Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (49 page)

LaTourneau was halfway to the coffins now.

“LaTourneau!” Nick shouted. “Stay where you are!”

But he didn't seem to hear Nick's voice. He just kept coming, locked onto Beth's shrouded form, desperately seeking to be reunited with his daughter. Beth realized that nothing would stop him or turn him back—unless his daughter was no longer there.

She shook off the tarp and let it drop around her feet.

“My name is Beth Woodbridge,” she said. “I'm a psychiatrist, Mr. LaTourneau—I can help you.”

LaTourneau thrashed in the water, shaking his head, trying to clear his clouded mind. “Sweetheart—where are you?”

“I want you to keep coming, Mr. LaTourneau—try to make it to the coffins. You can do it—just keep listening to my voice.”

But LaTourneau no longer heard her voice. He just kept staring at her—through her—searching for something that had been there just a moment ago.

His flailing began to slow.

“No!” Beth shouted. “Keep going!”

“I can't . . . live . . . without you . . .”

His body stopped moving, and his head disappeared below the water.

Beth sank to her knees and began to weep.

53

Wednesday, September 14

Nick and Beth watched J.T. through the glass door. The boy was sitting in the cafeteria at Baton Rouge General Hospital, leisurely picking his way through his third dessert.

“He looks pretty good,” Nick said.

“Kids are resilient,” Beth replied. “All he really needed was some fluids and a good night's rest—that's more than I can say for you.”

“How long was I out?”

“Three days, more or less. I'll bet that's the longest you've ever slept.”

“Oh, I don't know—we've had some long conversations.”

“How are you feeling?”

“I'd like to get out of here.”

“That's a good sign.”

“When can I go?”

“Your doctor wants you here one more day; the nurses all want you to leave immediately.”

“I don't get along well with nurses,” Nick said.

“They don't take it personally—I told them you don't get along well with anybody.”

He looked at her. “I'll probably be sorry for asking this, but—how are you feeling?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Just give me the highlights; I'll let you know if anything sounds interesting.”

“I'm better,” she said. “It was a little rough at first—I didn't expect my conversation with LaTourneau to turn out that way.”

“That wasn't your fault, Beth.”

“I thought I could reach him.”

“You can't reach everybody. Haven't I taught you that?”

She smiled. “Never.”

“What about the boy—how's he feeling?”

“Don't worry, Nick, they took real good care of J.T.—I made sure of it myself.”

Nick shook his head in admiration. “Can you believe that kid? He got out of that attic all by himself. He held his breath and swam out—and he stopped to breathe out of a refrigerator along the way! A
refrigerator
—I never would have thought of that.”

“What did you expect? He's a chip off the old block.”

Nick looked through the glass. “Not anymore.”

Seated beside J.T. was an African-American man about Nick's age. He was a pleasant-looking man, dressed in a coat and tie, leaning on the cafeteria table and smiling at the boy as he watched him eat.

“I didn't know he had an uncle,” Nick said.

“Neither did he. That's the great thing about the Family Assistance Center: Sometimes we manage to reconnect family members who lost track of each other a long time ago. Mr. Walker lives here in Baton Rouge; he lost contact with his brother years ago. When he heard about the flooding in the Lower Ninth Ward he remembered J.T. He contacted us just yesterday.”

“What do you know about him?”

“I know he's legally entitled to take custody.”

“Beth.”

“He owns a welding supply company. He's been married for fifteen years and he's got two children of his own—one of them a boy. He goes to church. He's got a good marriage, a stable family, and he's a nice man. Is that enough?”

Nick stared at the boy. “No.”

Beth patted him on the back. “You knew you couldn't keep him just because he followed you home.”

“I know. I just thought—”

“Go talk to him. And here, don't forget this—I wrapped it for you.” She handed him a box wrapped in silver-and-gold paper with a fluffy white bow pasted on top.

Nick took the box and began to tug at the bow.

Beth slapped his hand. “Hey! It took me fifteen minutes to make that.”

“It's too girly.”

“Just give it to him—he won't care.”

When Nick stepped through the cafeteria door, J.T. looked up and grinned. “Hey, Nick!”

The uncle rose and extended his hand. “Dr. Polchak. I'm Lucien Walker—J.T.'s uncle.”

The two men shook hands.

“I want to thank you for looking out for my boy.”

“We looked out for each other,” Nick said.

“I was just about to get a cup of coffee. Can I get you anything?”

“No, thank you.”

“I'll be a few minutes. You take your time.” He turned and left.

Nick sat down beside J.T. “So what's the verdict? Is hospital food better than MREs?”

“Nothin's that good,” J.T. said.

“So—you feeling okay?”

“Sure. No problem.”

“I brought you something.” He slid the box across the table. “Beth made the bow.”

“What is it?”

“There's only one way to find out.”

J.T. tore the paper away and opened the box; inside was a pair of Steiner military binoculars. The boy beamed.

“Those are top-notch,” Nick said. “I got them from a guy who used to use them for surveillance—he didn't need them anymore.”

“Thanks, Nick!”

“I like your uncle. He seems like a nice guy.”

J.T. shrugged.

“Baton Rouge is a great town. I think you'll like it here.”

“Are we goin' out today?”

“What?”

“On the boat—are we goin' out?”

Nick paused. “No. We did what we needed to do. They've got plenty of people to take over for us now. I have to go home soon.”

“Where?”

“North Carolina.”

“Where's that?”

The other side of the world
, he thought.
Nine hundred miles and five states away.
“It's not far,” he said. “Just around the corner.”

“When will you be back?”

Nick didn't reply.

J.T. put the binoculars back in the box.

“I just had an idea,” Nick said. “Have you ever seen a Formosan subterranean termite?”

“Nope.”

“I thought you knew everything. They call them Super Termites. They eat everything in sight—they can eat through bricks if they want to.”

“Cool.”

“Guess where the largest infestation in the world just happens to be? In the French Quarter, right in the heart of New Orleans. If I get back this way, would you like to drive over and take a look under some buildings?”

J.T. threw his arms around Nick's waist. Nick pulled him in tight.

“Bye, Nick.”

“Good-bye—son.”

Nick stood up and gave J.T.'s head one last rub.

The uncle returned now. “Are you boys finished here? Then let me walk you out, Dr. Polchak.”

At the door Nick turned to Mr. Walker and said, “May I ask a favor? This might sound really stupid, since you're his actual blood relative and all.”

“Don't worry,” Mr. Walker said. “I'll take good care of him.”

“Like he was your own son,” Nick said. “He deserves it.”

Nick opened the door and stepped out.

Beth was waiting for him. “There. That wasn't so bad, was it?”

“I guess not.”

“It ripped your guts out, didn't it?”

Nick shook his head. “You know, for someone who's supposed to encourage mental health, you sure seem to enjoy pain.”

“It's a good sign, Nick. I know it hurts, but it's a good sign.”

Nick turned and looked back at J.T. “I still don't get it.”

“What?”

“He hasn't had a father since he was four years old. Why was he suddenly looking for one now?”

“Because his world was coming apart at the seams. A father is a powerful thing, Nick. A father is more than a man, he's a symbol of something larger—a reminder that the universe is a safe place to live—that someone out there loves you, and that things will turn out all right in the end. J.T. had no real family before—he had all of the insecurities that come with that—and then suddenly his whole world was washed away in a flood. No wonder he was looking for a father—a lot of people are right now. Maybe we all need one.”

“But you can't just pick out a father.”

“Not a biological father, maybe, but a father figure.”

“But why me?”

Beth smiled. “Because you're tall; because you're smart; because you try to do the right thing; and because you never, ever quit. You make a pretty good father if you ask me. What more could a boy want?”

“Thanks.”

“By the way, I talked to Denny again last night.”

“And?”

“He's cooling off—but he still wants you to go home. He says your two-week deployment is almost up anyway.”

“Tell him it isn't fair—I spent half of it unconscious.”

“I already did. He says you spent the other half working round the clock, so it evens out. Where will you go, Nick—back to NC State?”

“I'd like to stop off in Fort Wayne first. Jerry's got family there. I know they've already been notified, but I want them to hear it from me.”

Beth squeezed his arm.

“I guess I won't see you until our next deployment,” Nick said.

“Don't kid yourself. According to DMORT regulations, I'm allowed to check up on you periodically after your deployment—just to check for any post-incident mental health issues.”

“Is that really necessary?”

“In your case? I'll call you tomorrow.”

Nick leaned in close to her and whispered, “Have you ever considered, Dr. Woodbridge, that between the two of us, I might be the sane one?”

“Stop it—you're scaring me. Seriously, Nick, I'd like to check in from time to time. Think you can handle that?”

“I just handled a psychotic cop and two deranged DEA agents.”

“Is that a
yes
or a
no
?”

“Suppose I call you?” he said. “That way we can talk as friends.”

“Can we do that?” she asked.

“I can. How about you?”

She smiled. “I'll give it a try.”

“About Denny,” Nick said. “How mad is he? Is this whole DEA thing going to mess up my next deployment?”

“That will depend on my summary evaluation,” she said. “DMORT will be counting on me to assess your mental and emotional fitness for future duty.”

“Terrific,” he said. “Another entry in my file of personality disorders. What are you going to write this time?”

“I'm going to write: ‘Nick Polchak—almost human.'”

Nick frowned. “Well, you don't have to get insulting.”

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Because
First the Dead
takes place in New Orleans in the days immediately following Hurricane Katrina, I made my fictional characters subject to the same limitations everyone shared during that time: a lack of reliable information, erroneous and exaggerated news reports, and unfounded rumors about conditions and events in the city. It was reported early on, for example, that dozens of evacuees in the Superdome had been murdered and that bodies were beginning to pile up. Forensic teams later searched the facility, prepared to recover as many as two hundred victims. They found only ten bodies in total, four of which had been carried in from the streets outside. Of the remaining six, four died of natural causes, one of a drug overdose, and one from apparent suicide. Though the conditions in the Superdome were certainly deplorable, the early reports of widespread murder were erroneous—a part of the flood of urban legend that surrounds an event when reliable communication breaks down.