Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (41 page)

Nick paused. “No, I don't. The kid was exhausted—I had to shake him to wake him up. You said you left him asleep in your bed—why would he wake up on his own? Someone must have woken him up; someone must have taken him. We have to assume that he left the same way he came—in a car.”

“But who would take him away?”

“Did you check at the gate? Did the guard see anyone leave with a boy?”

“They changed guards at midnight—J.T. could have left before then. If someone took him, he might have been in the trunk—then no one would have seen him.”

“Does the gate keep any records? Any list of cars going in or out?”

“Only guests—but they said there were no guests this evening. As long as you've got valid credentials, you can pass right through.”

Nick considered this. “Then someone with valid credentials must have taken J.T. away—someone with access to the DPMU.”

“Denny?”

“Not Denny—Denny didn't know the boy was there. Nobody knew the boy was there. Nobody could have, unless they were—”

Nick jumped to his feet and twisted the dial on the propane lamp, throwing the cabin into total darkness.

“Nick—what's wrong?”

“We have to get out of here. We have to get away from this cabin.”

“Why?”

“Someone must have been watching, Beth—they knew the boy was at the DPMU, and they knew to look for him in your bed. They may have seen you leave too—they may have followed you here.”

“Who?”

“Turlock or Detwiler, that's my guess. They're DEA, they have access to the DPMU—they could come and go without anybody looking twice. They're the ones who had me sent home—Denny said so. Suppose they were watching the DPMU just to make sure I left: They might have seen J.T. get out of my car, and they could have followed him to your bed. When you left, they saw their chance to wrap up a loose end—they waited until everybody was asleep and then one of them grabbed the boy. Then you came back and found the boy missing; when the other one saw you leave again, maybe he saw a way to wrap up two loose ends at once.”

“Nick, are you sure about this?”

“No. It's only a theory—but we have to assume that it might be correct. We can't take a chance on staying here. This is exactly the way they'd like to find us: together, alone, in an isolated location. Where did you leave your car?”

“Up the road a little, behind yours. I remembered the uncle's rifle—I didn't want to drive up unannounced.”

“We'll leave the cars there. If somebody did follow you, he'll be watching the cars and the cabin. He won't approach the cabin until he knows who's inside.”

“Leave the cars? Then how do we get away?”

“The same way we got here the first time—by boat.”

“Nick. Please tell me you're joking.”

“Remember the rental boat we left behind at the abandoned shack? Boo towed it back for us—it's tied up at the dock. If we can get to it without being seen, we can head out into the bayou. They can't follow us there—there's no other boat.”

“There has to be some other way.”

“Can you think of one? Come on, we have to go right now—once he notices that the lights are off, he might think we're asleep and come after us.”

Nick went to the window that faced the bayou and inspected it. It was a single sheet of glass mounted in a frame—there was no way to open it. He thought about breaking it, but the sound would give away their intentions for sure.

“We'll have to use the front door,” Nick said. “It's the only way out. Stay close to the shadows and move slowly—and wrap this around you.” He tossed her the nutria quilt.

She shuddered. “Do I have to?”

“You'll look like Snow White out there,” Nick said. “You'll stand out like a glow stick if you don't cover up.”

She wrapped the thick fur around her shoulders. It made her skin crawl, as if it were lined with tiny insects.

“I'll go first,” Nick said. “If anything goes wrong, you get back in the cabin and barricade the door. Maybe the Cajuns will get back before it's too late.”

“Why don't we just barricade the door now?”

“I said
maybe
they'll get back. I don't like the odds.”

Nick slowly opened the door and peered across the open area at the brush that lined the opposite side. He saw nothing—but then again, he didn't expect to. It would be easy to hide in the thick sedge and swamp grass at night. He knew he had to step outside—it was the only way he would ever know if his theory was right or wrong.

A thought occurred to him:
If I am right
,
I may never know
.

He eased through the doorway and pressed his back against the cabin wall. He heard no sound from the surrounding brush. He kept close to the shadows, sidling slowly down the wall toward the end of the cabin. At the corner he turned his head and waited for Beth; a moment later she stepped out and followed, easing up beside him.

Nick pressed his lips against her ear and whispered, “Stay close to the brush. Keep low. We've got to cross an open area to get to the dock, but let's stay out of sight as long as we can.”

She nodded.

They bent down and crept along the brush, doing their best to avoid the serrated blades of grass that would catch on their skin and clothing like the teeth of a saw. A minute later they arrived at the edge of the clearing and stared across at the dock; there was the tiny wooden skiff tied up alongside, pointed out to the bayou as if it were ready and waiting for them.

There was no more concealing brush between them and their goal—they had no choice but to cross an exposed area now, alone and backlit by the glistening bayou behind them. Stealth was no longer possible; speed was their only ally.

Nick turned to Beth. “When I say ‘Go,' we run for it. You go first this time—straight out to the end of the dock and into the bow of the boat. I'll be right behind you. We won't use the engine—we'll shove off with the oars so we don't make any sound.”

He checked the clearing again. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

“Go.”

He gently pushed her and she started off; Nick followed a few steps behind. It seemed to take forever to cross the open stretch. They moved as quickly and as quietly as they could, but every crunching step seemed amplified by the empty darkness.

Beth reached the dock first and started out on it at a run. There was no way to hide her footsteps now—they sounded like hammer blows on the brittle wooden slats. Nick was right behind her—but the instant his full weight was added to hers, the rickety pier let out a creaking groan and sagged precariously to the right.

“Nick!” Beth shouted, dropping to her hands and knees on the weather-beaten boards.

Nick immediately stopped and backed away, and the dock straightened slightly. “Get up!” he shouted to her. “Keep going—we've got to do it one at a time!”

Suddenly, the entire area was illuminated by a pair of blinding headlights. Somewhere behind him Nick heard a car door slam shut.

He didn't turn to look.

Beth reached the boat now, tottering the remaining distance like a gymnast on a balance beam. She half-stumbled into the boat, crawling over the center bench and into the bow.

Now Nick started forward again. He weighed considerably more than Beth did, and the old dock registered its complaint with sharp groans and brittle cracking sounds. The pier seemed to wobble with every footstep, shifting left and right beneath him.

He heard heavy footsteps in the distance behind him. Someone was breathing hard, running fast—running toward him. He listened to the sound and tried to estimate the distance.

He didn't have time to pick his footsteps as Beth had done; all he could do was run and hope the old dock would support him long enough to reach the boat. But he couldn't really run—not like he could on open ground—he could only wobble along like a drunken man, and it was maddeningly slow. He saw Beth crouched low in the bow, holding an oar at the ready, staring back at him with panic in her eyes.

The footsteps were closing fast. He imagined that at any moment a hand would reach out and tap him on the shoulder.

When he was six feet from the boat, he jumped. He landed with a crash in the stern, almost overturning the boat. Beth let out a shriek.

“I dropped the oar!” she shouted.

For the first time, Nick turned and looked back—there was Detwiler, running at full speed with his handgun drawn, just a few yards away from the end of the pier. “Forget the oars,” he said. “We're out of time.” He jerked the cord on the old outboard motor; it sputtered and stopped.

Detwiler stopped at the end of the dock, panting like a dog. He steadied himself and took hurried aim; he squeezed off two quick shots.

They were close enough that Nick could hear the bullets hiss by. “Get down!” he shouted to Beth. He pumped the primer button again and again, drawing gasoline up and into the cylinders, then jerked the starter cord once more; this time the old engine coughed and belched out a puff of blue smoke. Nick twisted the throttle lightly, nursing the ignition along—

It started.

Detwiler was halfway out on the dock now, within easy firing distance. Only the swaying of the dock kept him from taking careful aim, but in a few more seconds it wouldn't matter; in a few more seconds he would be on top of them, and even a blind man couldn't miss at that range.

Nick twisted the throttle hard and gunned the engine; the boat eased forward at a horrifying pace. He kept the tiller fixed, steering the boat straight ahead into the bayou, trying to put as much distance between them and the pier as he could.

He turned and looked back again. Detwiler was aiming directly at Nick's head—only a last-second shift of the dock kept him from finding his mark.

He wouldn't miss again.

Nick felt something brush his left ankle; he looked down and saw a coil of cotton rope playing out over the edge of the boat and disappearing into the bayou. He looked back at the dock and saw the other end of the rope still tied to one of the posts that supported the pier.

Detwiler was at the end of the dock now. He widened his stance carefully and balanced himself; he took careful aim this time, resting the butt of his handgun in his cupped left hand. He slowly closed one eye, and his right index finger curled around the trigger . . .

Suddenly the rope went taut, snapping off the old post like a matchstick. The entire dock collapsed under Detwiler's feet, forming a kind of wooden ramp that sent him sliding headlong into the black bayou water. He landed with an awkward splash—but after thrashing about for only a few seconds, he quickly scrambled to his feet and raised the gun again.

Though he now stood perfectly still, the water around him began to froth and churn. Detwiler suddenly threw his head back and screamed; his body jerked violently to the left, then to the right. Greenish-black snouts lunged at him from the water, snapping and tearing at his flesh, crawling over one another in their frenzy until the water around him boiled with foam and blood.

42

Nick tried the driver's-side door. It was unlocked, just as he'd expected. Detwiler was in a big hurry—he wouldn't have taken the time to lock it behind him. He felt around on the ceiling near the windshield and found an instrument console lined with rectangular buttons; he punched the one closest to him and a blinding halogen map light clicked on, illuminating the front seat and floor.

“What are you looking for?” Beth asked.

“A phone.”

“I've got a phone, Nick—cell phones don't work out here.”

“A satellite phone. I'm betting Detwiler had one.”

There was paper everywhere: empty fast-food sacks and sandwich wrappers, coffee cups with slotted plastic lids, and the last three editions of the
Times-Picayune
.

“And you thought I was a slob,” Nick said.

There was a pair of olive-drab Steiner military binoculars hanging from the rearview mirror, and on the front seat there was a Nikon digital SLR with a hefty telephoto lens. Nick popped open a plastic cover on the back of the camera and pushed a tiny button with his thumbnail; he ejected the memory card and dropped it into his pocket.

“This should prove that he was following me,” Nick said. “At least it establishes a connection; it's not much, but it's a start.”

He noticed a flask-shaped power adapter with a glowing red LED projecting from the dashboard cigarette lighter. A coiled black power cord protruded from the end and disappeared under a pile of maps and magazines in the passenger-side floor well. Nick lifted the power cord and tugged; it was attached to a sleek black iridium satellite phone.

“Bingo.”

“Thank God,” Beth said. “Now we can call the police.”

“What for?”

“Nick, there's a dead man back there in the water.”