Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (9 page)

“What's the government doing about all this? We got people who need help here.”

“That's why we're here, sir. Nice boat you got there. Is it an eighteen-footer? I love these old aluminum johnboats. Nowadays they're all fiberglass—I hate fiberglass, don't you?”

Nick's tongue was on autopilot; his mind was racing, trying to concoct the Big Lie that just might win him a boat. He could try the patriotic approach:
Your government needs your sacrifice
; or maybe an appeal to pride:
You and you alone can make the difference
; and, if all else failed, there was always power:
By authority of the federal government, I am authorized to commandeer this vessel.

But while Nick was still formulating his strategy, the man said, “Take 'er.”

“Excuse me?”

“I figure you boys need a boat. That's what you're hinting at, ain't it? Seems like everybody got caught with his pants down this time.”

“You got that right.”

“Know how to run 'er?”

“No problem,” Nick said. “I grew up in Pittsburgh, right along the Allegheny River. I used to have a skiff a lot like this one, only not quite as big. You've got an Evinrude, I had an old Mercury—only mine was a lot smaller. I have to say, that's a lot of muscle for an eighteen-foot johnboat.”

The old man grinned. “Can't make much use of it in the bayous, but when I get out a ways I like to open 'er up from time to time.”

The old man backed the trailer down the levee to the edge of the water. Nick and Jerry helped him offload the johnboat, then listened as he reviewed the workings of the boat and the peculiarities of the aging motor.

“I sure appreciate this,” Nick said. “When do you need it back?”

“I'll give you my number,” the old man said. “Just call me when you're done; I'll come and get 'er.”

“It might be a while. That okay with you?”

“Like I said, I'd like to help out. You'll find a lock and chain in the bow—just lock 'er up at night.”

“You made this awfully easy,” Nick said.

“You boys can use it better'n I can,” the old man said. “Besides, I've got Cajun blood—we're known for our generosity.”

Fifteen minutes later, Nick and Jerry were motoring across the water, headed into the center of the Lower Ninth Ward.

Jerry sat in the bow, glaring at Nick at the tiller. “I've got a bass boat back in Fort Wayne. I'm out on the lake every weekend. How come you get to drive?”

“Physics,” Nick said. “You're the only thing we've got that's as heavy as this motor; if we put both you and the motor back here, we'll be standing on end.”

“Physics,” Jerry grumbled. “What happens when we find somebody to rescue?”

“What do you mean?”

“This isn't like collecting bodies, Nick. These are real people we're dealing with—neither one of us was trained for search and rescue.”

“Denny explained it all to me,” Nick said. “It's just like recovering bodies, only the body walks away later.”

“Let's hope so,” Jerry said.

8

Nick guided the boat down the center of a main street, trying to imagine what the Lower Ninth Ward must have looked like before it was cut off at the knees. Nick's head was almost even with the streetlamps; street signs were completely underwater, making it almost impossible to follow a road map—even if they had one.

“You think any of these electrical wires are live?” he called up to Jerry.

“Could be. Better steer clear of them, just in case.”

The water looked even higher than it had just an hour ago, rising just to the soffits of some houses and overlapping the lowest shingles of others. Nick wondered how long it would take the Corps of Engineers to repair the breached canals; he wondered how long it would be before the water reached an equilibrium and stopped rising; he wondered what would still be visible when it did.

“Looks like we've got customers,” Jerry said.

One block to the north they spotted two men stranded in the top of a tall chestnut tree. They were smiling and waving and appeared to be shouting, though their voices couldn't be heard above the engine's drone. Nick steered down an alley and approached the tree; as he drew closer, the two men stopped smiling.

Jerry turned to Nick. “They don't look too happy to see us.”

“You don't make a very good hood ornament,” Nick said. “It's like being charged by a hippo.”

Jerry looked at the two men. “I don't think that's the problem.”

Nick looked up into the tree. The two men staring back at him were African-American—a high statistical probability, since 80 percent of the residents of the Lower Ninth Ward were black. Maybe that was the problem; maybe these men were expecting someone a little more familiar to come to their rescue—a neighbor, a friend, even parish police.

“Good morning!” Nick called up in his friendliest voice. “Can we help you gentlemen?”

There was a long pause. “Who're you?”

“We're with DMORT.”

“Who?”

“The Disaster Mortuary Operational Response Team.”

“Say what?”

“We collect—we're a part of—”

Nick stopped to reconsider; Jerry took over. “We're here to get you guys out of that tree.”

“What for?”

“You don't want to stay up there, do you?”

“That depends. Where you planning on taking us?”

Jerry turned to Nick.

“Beats me,” Nick said. “They told us to report to whoever was in charge and get further instructions here. I'm not sure where to take them; let's just get them to dry ground.”

Jerry looked up into the tree. “Let's get you out of that tree first. We'll figure it out from there.”

“We're staying,” the man said.

“C'mon now, you can't just stay up there.”

“It's my tree,” the man said. “I can stay up here if I want to—and he can stay with me.”

“We'll take you anywhere you want,” Jerry said. “Back to the levee, over to the bridge—”

“You go on now,” the first man said. “We'd just as soon wait for another boat.”

Nick watched the two men; they kept slapping at their arms and legs as they spoke. He used an oar to bring the boat in closer and reached for one of the tree's lower branches.

“You just keep your distance now!” one of the men shouted down.

Nick adjusted his glasses and studied the tree branch closely. “
Solenopsis invicta
,” he announced. “You can tell by the single median seta on the anterior clypeal margin.”

“What's that?”

“Fire ants—and not just your run-of-the-mill domestic variety either. These are red imported fire ants, introduced from the jungles of Brazil back in the 1930s. You guys better come down from there right now.”

“Fire ants don't live in no trees.”

“Neither do people, but you're up there. The ants are trying to escape the water—they don't want to drown any more than you do.”

“What's he talking about?”

“Look—other
Solenopsis
species just bite and then spray the wound with formic acid. Not
invicta
. They only bite so they can hold on while they inject an alkaloid venom. The venom burns like fire—thus the name.”

“I don't like the way he talks,” one of the men said.

“Guys, I'm not kidding.
Invicta
can kill small animals. Come on down now.”

Neither of them moved. Nick and Jerry just sat there, staring up at the two men, wondering what to do next.

“We don't have time for this,” Nick grumbled, then called up to the two men: “We're leaving now, but we'll swing by again a little later to see if you've changed your minds. At least climb down from there and get onto a rooftop. I know it's hot, but believe me, ‘hot' is better than ‘on fire.' By the way, you'll feel them bite first. Try to brush them off before they sting—otherwise you'll get little white pustules.”

Nick revved the motor and steered the boat away.

Jerry waited until they were well out of earshot before he said, “
Pustules?
Are you out of your mind?”

Nick shrugged. “I'd want someone to tell me.”

“Those guys would rather sit in a tree with a bunch of fire ants than be rescued by us. Man, we
suck
.”

“We just need practice,” Nick said. “We'll be pros by this afternoon.”

A few minutes later they spotted a man standing on a rooftop between two gables with open windows; he was flagging them down with a red towel.

“Easy pickings,” Nick said. He eased off the throttle and brought the boat up alongside the house. As they approached, they saw a woman step out one of the gable windows and onto the rooftop; she turned and reached back inside, and someone handed her a small child. An older woman climbed out after her, followed by a girl of about eight or nine, then a younger boy . . .

Soon there were nine people crowded together on the roof.

“Thank the Lord,” one of the women said to the sky.

“The Lord needs a bigger boat,” one of the boys mumbled—earning him a swat on the back of the head.

“We sure can't take all of you at once,” Nick said. “We'll have to take you in shifts.”

“We go together or we don't go at all,” the woman holding the child said.

Jerry looked at Nick.

“It's physics, Jerry,” Nick said. “Even if I left you here, this boat wouldn't carry ten people—not safely, anyway.”

Jerry turned to the group. “Folks, listen to me. We can take all of you to safety, but we can't take all of you at once. We can take the women and children first, or you can divide up any way you want. We'll take a group of you over to the levee, then come right back for—”

“We go together or we don't go at all,” the woman said again. “Ain't no use talkin' about it.”

“Ma'am, be reasonable,” Jerry said.

“I am being reasonable—don't tell me I'm not. This is my family. You boys got family back home? A wife? Babies?”

“I'm not married,” Jerry said. “Neither is he.”

“Then you don't know. Lots of folks, they headed off to the Superdome —they say they got buses there to take people to other places—Houston and Baton Rouge and such. What if the bus is like your boat? What if they can't take us all at once? Then we get split up, that's what. Maybe we don't find each other again.”

“Ma'am, that doesn't have to happen.”

“Don't have to, but it might. Where you want to take us?”

“To a rescue shelter—a safe place with food and water for your kids—maybe a place to sleep too.”

“Where is this place?”

“I honestly don't know.”

“Have you seen it? With your own two eyes?”

“No, ma'am, I haven't.”

“Who are your people, young man?”

Jerry looked confused, so Nick took the question. “He's from Indiana, ma'am—that's where his people are. I came down from the Carolinas.”

“Well, you boys are in Louisiana now, so let me tell you: They promise us all kinds of things down here—schools, jobs, roads—and we don't see much of it. So maybe this place of yours is real and maybe it's not. We'll stay and wait for a bigger boat. We'll do what we have to, but we'll do it together. We don't mean no disrespect.”

“None taken,” Jerry said. “To tell you the truth, I'd probably do the same.”

The two men managed to scrounge half a dozen water bottles from their equipment bags and handed them across to the family.

“Drink all you can,” Nick said, “especially the kids—they'll dehydrate faster than the adults will. Stay in the shade as much as possible; you can use the floodwater to cool your skin, but whatever you do, don't drink it—and I wouldn't get it in my eyes either.”

“Thank you. God bless you.”

“I have to tell you, we've only seen one other boat on the water this morning. It's bigger than this one; maybe he can take your whole group. If we see him, we'll try to send him over, but I can't promise you when that will be.”

Nick opened his equipment bag again and took out a black-and-yellow GPS receiver. He held it level and switched it on; he waited for the screen to illuminate, then for the unit to make contact with the satellites in stationary orbit overhead. He hoped that at least one technology was still working. It was—he jotted down the coordinates.

Jerry watched the house as it receded in the distance. He turned to Nick: “Still think we'll be pros by the end of the day?”