Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle

by Tim Downs

  “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.

  LaTourneau looked down at the photograph again—then he looked at Nick.

  Nick could see the confusion in his eyes—he was struggling to reconcile the two contradictory messages. What did his daughter want him to do? She said that Nick was bad—then she said that Turlock was the bad one. Did she change her mind? Maybe both men were bad—maybe she was only telling him to kill Turlock first.

  LaTourneau looked at the photograph—then at Nick.

  Nick saw the change coming over his face.

  “LaTourneau, listen to me. You’ve been manipulated—Turlock and Detwiler were behind all of this—they’ve been using you to kill the people they wanted dead. They’re the ones who left the messages for you—the ones on your bathroom mirror.”

  But it was no use. Just as Turlock had said, LaTourneau was on another wavelength—Nick’s voice didn’t even register.

  At that moment Nick heard a splash and a choking sound behind LaTourneau’s boat.

  “Nick!”

  Nick blinked in astonishment. “J.T.! Is that you?”

  “I’m here, Nick! I got out!”

  Nick looked at LaTourneau—his face showed no recognition of the boy’s voice or presence behind him. Nick wanted to stand up, and he wanted to look over LaTourneau’s boat and see the boy’s face, but he didn’t dare move; any sudden motion might cause LaTourneau to fire, and that would undoubtedly prove fatal—Nick was only half as far away as Turlock had been.

  “Where are you, Nick? I’ll swim over—”

  “No! Stay where you are! LaTourneau’s got a gun.”

  There was a pause. “But he’s on our side.”

  “Listen to me, and do exactly what I tell you. I want you to swim to the house and climb up on the rooftop. I want you to stay there until somebody comes to get you. Do you understand me? LaTourneau won’t hurt you—he won’t even know you’re there.”

  “I want to come with you, Nick.”

  Nick looked at LaTourneau; the man’s left arm dropped to his side and the photograph slipped from his hand—then he slowly aimed the gun at the center of Nick’s chest.

  “Get up on that rooftop!” Nick shouted. “Do it right now!”

  “I been on a rooftop,” J.T. grumbled. “I ain’t goin’ back.”

  There was another splash, and Nick saw a pair of hands shoot up over the edge of LaTourneau’s boat and jerk down hard. The boat pitched violently to port—LaTourneau stumbled backward and fired one shot into the air above Nick’s head. When his legs hit the side of the inflatable boat his knees buckled, sending him rolling back over the edge and into the water behind him.

  A moment later, J.T.’s head popped up in front of Nick’s boat. “Hi, Nick!” he said with a grin.

  Nick frantically started his engine, nursing the throttle until he heard a steady rumbling roar.

  “Grab on!” he shouted to J.T.

  The boy complied, hooking both arms over the side of the boat.

  Nick hit the gas. As the boat began to accelerate forward, he reached across and grabbed J.T. by the back of the pants, dragging him up over the edge
and flipping him onto his back in the bottom of the boat. Nick looked back over his shoulder—

  He saw LaTourneau climbing back into his boat.

  “He’s still coming!” J.T. shouted, staring into the darkness behind the boat.

  “Get down!” Nick yelled back. “He’ll spot us for sure if you keep standing on that bench—get up in the bow and keep an eye out for Beth.”

  “Where is she?”

  “I left her somewhere.”

  “You don’t remember where?”

  “I left her on the coffins. They should be around here somewhere—keep an eye out for them.”

  Nick glanced back over his shoulder. He knew that LaTourneau would follow, and he knew that he would have no trouble picking up his trail. LaTourneau didn’t need GPS—on the glass-smooth water, the wake left by Nick’s boat would look like the tail of a comet. And to make matters worse, the Zodiac boat had a much more powerful engine—LaTourneau would overtake them in a matter of minutes.

  “There!” J.T. pointed to an area beyond a row of rooftops. Nick saw nothing—but he knew enough to trust J.T.

  They approached the coffins at full speed. Beth had apparently heard their engine and was standing near the edge, waiting for them. She looked relieved to see Nick again—and utterly astonished to see J.T.

  “What did you—how in the world did you ever—”

  “There’s no time—get in,” Nick said. “J.T., do you remember how to drive this thing?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “I want you to take Beth away from here. Head in that direction—that’s west. Keep going until you hit the levee, then leave the boat and keep going on foot.”

  “What about you, Nick?”

  “I’m staying here.”

  Beth took a step away from the boat. “Oh no you don’t.”

  “Beth, listen to me.”

  “You left me once tonight—you’re not leaving me again.”

  “LaTourneau is right behind us—he’ll be here in a few seconds. He killed Turlock, Beth—he saw the note we left for him and it worked. But now he thinks his daughter wants him to kill me too. He doesn’t care about you two—it’s only me he’s after, and as long as you’re with me, you’ll be in danger. That’s why you’re going on without me.”

  “And what happens when he finds you?” Beth said.

  “I’ll figure that out when the time comes.”

  “And we’re just supposed to sail off and leave you here?”

  “I knew you’d catch on—now get out of here.”

  “No,” she said. “I’m a team player, too, Nick. I’m staying—I’ll try to talk to him.”

  “You can’t talk to him, Beth, he’s almost catatonic. He can’t hear you—he won’t even know you’re there—he can only hear his daughter’s voice, and he thinks she’s already spoken.”

  Beth paused. “Pull the boat around behind the coffins.”

  “What?”

  “Do as I say—if you both duck down in the boat, he won’t be able to see you.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to talk to him.”

  “Beth, you’re not listening.”

  “I have an idea, Nick. Let me try it—I’m in no danger if he only wants you.”

  Nick shook his head in frustration. “Nobody follows orders around here.”

  He took the boat around behind the coffins and stopped the engine. He grabbed ahold of the rope that bound the caskets together and pulled the boat in tight; the gunnels stuck up just above the lids. Beth was right—when Nick and J.T. ducked down low, the rectangular john-boat looked like just another coffin.

  If LaTourneau spotted them, that’s exactly what it would be.

  Nick peeked up over the edge of the boat and looked at Beth. She was working her way from coffin to coffin toward the very center of the raft. Each coffin dipped down slightly when she stepped on it, sinking and rising like a piano’s keys.

  She looked over at Nick. “Do you have a blanket or something?”

  “No blankets,” he said. “All I’ve got is a tarp.”

  “Toss it to me. Then get your head down—do you want him to see you?”

  Nick did as he was told.

  In the distance, he could hear an approaching engine.

  52

  Beth stood in the center of the casket raft like a figurine on a dashboard. The canvas tarp was wrapped around her like a shroud, covering her entire body and forming a hood over her head that completely obscured her face. From beneath the hood she watched the black Zodiac boat slip out from the darkness between two rooftops. It was a shadow moving among shadows, like a bat flying toward her in a cave. The image triggered something nameless and primitive in her mind, and it made her shiver.

  He was less than thirty yards away now, almost even with the coffins, and he showed no signs of slowing down. Beth prayed that he might continue on by—but when LaTourneau saw that the trail he was following had suddenly ended, he cut his engine, and the night became as silent as a tomb.

  LaTourneau turned and looked in her direction.

  When he did, Beth slowly raised both arms to the side. She wanted to make sure she was seen—to be the focus of his full attention instead of a certain object behind her. It worked—she saw his eyes turn to her and stare.

  She said nothing at first; she just held her pose to allow the visual impression to sink in—to create a nameless and primitive sensation of her own. She counted slowly to ten, then whispered a single word.

  “Daddy.”

  The whispered word carried through the air like an electric current. LaTourneau blinked and shook his head.

  “Daddy.”

  “Sweetheart,” he whispered back. “I’ve missed you so much.”

  “I’ve missed you, too, Daddy.”

  He took a step toward her. “Please, sweetheart, let me come to you—”

  Beth let out a piercing shriek. “Stay back! You can’t come to me. You can’t touch me. It isn’t . . . allowed.”

  LaTourneau stumbled back and stood there, blinking in confusion. Beth watched him: He was displaying athetosis—his hands and arms were constantly writhing over one another like snakes, and he picked at his skin with his fingernails. His entire body trembled—he looked as if he might convulse at any time. He looked feverish; he was drenched in sweat—she wondered what his body temperature must be. She knew that meth could produce hypothermia, stoking the body’s metabolism and driving its temperature as high as 108 degrees. He was burning up right in front of her eyes.

  “I’m sad, Daddy,” she said.

  “Why are you sad, sweetheart?”

  “I don’t like to see you this way. I miss you—the old you. Not this one—not the one who hurts people. That makes me sad.”

  “They took you away from me. They come out at night—”

  “Tell me what you did today. Tell me about the morning. Tell me all the good things you did. Did you save anyone today? Make me happy, Daddy—tell me.”

  “I can’t—remember.”

  LaTourneau was in an advanced stage of amphetamine psychosis. He wasn’t at all like her cocaine patients, but Beth knew that meth doesn’t work like cocaine: Cocaine is quickly metabolized and eliminated from the body, while meth remains in the nervous system longer, permanently altering the brain. She could see that LaTourneau’s schizophrenia was profound—that he had driven a permanent wedge between his two personalities. He was incapable of even remembering the actions of his other self—events that had occurred only a few hours ago. She wondered if there was any possible way to reintegrate his two personalities. It would take years of therapy—and the poor man didn’t have years to live.

  “I want you to rest now, Daddy. You’ve done everything I asked. Your work is done—you’re finished now. It will make me happy to see you rest.”

  “I don’t need to rest, sweetheart—I can keep going.”

  “You have to rest. You have to sleep. It will make me happy.”r />
  “I tried,” he said. “I can’t.”

  Beth knew he was right. LaTourneau was no longer capable of rest; he was like a truck screaming downhill without brakes, and there was no runaway truck ramp to slow him down. It was only a matter of time before he crashed in flames—and maybe killed someone else when he did it.

  “I want you to stop taking the pills,” she said. “I want you to promise me.”

  He seemed confused at this. “But—it’s how we talk to each other.”

  “No, Daddy, that’s what killed me. I don’t want it to kill you too.”

  They killed you. Just tell me who they are—tell me where to find “them.”

  “I won’t send you any more messages. There won’t be any more names or addresses on the mirror. I want it to stop, Daddy. I won’t be happy until it does—do you understand?”

  He blinked. “You won’t talk to me anymore?”

  “You can talk to me anytime you want. I’ll always be near you.”

  He took a step forward again. “I can’t live without you.”

  “No—stay back!”

  But there was no stopping him this time. LaTourneau swung his legs over the starboard side of the boat and slid off into the water, never taking his eyes off Beth. He began to swim toward her, but his motions were erratic and awkward and his progress was slow.

  “Go back to the boat, Daddy! Turn around and go back!”

  But he slowly kept coming, flailing like a man beating eaten by sharks, coughing and choking, barely keeping his head above water. Beth was horrified; his metabolism was already accelerated by the drugs—how much of this could he take before his heart ripped apart like a rupturing tire?

  She heard the roar of an engine behind her—Nick and J.T. sped out from behind the coffins and made a wide arc toward LaTourneau’s boat; when they reached it, Nick jumped across into the Zodiac boat and J.T. crawled back to take Nick’s place.

  LaTourneau was halfway to the coffins now.

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