

“No. One of us has to make it back to the authorities—that's why I'm dropping you here. If things work out all right, I'll come back for you; if not—here, take the satellite phone. FEMA knows about this place—just tell them you're at the coffins.”

“But if you don't come back—”

“Then you'll go to the authorities, and we'll still get Turlock.”

“But you'll be dead.”

Nick shrugged. “Denny wanted a team player; looks like he finally gets his wish. Now—get out.”

48

Nick worked his way back between the rooftops, checking his GPS receiver as he went. It wasn't far now—just a few more meters away. Straight ahead of him was a single-story house with an asphalt-shingle roof, no different from six thousand others in the Lower Nine—except for the fact that this might be the last house he would ever see.

Nick spotted the attic vent and motored toward it. The attic was the only portion of the house above water; if J.T. was there, he would be inside. He started to call out as he approached but decided not to—his voice would carry easily over the still water, and if Turlock had recently left, there was no sense in calling him back.

As Nick approached the attic vent, another boat slid quietly out from behind the house. It was Turlock—and he was holding a gun.

“Cut your engine,” Turlock said. “Do it now.”

“This used to be such a nice neighborhood,” Nick said. “Now they're letting everyone in.”

“You don't seem surprised to see me. I'm a little disappointed.”

“It's sort of like hemorrhoids,” Nick said. “You know they'll be back, you just don't know when.”

“I know what you mean. I've had the same experience with you.”

“Glad to oblige.”

“You cost me a partner.”

“That wasn't my fault, Frank—you'll have to talk to the alligators about that. You know, I've been reading up on alligators lately. Here's an interesting fact: Alligators can't chew. They just rip off huge chunks of flesh and hold it in their jaws until it decomposes enough to swallow whole. That means your partner should be around for a few days—long enough to get a DNA sample and prove that he was there.”

“Now, who would want to do that?”

“Dr. Woodbridge might. She doesn't like people shooting at her—she's picky about things like that.” Nick glanced down at Turlock's hand. “We both are.”

“You didn't mention that Dr. Woodbridge was with you that night.”

“Didn't I? Oh, yes, we've been spending a lot of time together lately. Take yesterday, for example—we made a very interesting side trip to the Orleans Parish Criminal District Court.”

Turlock paused. “You don't say.”

“It was very educational. A sheriff 's deputy there told us all about it—how the basement flooded, how all kinds of court records and case evidence have been destroyed.”

“Seems I heard something about that.”

“I'll bet you did. That's just the sort of news that would get your attention, now, wouldn't it? I imagine the DEA spends a good bit of time at that courthouse. Orleans Parish—that covers the entire city of New Orleans, doesn't it? I'll bet you boys make quite a few arrests around there—some of them right here in the Lower Nine.”

“A few,” Turlock said.

“Just think about all those cases that might not make it to trial now—all the past convictions that might be overturned on appeal. All that work—all that time—it's enough to break your heart.”

“You have no idea,” Turlock said.

“Oh, I don't know, Frank—lots of people feel that way from time to time. Take me, for instance: I've been trying to catch a couple of murderers for a week now, and I'm getting nowhere—I keep losing all the physical evidence.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“I'm not the only one who's frustrated. There's a cop who's been working in the Lower Nine—he keeps rescuing people all day long, but they still seem to keep dying at night. Poor guy, he just can't seem to get ahead. Maybe you've heard of him—a guy named LaTourneau.”

Turlock didn't answer.

J.T. stood with his ear pressed against the attic vent. He heard every word that Nick had said—and every word spoken by the man he called Frank.

When J.T. first heard Turlock call out to him he almost shouted back, but something warned him not to—something in the man's voice. “I'm a friend of Nick,” the man said—but it wasn't Jerry's voice, and Nick never mentioned other friends. Maybe this was the man who put him here—the one who made him sick to his stomach and left him here to rot. Nick would never do that. Nick would never leave him in a place like this, a place so hot that you felt dizzy and weak and you sweated until your skin got cold and clammy and your tongue got glued to the roof of your mouth.

That's why J.T. didn't shout back—that's why he lay down on the floor and pretended to be dead. He heard the man pry off the board—he could hear the squeaking of the nails. And when the man hammered the board back on again, that's when he knew: This was no friend.

When he heard Turlock's voice a second time, it was at the opposite end of the house—the one with the slats. He was talking to someone else this time, but who? J.T. pressed his ear against the slats and listened—and that's when he heard Nick's voice.

He started to shout again—to let Nick know that he was there, just a few yards away, trapped inside the attic, hot and tired and hungry—but again he decided not to. He decided to listen; that's when he knew that Nick was in trouble.

That's when he knew that he had to help.

The attic was as black as a cavern. J.T. quickly felt his way across the floor joists, testing with his foot for the opening that led down into the house. When he found it, he eased onto the ladder and stepped down into the water until it was almost up to his neck. He looked back at the faint moonlight glowing through the slats at the attic's end. That was the wall—that was how far he had to swim.

That ain't nothin'
, he told himself.
I'm a real good swimmer—I can hold my breath for a long, long time.

He felt something brush by his leg. He thought about the house—about the way it might be shaped, about windows and doors and where they might be.

I been in lots of houses like this. This one's no different.

He felt a sudden rush of fear. He imagined himself trapped, frantic, with no way to go forward and no way back.

Nick did it
, he told himself.
If Nick can do it, so can I.

He summoned all his courage, took his deepest breath, and dived in.

He headed directly toward the end of the house. That's where Nick was—that's where he needed to go. He swam hard at first, hoping to cover the distance in the shortest possible time—but then he remembered how hard he had to breathe whenever he ran as fast as he could, so he eased up a little and paced himself instead. He swam along the ceiling like a cockroach; the ocean of darkness around him seemed overwhelming, and it was reassuring to feel something real and solid against his back.

Bump!
A wall—he felt his first wave of panic.

He felt along the wall with both hands. His memory of other houses told him to go left, and the decision was a good one—in a few seconds he found the top of a doorway and swam through.

But in the process of twisting through the doorway and righting himself again, he became disoriented. He wasn't sure which direction to head now—but he was sure of one thing: He was running out of air, and fast.

He started to swim harder again, but in just a few inches his head bumped something else—something hard. He frantically ran his hands over it: a hinge—a door of some kind. He pulled the door open and tried to reach through, but his hand hit something else—a stack of dishes—cups and saucers. He jerked his hand out and felt the dishes slide out and fall, drifting silently back and forth in the water like leaves settling to the ground. It was a cabinet—he was in a kitchen—but facing which way? Where was he supposed to go now?

He felt his lungs heave, desperate for air.

He turned to the left and swam desperately, but once again in just a few feet his head bumped into something hard—something made of metal this time.

His head was aching, throbbing from lack of oxygen. He felt as if his chest was about to explode. He wanted to cry; maybe he was already crying, but there was no way to feel the tears in water as warm as spit. He floated motionless, trying to think what to do—what Nick would do—but no ideas came to his mind. There was no way forward and no way back, and he could only summon one thought.

Where is my father?

49

“You probably know LaTourneau,” Nick said. “He's a methampheta-mine addict, and the DEA keeps tabs on people like that. We stopped off at his house yesterday and took a look around. Guess what we found? Somebody's been supplying him with speed, then using him like a hopped-up errand boy to do their dirty work. Now, who would do a thing like that? If you ask me, that's the sort of person who needs investigating; that's the kind of guy you want to keep tabs on.”

“LaTourneau started using on his own,” Turlock said. “We had nothing to do with that. We got a call from NOPD Internal Affairs—they said they had a drug-abuse situation with one of their officers. They sent him to rehab and gave him a long leave of absence—asked us to find the supplier.”

“So you took over his rehab.”

“LaTourneau was over the edge when we found him. He was going down anyway—we did the poor guy a favor.”

“You call that a favor?”

“We tracked down LaTourneau's supplier. Turns out he was buying from the same guys who supplied his own daughter—the two who set up the meth lab out in the bayou. We made the mistake of telling LaTourneau; the next day he took a boat out there and shot both of them dead.”

“You ‘made the mistake' of telling him. Now was it really a mistake, Frank? Or were you hoping that he would take care of a little problem for you? I hear that clandestine meth labs are becoming quite a problem for the DEA; so you just let it slip to LaTourneau that you knew where to find one—one that he'd be especially motivated to do something about.”

“It was his daughter, Polchak—he lost his head, that's all. We just looked the other way.”

“But not for long—because LaTourneau wasn't quite as tidy as you'd hoped he'd be; he just threw the bodies in the water, and you knew that somebody might eventually discover them. So when Katrina came along you saw a way to take care of that little problem; you dredged up the two bodies from the bayou and dumped them in the Lower Nine, didn't you?”