Free Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle by Tim Downs Page A

you ask DMORT? Sounds like they’ve got everything figured out.”
    The officer pushed away from the pavement with his oar until the propeller had safe clearance; then he started the motor and raced off into the Lower Nine.
    â€œHardworking guy,” Jerry said. “FEMA should put him in charge.”
    â€œThey better put somebody in charge fast,” Nick said, turning back toward the bridge. “Come on.”
    â€œWhere are we going?”
    â€œTo find a boat.”
    The St. Claude Avenue Bridge was an old bascule-type drawbridge, counterweighted at the near end to allow the span to swing up and out of the way of passing ships; the lumbering metal structure towered over Nick and Jerry like a rusted dinosaur. At the foot of the bridge they left the roadway and turned right, following the earthen levee north along the Industrial Canal. In the canal to their left, they could see the massive locks that lifted ships and barges from the lake up to the level of the Mississippi River. The locks were empty; there were no vessels in sight, except for one long barge half a mile ahead that had smashed through the levee and rested among the houses in the Lower Ninth Ward.
    â€œLook up ahead,” Nick said. “We might be in luck.”
    A hundred yards ahead of them, an old man sat parked along the grassy levee in an old Dodge pickup. Behind him was a trailer towing a flat-bottomed silver boat. As they approached the truck, the door creaked open and the old man stepped out to greet them.
    â€œMorning,” Nick said. “Going fishing?”
    â€œWish I were,” the old man said. “Thought I might see if I could help out.”
    â€œThat’s nice of you. We heard there were some locals out here yesterday. Thanks for pitching in—we could use a lot more like you.”
    â€œWho’re you boys?”
    â€œWe’re with—the federal government. Is this your boat?”
    â€œWhat’s the government doing about all this? We got people who need help here.”
    â€œThat’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.”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œYou got that right.”
    â€œKnow how to run ’er?”
    â€œNo 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.
    â€œI sure appreciate this,” Nick said. “When do you need it back?”
    â€œI’ll give you my number,” the old man said. “Just call me when you’re done; I’ll come and get ’er.”
    â€œIt might be a while. That okay with