Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (39 page)

“Hang on a second,” he said to Turlock.

He slid off the bench and began to search the bottom of the boat—the equipment bag, the cooler, the rolled-up pair of rubber waders.

Nothing.

But he still heard the sound, coming from somewhere farther forward in the boat; somewhere toward the bow; somewhere on the right—

He opened the bait well and found a fist-sized GPS transmitter inside. A red LED was flashing on the top, warning of LOW BATTERY.

“That son of a—” He cocked his arm to throw the transmitter long and hard, but stopped; he picked up the phone instead.

“Frank,” he said, “I've got an idea.”

39

Nick stopped the silver Lexus fifty yards from the main gate of the DPMU. He reached into the backseat and made sure the blanket was completely covering the boy's reclining form.

J.T.'s head rose up sleepily under the blanket. “Are we there yet?”

“Almost,” Nick said. “Go back to sleep. I'll let you know.”

He pulled around the corner and up to the gate. A man stepped out of the guardhouse as he approached and held up one hand, signaling for Nick to stop. In the brilliant headlights, Nick could see that the man wore the uniform of the St. Gabriel Police Department.

“'Evening,” Nick said as the guard approached his window.

“Nice car.”

“I only drive the best.” He handed the guard his DMORT credentials. “Nice little town you've got here.”

“We like it.”

“They tell me that at the St. Gabriel General Store I can get a po' boy, chips, and a drink for under two bucks. Is that true?”

“A man who drives a car like this can afford more than two bucks.”

“Yeah.” Nick nodded. “You'd think so, wouldn't you?”

The guard studied the credentials, then looked at Nick's face. “Are you Dr. Nicholas Polchak?”

“That's right.”

“I'm going to have to ask you to come with me, sir.”

“What's the problem?”

“Sir, I want you to pull your car straight ahead and park it right there where I can see you—is that understood?”

“Mind telling me what this is about?”

“Just do as I ask, please.”

Nick pulled slowly ahead. As the car rolled forward he glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the guard speaking into his shoulder radio.

Without turning, he reached behind him and shook the sleeping boy. “Hey—wake up. J.T.—c'mon, wake up.”

The boy began to straighten.

“No!” Nick warned. “Stay down—keep the blanket over you and don't move. Listen to me.”

“What's goin' on?”

He stopped the car at the prescribed spot and turned off the engine. “I have to go somewhere.”

“Where? Why can't I—”

“Just
listen
—I've only got a few seconds.” He checked the mirror again; the guard was approaching from behind. “Stay under the blanket—whatever you do, don't show yourself. In a few seconds you're going to hear me get out and close the door. When I do, you wait a few minutes—then go and find Beth.” He reached over the backseat and dropped the keys on the floor. “Hear that? That's the keys; take the keys to Beth and tell her what happened. Stay with her; whatever she tells you to do, you do it—understand?”

“I want to stay with you, Nick.”

“Well, you can't—not right now. Find Beth and tell her what happened—and don't let anybody see you. Think you can do that?”

“Sure.”

“Stay with her, J.T.—that way I'll know how to find you.”

Nick could hear the guard's feet crunching on the macadam. He opened the door and stepped out. “What's going on?” he asked lightly. “Did I set off a metal detector or something? Darn those fingernail clippers.”

“Do you have any personal items in your car, sir?”

“Just my equipment bag in the trunk.”

“Get it, please, and follow me.”

Nick made no further attempt at levity; he did as he was instructed. The guard led him into the DPMU and directly to Denny's office, then opened the door and stepped aside, motioning for Nick to enter.

“Thanks for the ride in the patrol car,” Nick said. “I know where the principal's office is—you could have just pointed.” He stepped into the room and found Denny seated at his desk. Denny didn't bother to rise or even look up.

“Hey, Denny, what's the deal with all the—”

“Sit down.”

Nick heard the door click shut behind him. He turned and looked; the officer was standing with his hands folded at his waist, blocking the exit.

Nick swung the equipment bag from his shoulder and dropped it on the floor. He pulled a chair up across from Denny's desk and sat down. “Well, here we are again,” he said. “Talk about your déjà vu.”

Denny looked up. “You're going home, Nick.”

“What?”

“You pushed the wrong buttons this time; you jerked the wrong chains. I tried to warn you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I'm talking about. I told you not to recover bodies—you did it anyway. The DEA said you were endangering an important investigation—you ignored them. You recovered two bodies and stored them illegally on an abandoned floor of Charity Hospital.”

“I only did that because—”

“I don't want to hear it. You've been conducting your own private investigation again, haven't you? Just like you always do.”

“Denny, let me explain.”

“I'm not looking for explanations. I don't care why you did it. I'm here to tell you that you're going home. Sorry—it's nothing personal.”

“You're right about that,” Nick said. “This wasn't even your decision, was it?”

“It might as well have been.”

“Who initiated this? Tell me, Denny—you at least owe me that much.”

“I don't owe you anything. I've been covering your backside for years now: your rule-breaking and your disregard for authority and your compulsive work habits—not to mention your wacky pet-conspiracy theories.”

“Which usually turn out to be true.”

“I'm tired of taking the heat for you, Nick. Every time you screw up, I get called into somebody's office. Some pretty powerful people want you to go home this time, and I don't have time to argue with them. Go home, Nick—go back to NC State and teach freshmen about bugs. Screw up there—let them deal with you.”

Nick glanced over his shoulder at the St. Gabriel police officer. “Am I under armed guard?”

“The officer is here to escort you directly from the building.”

“Do you think we could ask Barney Fife to step out in the hallway for a minute?”

“Why?”

“I'd like to speak to you personally.”

“You have nothing to say to me personally.”

“Denny—
please
.”

Denny hesitated and nodded to the officer, who then stepped out and closed the door.

“Thank you,” Nick said.

“Make it quick.”

“I've got a wacky pet-conspiracy theory for you.”

Denny closed his eyes and hung his head.

“Just hear me out, okay? I've been looking for bodies in the Lower Ninth Ward. The DEA asked me to—they told you so. The only rule I broke was to bring a couple back—and that was only to collect forensic evidence before it was destroyed. I couldn't bring them here—you told me not to. So I hauled a couple to Charity Hospital and looked them over there. Why not? The whole floor was underwater—what harm did it do? The bodies I took to Charity—I found them in the Lower Nine. One of them was inhabited by caddis flies just like the one I found before; the materials that made up the caddis-fly cases showed that the bodies originally came from out in the bayous. So how did they get back to the Lower Nine after they were already dead? They sure didn't swim back.”

“Nick, where are you going with this?”

“So I went out to the bayous and took a look, and guess what I found? An abandoned meth lab, that's what—and while I was there somebody took a shot at me. Somebody didn't want me there, Denny—somebody is using this flood to cover up some unpleasant business. Somebody pulled those bodies out of the bayou and dumped them in the Lower Nine along with the folks who died in the hurricane; they figured that after a week or so they'd all look the same. And they would have been right—except that I found them first.”

“Nick—”

“And last night I was checking out another body—a man who died in his own attic. His body was
pink
, Denny—you know what that means: He died of carbon monoxide poisoning, like a guy who offs himself in his garage—only this guy wasn't in the garage, he was in the attic. There were no wood-burning stoves around, no furnaces or heaters—nothing that would have produced carbon monoxide. Somebody gassed the guy, Denny; somebody murdered him in his own attic—and judging from the body, it was
after
the hurricane. You see what I'm getting at? Somebody is
still
using the flood as a way to cover up killings.”

“And who's behind this vast conspiracy of yours?”

Nick paused. “I think it might be the DEA.”

“Nick. C'mon.”

“Or somebody in the DEA—somebody acting independently, without authority. Is that so crazy?”

“Of course it is. Do you have any physical evidence to support these claims?”

“How could I? People keep taking it away from me—but I've seen it.”

“And on that basis you want to accuse the DEA of murder.”

Nick shook his head. “Somebody doesn't want me collecting this evidence.”

“
Nobody
wants you collecting this evidence—that's what I've been telling you from the beginning. Why can't you get that through your head? The DEA
is
involved in this, Nick—they told you so themselves. You're screwing up one of their investigations—that's why they want you to go home. That's right, it's the DEA that wants you out of here—add that to your conspiracy theory. Just get out of here and stop making things harder for the rest of us.”

Nick just sat there and looked at him. There were a dozen more things he could have added: the fact that Jerry had disappeared; the fact that he was being followed; the fact that someone had tried to kill him in a flaming attic. But what was the point? Denny hadn't seen the evidence; he had no reason to believe. It would all just sound like more wild and groundless accusations, just paranoid rantings from a sleep-deprived man.

“Okay,” Nick said. “I'll go.”

“I wasn't asking you, Nick—I was telling you.”

“Is it okay if I take care of a few things on the way out?”

“No, it isn't.” Denny walked to the door and opened it, motioning for the guard to reenter. There was a second officer with him this time; he was carrying Nick's duffel bag packed with all of his belongings.

Nick frowned. “Is this really necessary? I feel like a shoplifter.”

“I'm just following orders,” Denny said. “You should try it sometime.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

“This officer has been instructed to drive you directly to the Baton Rouge Airport, where he'll drop you off. After that it's up to you. Go wherever you want—just don't come back here.”

“I hope you know you're being used,” Nick said.

“It's happened before. You should know—you're usually the one doing it.”

“I'm right this time, Denny. I know you can't see it yet, but I'm right.”

Nick walked to the door and looked at the officer carrying his bag. “I hope you folded things neatly,” he said. “I'm a stickler about creases.”

40

“Excuse me—where is the gift shop?”

The Delta Airlines ticket agent pointed across the hall. “Right there, ma'am.”

“Thank you.”

Beth hurried across the wide hallway, straightening her hair as she went, the heels of her shoes rapping like gavels on the glossy terrazzo floor. She entered the gift shop and glanced both ways; there was Nick Polchak, standing at a kiosk and squinting at an inflatable fleece-lined neck support.

“Nick—there you are. I came as soon as I could.”

“It's amazing,” he said. “I've been standing here looking at all this crap, and I'm actually starting to think I need one of these.”

“J.T. said someone came and took you away. I had no idea where you were until you called.”

“Do people actually use these things? Do they take them out on the airplane and blow them up in front of everybody else? What would other passengers think—it looks like you brought your own flotation device.”