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

you?”
    â€œLike I said, I’d like to help out. You’ll find a lock and chain in the bow—just lock ’er up at night.”
    â€œYou made this awfully easy,” Nick said.
    â€œYou 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?”
    â€œPhysics,” 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.”
    â€œPhysics,” Jerry grumbled. “What happens when we find somebody to rescue?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œThis isn’t like collecting bodies, Nick. These are real people we’re dealing with—neither one of us was trained for search and rescue.”
    â€œDenny explained it all to me,” Nick said. “It’s just like recovering bodies, only the body walks away later.”
    â€œLet’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.
    â€œYou think any of these electrical wires are live?” he called up to Jerry.
    â€œCould 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.
    â€œLooks 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.”
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œGood morning!” Nick called up in his friendliest voice. “Can we help you gentlemen?”
    There was a long pause. “Who’re you?”
    â€œWe’re with DMORT.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œThe Disaster Mortuary Operational Response Team.”
    â€œSay what?”
    â€œWe collect—we’re a part of—”
    Nick stopped to reconsider; Jerry took over. “We’re here to get you guys out of that tree.”
    â€œWhat for?”
    â€œYou don’t want to stay up there, do you?”
    â€œThat depends. Where you planning on taking us?”
    Jerry turned to Nick.
    â€œBeats me,” Nick said. “They told us to report to whoever was in charge and get further instructions here. I’m not sure where to