Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (47 page)

“That's about it.”

“But when the hurricane hit—when the courthouse flooded—you got a little more ambitious, didn't you? It wasn't just about covering your tracks anymore, and that's when you realized that LaTourneau could be a very useful guy. Why should you get your hands dirty? You could just give LaTourneau your grocery list and let him do the shopping for you.”

“The people he killed were all in the drug trade, Polchak—they were just like the ones who murdered his daughter. Men lose their kids to drugs all the time; most of them never get to do anything about it. We gave LaTourneau that chance—that was the favor.”

“Sorry if I don't appreciate the favor,” Nick said. “Don't forget, I lost a partner in all this. But now that I think about it, that happened in the daytime—so that wasn't LaTourneau's work, was it?”

“I tried to warn you. You wouldn't let it go.”

“Yes, I have that tendency—my psychiatrist keeps warning me about it. Have you met my psychiatrist? Dr. Woodbridge—I mentioned her before. Psychiatrists have a funny way of getting inside your head; before you know it, they know everything that you know.”

“What a nightmare that must be.”

“Can you imagine? Dead partners, bodies with strange anomalies, clandestine meth labs in remote bayous, attics that blow up the minute you step inside—she knows every detail. And believe me, Frank—if anything happens to me, she'll tell.”

“I'll take my chances with her.”

“I've made that mistake. I don't recommend it.”

“I went to a lot of trouble to get you out here. Do you really think I'm going to let you go?”

“No, I don't,” Nick said. “I'm only interested in the boy—he's the only reason I'm here.”

“Sorry,” Turlock said. “You're a little late.”

J.T. began to twist frantically in the water. He shoved hard against the metal surface in front of him—maybe it would move, maybe it would let him by. He felt the metal flex a little and it shifted in the water. Whatever it was, it was big, like a box, with flat sides—and it was floating against the ceiling.

Then he remembered what Nick had told him:
Refrigerators float because they're filled with air.

He swam underneath the refrigerator and felt along the surface. He found a handle—the door was facing down. He pulled on the handle but nothing happened. He had no leverage—he had nothing to pull against. He jerked on the handle again and again. His lungs were on fire, and the knowledge that there was air just a few inches away made it even worse.

What would Nick do?
He tried to think.

He rotated upside down and planted his feet against the ceiling—then he grasped the handle with both hands and pushed upward with all the strength he had left. The door slowly opened and swung down into the water. The refrigerator rocked from side to side, bobbing like a cork, knocking against the ceiling, releasing huge bubbles of air that rolled out from underneath and gurgled up the sides.

J.T. pulled himself around the edge and shoved his head in between two shelves—but he couldn't find the air. Half the space was filled with plastic containers and rotting food that had fallen down against the door. He dug his way through it like a mole, clawing his way up until his head finally hit the back of the refrigerator—then his lungs exploded and he took his first frantic breath. The air was hot and foul, filled with the stench of mold and slime that had been accumulating for a week. But it didn't matter—it was air.

He floated in the darkness, panting like a dog, listening to his rasping breath echoing off the walls just inches from his face.

50

“Where is the boy?” Nick asked.

“He's dead,” Turlock said. “Too bad about that.”

“You said he was here. You told me he was sleeping.”

“I wasn't sure you'd come. I didn't want you running off half-cocked.”

Nick nodded toward the attic. “Is he in there?”

“Yeah, he's in there.”

“J.T.!” Nick shouted.

There was no reply.

“J.T.! It's Nick! Can you hear me? It's all right—I came to take you away!”

Still nothing.

“You shouldn't lie to the boy,” Turlock said.

Nick glared at Turlock; he could barely contain his rage. “Did you put him in there? Did you seal up that attic and leave him in there to bake all day? Shame on you, Frank—he was just a kid.”

“Like I said—it's too bad.”

“That's it? That's all you've got to say?”

Turlock didn't reply.

“Take a look around, Frank—the whole city's underwater. Lots of good people are suffering right now, and yes—some people are taking advantage. They're roaming the streets, looting the stores, even taking potshots at rescue helicopters—and they're all getting away with it right now, because there's no law. But you don't kill the good ones to get to the bad ones—that sort of defeats the point. I thought you'd be bright enough to figure that out. Apparently not.”

“I don't expect you to understand,” Turlock said.

“I understand more than you think. See, I'm basically in the same line of work you are—I catch bad guys. And when I see one of them getting away, it really bothers me—it's hard to let it go. I can understand how you feel—I can even understand why you did what you did—but you didn't just want to stop the drug dealers, did you? You wanted to stop the drug dealers
and get away with it
—and that's different. The minute you killed Jerry, everything changed. This wasn't about you saving the world anymore—this was about you saving your own skin.”

Turlock shook his head. “You know, I've spent twenty-five years with the DEA, most of it on the streets in run-down neighborhoods like this one—tracking down dealers, breaking up supply rings, kicking down doors, busting a few heads. It's a dirty business, Polchak. I've lost friends and I've lost partners—more than one—but I like to think it's been worth it, because I've managed to take a lot of bad people off the streets. Now a hurricane comes along and threatens to put them all back again? Sorry—Detwiler and me, we couldn't just sit back and let that happen. So we killed a few people—we ‘took the law into our own hands'—but what are you supposed to do when there's no law left? You can think whatever you want, Polchak—first watch your own daughter die of a drug overdose, then come and talk to me about ‘due process.'”

“How noble,” Nick said. “Tell me something, Frank: Where is LaTourneau getting his drugs now?”

“How should I know?”

“You have to know; it's a critical element in all this, isn't it? LaTourneau isn't following your orders—he thinks he's listening to the spirit of his dear departed daughter. To keep that little scam going you have to feed his psychosis—and that requires a steady flow of drugs. I was at his house, remember? I saw the pill bottle in the medicine cabinet and all the empties in the trash. Tell me, does the DEA keep a handy supply of methamphetamine for situations like this? Or have you found another source?”

Turlock didn't answer.

“You told me something in Denny's office—that day we first met. You said that after the hurricane, people in the drug trade would see opportunities to get ahead. You said a dealer might see the chance to become a distributor, or a distributor might try to become a major supplier. Is that what happened here, Frank? Did you and Detwiler see this whole disaster as a chance to move up in the world? Or do you really expect me to buy your ‘noble vigilante' angle?”

“Think what you want,” Turlock said. “I've got no apologies to make. There wasn't a man we killed who didn't deserve to die ten times over.”

“J.T. didn't.”

Turlock shrugged. “He got caught in the cross fire—just like you.”

Now Nick heard the sound of another boat's engine; it was approaching from behind. He turned and looked, but in the darkness saw nothing. He looked back at Turlock again—Turlock showed no sign of surprise or concern.

“I get it,” Nick said. “I've got to hand it to you, Frank, you're very thorough.” He turned around and looked again; now he could see the bulbous black hull of the inflatable Zodiac boat cruising silently toward him.

“Evening, partner,” Nick called out to LaTourneau as he approached.

LaTourneau said nothing; he brought his boat up parallel to Nick's and stopped his engine. The boats sat lined up in the water like three fingers on a hand—with Nick caught dead in the middle.

“Missed you today,” Nick said, hoping to remind LaTourneau of their earlier kinship. “How was the fishing in the Lower Nine? Catch any big ones?”

But the LaTourneau who looked back at him was a different man—his eyes showed no recognition of Nick's identity. They showed almost nothing at all; they were glassy and hollow, and they kept staring at Nick as if trying to determine what kind of creature he was.

Nick looked at Turlock. “Very clever. Why shoot me yourself when you can have your errand boy do it? It'll be his gun—his bullet—and the ballistics tests will prove it. I'll just be one more victim of the speed-freak cop.”

LaTourneau pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and slowly unfolded it. When he angled it down to view it in the faint moonlight, Nick could see what it was; it was his photograph—the one from the medicine cabinet mirror. LaTourneau looked carefully at the photograph, then up at Nick.

“Tell me something,” Nick said to Turlock. “When you're finished with him, are you planning to kill him or just turn him over to the authorities?”

“I'll have to kill him,” Turlock said. “His brain's so fried that he probably wouldn't remember me anyway—we've only met at night, and at night he's on another wavelength. But I plan to kill him—that'll wrap up a lot of loose ends, and it won't look bad for me either. I can see the headline now: ‘DEA Agent Solves Bizarre String of Murders'—including yours, Polchak. Sort of ironic, if you think about it.”

“Keep talking, Frank. He can hear every word you're saying.”

“Like I told you, at night he's on another wavelength. LaTourneau can't hear me; he can't hear you either. Go ahead, try to talk him out of it if you want to—it won't do any good. At night he can only hear one voice.”

Nick looked at LaTourneau.
That's what I'm counting on
, he thought.

LaTourneau squinted at the photograph, then at Nick again. His eyes were wide and they were blinking like camera shutters; his fingers were trembling like tuning forks. He stood up slowly in his boat and unholstered his gun. He held the photograph in his left hand and the gun in his right; he slowly raised the gun and aimed it at Nick.

He looked down at the photograph one last time. He read the words again, written in lipstick across the front: “This man is your friend, Daddy—Turlock is the bad one.”

Turlock smiled at Nick. “Sorry, Polchak. Nothing personal.”

“You're wrong,” Nick said. “This is personal.”

LaTourneau fired twice over Nick's left shoulder. Both shots caught the astonished Turlock square in the chest, knocking him backward over the edge of the boat and into the oil-black water.

51

Nick stared at the water behind Turlock's empty boat, half-expecting to see a wounded man struggle back to the surface—but the water quickly grew quiet and still, healing over its ugly wound, adding one more piece of garbage to its toxic brew.

Nick slowly turned and looked back at LaTourneau, still standing in his boat with his gun hand extended. The weapon was shaking visibly; Nick was amazed that the man could aim and even group his shots in his present condition. LaTourneau was staring at the water too—staring with a look of astonished confusion, as though he had just been a witness to Turlock's death instead of the cause.

LaTourneau ignored Nick—he seemed to look through him as though he didn't even exist, and Nick hoped things would remain that way.
He's on another wavelength
, Turlock had said, and he was right. LaTourneau was tuned in to a different galaxy right now, capable of receiving only one signal—the voice of his dead daughter.

Nick's gamble had paid off: LaTourneau interpreted Beth's lipstick-scrawled message just as he had all the others—as a message from beyond. Detwiler had spoken to LaTourneau in his daughter's own voice; Nick realized that he had to do the same, because no other voice could ever contradict hers. He erased Detwiler's message from the medicine cabinet mirror and had Beth write another in its place—a message that had just ended Turlock's life.

Now Nick sat perfectly still, waiting, watching LaTourneau's face, hoping that he might consider his daughter's wishes finally fulfilled and quietly sail away—but it wasn't happening, and Nick thought he knew why: Detwiler's original message had been on the mirror for two days—a message instructing him to kill Nick. LaTourneau must have seen it before it was erased—and he still remembered.