Dead Mann Walking

by Stefan Petrucha

  As the desert receded, Ashby calmed down. It was all, “Heh-heh. We’re going to find Frank,” again.

  I had a few ideas about what to do next, but kept losing track of them. I didn’t know if any of them were good, but, afraid I might lose the one that was, driving with one hand I unpacked the new recorder I’d bought with Turgeon’s money. Nearly lost a finger on the titanium-plastic packaging. It was a pretty nice machine. Even came with a suction-cupped microphone, for recording phone calls, or conversations on the other side of a window. Once I got the batteries in and stuffed the microphone attachments into a pocket, I made a few notes, hoping I’d remember how to access the time stamp.

  I was almost finished when the air conditioner stopped working. Aside from Ashby’s being such a great conversationalist, now I had to worry about staying fresh. Fucking microbes. Any chak who isn’t a germa-phobe is kidding himself. I thought about getting some of that power body wash, but it might eat my skin away.

  Did you know you could melt a chak with a can of Coke? There’s a video up on YouTube. Takes a long, long time.

  We reached Fort Hammer proper by the ugly midafternoon. The heat was making all sorts of smells rise off the pavement. I dropped off the car, paid the extra fees the manager slipped onto the bill, and headed to the local library, hoping to get a lead on Martin and Cara. Instead of the car, I had to steer Ashby. The guy couldn’t even turn a corner by himself.

  The library was a small stone building with two faux pillars out front. Since it was a public place, technically they couldn’t kick us out unless we caused a disturbance, by, I dunno, eating one of the librarians. It was a step down from the Styx, our local cybercafé, one room about the size of a hotel lobby, with an Internet connection less reliable than a check in the mail, but I didn’t think Ashby would go over well with the Bohemians.

  Once I maneuvered the kid through the doors, I felt a blast of cool air. At least it was air conditioned. I wasn’t cooking anymore. I was also relieved to see that, for a change, the Internet was up and running.

  The only thing that made me worry was an old beanstalk standing guard at the head of the terminals. He was tall, withered, skin and bones except for the skin part, and his eyes were mostly white. I would’ve taken him for one of us, but a glob of spit on his lip pegged him as a liveblood. He was one of the homeless, trying to get out of the heat. Didn’t blame him, but street folk tend to get territorial, especially around chakz, since we’re the only ones they can push around; this box is mine, that rag is mine, and so on. But this poor old bastard looked less mobile than the book stack he was leaning against.

  I found two terminals side by side and set up Ashby with some game that had bright shiny lights. My keyboard had the escape key missing, no metaphor intended, but some of the others looked worse, so I settled in and tried to do what I do worst—focus.

  After checking my recorder to remind myself why I was there in the first place, I started with the clickety-click , seeing if I could come up with an address for the living Boyles. The only thing slower than my typing was the response time. I wanted to throw more coal into the damn thing’s furnace to try to speed it up.

  I’d like to say the answer popped up, but it was more like it dribbled in, an apartment in the center of town on, wait for it, Wealthy Street. We were never much for street names in Fort Hammer. It was a family home. Both siblings and Martin Senior were listed. I guess word of his death hadn’t made it to the directories yet. In a way, it was better than a private estate, where they could have their security do all sorts of things to me in secluded splendor. I might be able to sneak in and out as part of the trash. If they were even still in the city.

  Rather than wait for the full Google, I pulled out my recorder to get down the address. Almost had it, too, but the white-eyed string bean I spotted on the way in started screaming. I hoped he was doing a random schizophrenic thing, but the finger he jabbed in my direction said otherwise.

  “‘Son of man, can these bones live?’ ‘O Lord God, thou knowest! ’ ”

  Great. An evangelist. I knew the quote. Grandma was a churchgoer. Ezekiel in the Valley of Dry Bones. Famous passage, even has its own song—the leg bones connected to the hip bone, etc. But the old man wasn’t singing. He came closer, finger first.

  “Unclean bones!”

  I’d have been offended if it wasn’t so accurate. Ashby turned from his screen, looking worried. “Heh-heh.”

  “You reek of brimstone and death!” Now he was aiming at Ashby.

  “Hey, take it easy,” I said.

  “Breathe!”

  When I stood to block him, everyone in the small library stopped and stared. I guess we were more interesting than whatever they were reading.

  The old man went into a fit, eyes rolling all over the place. If he’d been a chak I’d expect him to start moaning.

  “Breathe on these dead!”

  “Easy, easy! Could you give it to me in English, pal?”

  He shook his finger at the kid. “There! There! Behold !”

  His nostrils flared. His eyes rolled again, but this time he looked like he was really grossed out. I took a sniff and suddenly realized what his problem was. It was Ashby. His face and arms looked okay, but the smell was unmistakable. The kid had some rot on him somewhere, probably made worse after the hot car ride.

  The last thing I needed was a fight with a crazy liveblood with a good sense of smell. I had the address, so I’d done all I could for now anyway.

  “Okay, got it. We’re going! Come on, Ashby.”

  “Heh-heh.”

  “Back to the valley, back to the dust, unclean dead!” he croaked.

  “Right. Exactly. We were headed there anyway.” I pulled the kid toward the door, then back out into the sun.

  The old man kept yelling, but didn’t follow. Soon as we were clear, I yanked my hand back from Ashby. I should’ve been more careful about touching him. That stuff can spread fast. I’d been in a car with him last night and hadn’t even noticed. I had to get him back to the office so Misty could have a good look at him.

  Taxi was out of the question. Only a few would hit the Bones to begin with, and an odor like the kid had could ruin the comfy seats. Turned out the smell was so bad, I couldn’t even get him on a bus. I walked him, fast as I could, nearly shoved him up the stairs and through the door.

  Misty caught the smell before she even saw his face. I made some quick introductions.

  “Can you take care of it?”

  Her hands went to her hips, lingered, then covered up her nose. “You know I’m not a cleaning lady, right, Hess?”

  “I know; I just have a lead I have to follow fast,” I said; then I tried to look helpless.

  She narrowed her eyes. “If there’s any deep cutting, you’ll be helping.”

  “Promise,” I said. I felt bad about that. I had no idea when I’d be back.

  “Heh-heh.”

  Ashby gave her what looked like a smile. Misty tried to smile back, but couldn’t quite manage it.

  9

  I thought getting into the building would be the hard part. I don’t know who I was kidding. Turned out reaching the damn thing was the challenge. Unless we’re delivering something or picking something up, chakz do not belong on Wealthy Street—and I definitely didn’t look like a cheery FedEx man. The second I got off the bus, heads turned. Wherever I walked, livebloods gawked. Heaven forbid I should ask for directions.

  I pulled the hat down so far I nearly tore the brim, but my face was only half the problem. My crumpled clothes didn’t even match the pavement. It was only a matter of time before someone called the cops and had me arrested for aesthetic reasons. With my luck, Booth would show up.

  I stuck to the alleys as much as I could, but even those were so clean that I stood out. Then again, so did my destination. No gleaming tower, 128 Wealthy Street was its own kind of zombie. It was dark, and had a kind of foreboding nineteenth-century splendor, with high gables, deep roofs, terra-co
tta spandrels, and the like. Almost like a big, finely decorated fortress. It was also one of the most desirable addresses in the city.

  The Boyles were on the sixth floor, not quite the penthouse, but not too shabby, either. There was no way I’d be getting past the doorman, so I wandered along the side and manage to slip into a service entrance and make for the stairs. That much was on my side. No one uses stairs anymore. So there was nothing between me and their apartment.

  The big question was, What was I going to do once I got there? There was a time when I could stare a suspect down and he’d confess. I didn’t think I’d be that lucky, especially without a badge, but I did think that if I could talk to them, even for a little while, they’d let something slip. See, I doubted they’d knocked off a brother every day. Odds were this was a one-and-only event in their little lives. First-timers are always sloppy, especially emotionally. They’d give me something. Maybe it would just be a narrowing of their eyes if I mentioned Turgeon’s name, or a twitchy lip when I talked about Frank’s plans for his inheritance, but it’d be something. I only hoped I’d be on the ball enough to spot it.

  After that, I had no idea what came next, but at least I’d know I had my perps.

  The hall was wide, neat plaster with art deco sconces that looked original. The Boyle residence was one of three on the floor. I straightened my jacket and tie as best I could, took my hat off, and knocked on the heavy oak door.

  A lock clicked; it swung inward. An old geezer, nicely dressed, in pretty good shape, still with some color in his hair, blocked my view of anything behind him. Butler, I figured, judging from the stiff posture and stone manner.

  That gave me an advantage. He had no idea what to make of me.

  I put my foot in the frame and said, “Cara or Martin Junior in?”

  He took a step back, purely on instinct. Seems the thing to do when a dead man comes to your door.

  Recovering from his initial shock, he scowled pretty fiercely. “How did you get in? Get out of here. Get out of here at once.”

  I could tell he was used to having chakz obey him, so I came on strong, just to keep him off guard. “No can do, Jeeves. But the sooner I talk to them, the sooner I’ll be gone. Want to tell them I’m here? And maybe take my hat?”

  “I’ll do no such thing!” he said.

  His hand came out, fast and flat, to shove me in the chest. He probably thought one quick push would send me sprawling into the hallway, so he could slam the door. If he’d been ten years younger, ten years faster, it would’ve worked. As it was, before he connected I managed an uppercut to the solar plexus. For a second I was afraid I’d hurt myself more than I’d hurt him. My wrist felt like I’d nearly snapped it. But I caught him right where I wanted. He keeled over, went fetal, and started moaning.

  I stepped over him into a huge living room tastefully decorated with a few paintings. Chayce was the artist, I think. He was a pretty big local talent that the beautiful people oohed and ahhed over. Not to my tastes, but I admit he has a nice use of negative space.

  The art appreciation class didn’t last long. No sooner did my street-worn shoes settle on the plush carpet than a stately woman rushed in.

  “Is someone at the . . . ?”

  Her gaze went straight to the guy on the floor.

  Cara, I presumed. Couldn’t be sure yet. There was a photo on the computer, but I only saw it for a few seconds. She was very thin, but lovely, even in middle age, and had a finely carved face that showed just the right amount of cheekbone. It was only when I saw a bit of Frank’s eyes in hers that I was sure it was his sister. For a second I felt like a garish intruder, until I remembered why I was there. If she was guilty, she deserved it; if not, she should be grateful someone cared.

  “Your butler’s fine,” I said. “Just had the wind knocked out of him. I want to talk to you about your brother Frank Boyle. I was with him last night. I gotta wonder, do you know what he was going to do with all that money? Can you guess?”

  She didn’t guess. She just screamed.

  “Hold on!” I said. “Relax! I’m not going to hurt you.”

  But she didn’t relax, either. She kept screaming.

  I took a step toward her, hands out, trying to calm her down, but that only made her scream louder. “Hey! I just want to talk to you! You know a man named Turgeon?”

  No narrowed eyes. No sloppy giveaways. Just screaming, long and loud.

  A glimpse at a gilded-frame oval mirror next to one of the Chayces gave me a picture worth a thousand words. There we were, she stately as a statue, me a monster, hovering over her servant, lumbering toward her.

  Shit. I knew I wasn’t alive anymore. I mean, it’s a hard fact to miss, but inside, even when my brain didn’t work, I was still, deep down, acting and thinking like I was the same. I don’t think I really realized until that moment exactly how much I wasn’t.

  I made for the stairs and ran down as fast as I was able. Even in the alley, I could still hear her screaming. I thought I could still hear her two blocks away, but that was probably my imagination.

  Looking back, I probably could’ve played it better.

  10

  Fans were running, the shades were drawn, but the office was only a little cooler than a furnace. Worse, it stank like an indoor swimming pool at a morgue. Having gotten back home a lot sooner than expected, I was, as promised, helping Misty with the cutting. I couldn’t hold the knife steady enough, so I held the flashlight. I was always the one holding the flashlight. It never stopped me from giving advice.

  “Christ, Misty, careful; he needs that muscle to move the arm.”

  I was being a little rough on her, but I was antsy. Long day.

  “Heh-heh.”

  She gave me a withering look. “I’m trying to be gentle, but you know I’ve got to get it all.”

  She was in a funny position, kneeling by Ashby, holding his arm up, going at the underside with a small X-Acto blade. After every scrape, she dipped the blade in an ashtray filled with bleach.

  “Damn, it’s in a weird spot, nearly in his armpit. Move the ashtray closer, will you?”

  “Ashby, ashtray. Heh-heh.”

  “No wonder Boyle missed it,” I said.

  “Frank, heh-heh.”

  “Hold still, Ashby. Hess, can you tell him to hold still?”

  I looked at him. “I can try, but it sounds better coming from you. I think he likes you.”

  That got me another look. After a few more scrapes and grimaces, I had to ask, “How bad?”

  “Not terrible,” she said, twisting her neck. “Not even an inch deep. I think I’ve almost got it all.”

  She flicked the blade. A dollop of rot fell into the ashtray. When she started scraping again, she must have hit clean muscle. Ashby twitched.

  “Heh-heh-heh-heh-heh . . .”

  “Where did you go, anyway, Hess?”

  I made a face. “Anything on the news about a chak breaking into a ritzy apartment in the center of town?”

  She stopped working to stare at me. “No.”

  “Then I don’t want to talk about it.”

  She sighed and waved me closer. “That’s it. Pretty sure I’ve got it all. Hold his arm, will you? And hand me the needle and thread.”

  I pulled them from the kit and forked them over. “Just don’t ask me to thread the damn thing.”

  “Don’t worry; I won’t. But you have to keep him still.”

  I grabbed his elbow and shoulder and held tight. Needle between her lips, Misty pinched the skin together good as I’ve ever seen a doctor do, held it with thumb and forefinger, then grabbed the needle with her free hand and sewed.

  As the point disappeared, then reappeared on the other side of the skin, the kid gawked at his arm like it didn’t belong to him. It’s not good for a chak to think that way. Makes you careless. I snapped my fingers to get his attention.

  “Look at something else, Ashby.”

  He listened, shifting his attention to the stinky bl
obs of gray-green pus floating in the ashtray.

  “That’s how we all wind up, pal,” I said. “Efficient fuckers, microbes.”

  “At least it wasn’t maggots,” Misty said.

  “Hell, yeah.”

  We almost never get those, unless we try eating. We don’t need to eat, but some of us like to go through the motions, like Jonesey with his espressos. Not enough protein in black coffee to do much damage, but a chak eats a burger, he’s asking for an infestation. I’ve seen it happen. Think the living are stupid? I agree, but chakz make them look like geniuses.

  “Heh-heh.”

  “Hess, he’s twitching.”

  “Easy, kid, you’re in good hands. The best. I’ve seen her reattach a foot with some Krazy Glue and a staple gun. Course, it didn’t stay on long.”

  Ashby writhed, did his nervous laugh, and went back to watching his arm.

  Misty tsked. “Did you have to tell him that last part?”

  I wasn’t kidding about him liking her. Since we’d started, every time she opened her mouth, he calmed down a little. It gave me an idea.

  “Kid, instead of the arm, why don’t you look at her? She’s not so bad to look at, right?”

  Ashby looked at me, puzzled, then turned to Misty. An intense expression came over him, a kind of fascination, almost the same way he stared at the lights on the computer game.

  “Told you he likes you.”

  “Hess, you’re making me blush. Not a good idea while I’m sewing.”

  “Frank never cut me.”

  We both stopped and looked at him. It was the first coherent sentence out of his mouth since I’d brought him back from Bedland, subject, object, verb, everything. Misty did have a knack for bringing the human side out in people, even the walking-corpse kind. Then again, most chakz are shocked when any LB is nice to them.

  She gave him a slow smile. “I’m sorry, honey, but I had to use the knife. If I left any rot in there, it’d keep growing, infect you. You could lose a lot of muscle.”