The North Face of the Heart - Dolores Redondo Page 0,105

of murmured phrases during the voyage upriver. They were affected by what they saw, but their reactions were contained, in contrast to those of Bull and Charbou. His FBI team members knew their own emotional responses were nothing in comparison to what the two cops must be feeling at the sight of their destroyed city. The extent of the devastation overwhelmed Bill and Bull and they quickly lapsed into a stupor.

Amaia, on the other hand, remained serene. She concentrated on breathing deeply, taking the warm, humid air in through her nostrils and releasing it very slowly from her mouth.

The building at 428 Maine Street was the only two-story structure in the area. It was run down and probably hadn’t looked that good before the storm hit. Fortunately, the apartments were all upstairs. Access to the apartments was via a second-story balcony that ran above the street. The succession of apartment doors was visible from below.

Just past the intersection of Highway 90 and Maine Street, they killed the motor so as not to betray their presence. The Zodiac’s momentum carried them the rest of the way, but just as their craft bumped against the steps, a strong new current began pushing them northward again. They glanced at one another, perplexed, grabbed paddles, and fought their way back to the stairs. Water had almost reached the eaves of most of the houses along the street. The lowest dwellings had disappeared beneath the flood.

They tied up to the stair railing. It tilted dangerously outward, and its base was completely submerged, like the foundation of a riverside pier. Dupree estimated that at least ten of the concrete steps were underwater.

Securing their ballistic vests, they followed Bill and Bull, who were driven by a new energy—no more dismayed contemplation. The cops swiftly mounted the stairs, silently signaling caution where lengths of balcony rail were missing. They passed two doors marked with orange paint from spray cans like those in their own kits. The large X on each door was the verification code established by the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) for urban search and rescue.

Bill and Bull took positions on either side of the apartment door and glanced back at Dupree. An orange X had been sprayed across this door as well, showing someone had checked the apartment. The FEMA code required all four interstices of the X to be filled: above, the date and time of the visit; to the right, the status of the structure; below, the number of victims inside; and to the left, the rescue team’s own ID number.

Bill read the codes in a whisper: “Nobody inside, structure damaged, stay out.”

Charbou tapped the date and time with his pistol barrel. The record at the top of the X indicated August 29 at twelve thirty p.m. He held up his own wristwatch.

Dupree checked the time and understood instantly. Given the indicated time, the rescue team should have still been on site or at least nearby, checking other residences along the street. He moved a couple of steps back along the balcony to check the X’s they’d passed. The notations hadn’t been completely filled out.

Johnson was the one who settled the matter in a whisper. “The 3-505 PIR is the Eighty-Second Airborne Division. I’m sure they’re coming, but they haven’t had time to get here yet.”

Dupree silently sent Charbou to check the next apartment. Charbou was quick. He returned immediately, shaking his head.

Dupree nodded. The Composer had covered his escape route, making sure that no one would challenge him if they should arrive while he was still there, but he hadn’t bothered to extend the masquerade. Dupree signaled for them to go in but gestured a warning that the murderer might still be inside.

Charbou rattled the door handle. “New Orleans police! Open up!” he shouted from his stance tight against the wall. They listened closely.

No response.

Bull was the next to yell. “New Orleans police! Stand back! We’re coming in!”

But they didn’t. Charbou fired point blank at the lock and jerked back as the metal housing, blown loose, swung wildly around one of the remaining screws, sending splinters flying. The air was full of the smell of gunpowder and burned wood. The gunshot echoed dully in the flooded street. The door swung slowly open about six inches or so and then jammed against the floor.

Bull called, “This is the police. Get away from the door! We’re armed and we’re going to shoot.”

They didn’t do that either. Bull threw his shoulder against the flimsy door,