Overnight and early in the morning, there’d been reports of cracks in the levees in at least fifteen locations. More rumors and alarms came in throughout the day. Some of the highways that were clear in the middle of the day were now underwater, and the waters kept rising.
At around six thirty p.m., they managed to get Oceanetta on a state police launch that was headed for Charity Hospital with several injured aboard. As soon as she set foot in the other craft, she began handing out snacks and bottles of water to her fellow passengers. Her nephew watched, shaking his head in disbelief, proud but also worried that she’d have nothing left by the time she got to the hospital.
The two vessels parted ways, and Oceanetta turned to wave. At that exact moment she remembered why the name Dupree had seemed so familiar. She gasped, opened her eyes in alarm, and shouted to her nephew. He blew her a kiss and seemed to understand her despite the roar of the motors. Frightened, Oceanetta closed her hand as if catching her nephew’s affection out of the air, made a fist, covered it with her other hand, and drew it to her heart. Hoping her message would reach him, she mouthed one single word. Not a sound escaped her lips. The two craft tore off in different directions, but she thought she saw alarm in her nephew’s face. She prayed her eyes hadn’t deceived her.
They’d kept listening for any reports of serial gunshots. The only news was of single shots, mostly from people on rooftops trying to attract the attention of rescuers. Dupree decided it was time to find a place to hole up for the night. Navigating in circles was a waste of fuel, an increasingly precious commodity, and fruitless wandering would take a toll on their morale. Keeping his team out in the difficult conditions could not only sap them of their energy but also undermine their belief in the assignment. And all the devastation around them—the destroyed houses and ruined vehicles, the desperate cries for help from the rooftops—would overwhelm their sense of purpose.
The unceasing cries of distress brought Amaia to a boiling frustration. She checked for cell service every couple of minutes, but her phone showed no bars at all. She asked Johnson to see whether emails were still working.
“Our Internet service is via satellite, so in theory, it should still connect. Of course, if ground-level repeaters are out, the messages might be stuck in outboxes. The Internet is very slow, but it does seem to be functioning in some parts of the city. Write a message and try to send it. If we happen to connect with a service, it’ll go out. But there’s no guarantee we’ll be able to receive incoming emails.”
Amaia drafted a message to the AIA’s admin office, addressed to the personnel officer. She gave it to Dupree to review. It identified her as an FBI representative and requested information about the responsibilities of insurance adjustors, their access to personal data, and especially what kind of field assignments they handled for areas struck by disasters. She requested a list of the adjustors between fifty and sixty years of age who had three children. With his approval, she hit send.
What finally pushed Dupree to make a decision was an outburst from Charbou. The detective had remained stubbornly mute since they’d transferred his aunt to the launch. His dull eyes were fixed on the horizon, and he’d only responded in monosyllables. Churning slowly forward, they passed the floating corpse of a white cat just off their bow. Someone had tied a blue ribbon around its neck. And despite everything Charbou had seen that day, the dead white cat with its blue ribbon was the last straw.
He exhaled an enormous gust and turned to them in a rage. “We’re not going to catch him. It’s impossible! It’s taken us hours to get here from Jefferson, and in normal conditions we could have covered that distance in fifteen minutes. The Composer could be in Lakeview or Kenner! How long will it take us to get there? Half the damn highways that were open this morning are underwater now. And that’s not even counting the fallen trees, the downed power lines, the cars floating down the streets, or the shit we can’t even see, because it’s underwater!”
Dupree didn’t raise his voice, but he did bend forward, obliging the others to do the same to hear him over the racket of the outboard motor. “I think the Composer’s got the same problems we do. He’d need to have some sort of boat, and I don’t think he does. When he got to Jefferson, he could still wade, and we’re almost sure that’s what he did. Circumstances have changed for all of us. I think he’s going to choose victims in places where he can easily escape. He can’t take the risk of a rescue team turning up while he’s busy killing them.”
Johnson was seated in the middle of the Zodiac with a city map spread across his knees. “We’ve been overwhelmed by events, but so has he. If he had a plan, he has to change it now, however difficult that may be. If he selects some family in the city who survived the storm, they’ll have to fit his profile. Even if he’s got a whole list of families in Kenner, he can’t get out there, but the central city is still accessible. No matter how much our murderer wants to kill, he faces the same constraints we do. And remember, he’s injured.” Johnson placed a finger on the map and moved it from zone to zone. “I believe he’ll stay in the French Quarter, around Frenchmen Street, close to the outside edge of Treme, somewhere around Canal Street or Magazine or Jackson Square. That’ll be his home base. He needs somewhere to stay. If he doesn’t already have shelter, he’ll have to find some, just as we will.”
“I don’t know,” Charbou said. “This is total chaos. No power, no clean water, and we’re going to need more fuel before long. By nightfall this place will be back in the Stone Age. I think we should be rescuing people instead of maintaining a holding pattern and waiting for reports of gunfire.”
Dupree had been dreading this moment all day. He’d been well aware of the cops’ anger as their craft passed along the fronts of flooded houses where once-treasured possessions bobbed in the filthy water. He’d seen them clench their jaws when a group of women carrying infants shouted pleas for help from the bridges over the interstate. He knew they were boiling inside.
Bull answered his partner. “You accepted the mission. It’s important, and we’re responsible for seeing it through. Others are attending to the rescues. Help will be arriving soon.”
Charbou looked around wildly. “Oh, yeah? And where are the fucking rescuers?” He was yelling. “All I hear is people shouting for help, help that isn’t coming, but we’re right here, right now. This isn’t why I joined the force!”
Amaia hadn’t said anything. She moved to sit across from Charbou in the Zodiac, then reached out and touched his hand. His dark skin shone with brilliant drops of sweat, in contrast to her pale touch.
The effect of her gentle approach was immediate. His angry fist yielded and opened to receive her hand. His jaw relaxed and his anger drained away. Dupree was sure Charbou was about to say something, but whatever the words may have been, he swallowed them and then sat silent with his eyes on Amaia. His cry of revolt had wafted away with the wind.
Her voice was firm. “Nobody who lives through the storm should be forced to surrender to a murderer. Everyone who survives this day is a child of the hurricane. Katrina couldn’t kill them, so no one else has the right to. We can’t allow him to turn New Orleans into a killer’s private theme park.”