Dead Mann Walking

Turned out he was the one who had to spell things out for me.

“You forget, Mann,” he answered. “I’m not a chak.”

And that was when I heard the sirens.

6

I suppose the hakkers thought the sirens had to be for someone else. They kept at the door, grunting and banging, but couldn’t get it open. When the piercing wails grew louder and it was clear the police were getting closer, not farther away, they sounded confused. They whispered, told one another, Nah, couldn’t be.

Then, like monkeys with their hands stuck in a jar, they went back to rattling the bike. When it was completely obvious the cops really were headed this way, I swear I could hear their brows furrowing. It was only when the brakes squealed right outside the building and the police tromped into the lobby that it finally occurred to them something was up and they stopped trying to move the bike.

Great entertainment, but Turgeon was the only one expecting an actual rescue. The rest of us figured the cops would end up on the hakkers’ side, especially with two liveblood corpses upstairs, three, if the werewolf died in the crash.

Any minute now, we’d be facing guns along with the chain saws.

Loud and irritated the way only cops can be, their commanding voices filled the air, demanding to know what the fuck was going on. We all got quiet the way only dead things can. The silence is kind of a group thing. If one of us does it, everyone joins in. It’s like yawning. We’re great to be around in libraries, except for the smell. It also made it easier to hear what was going on above.

Not that it was tough. The boys in blue made as much noise as possible, like they wanted to give any LBs in earshot a chance to vacate and avoid trouble. That was a good sign. Another good sign was the sudden change in the hakkers’ topics of conversation. Instead of macho whoops and gleeful academic questions like, “Who wants a piece of this next?” they were talking about packing up and getting the hell out.

But one idiot straggler—there’s always one—drunk as a skunk, unable to believe his eyes, actually screamed at the cops, “What the fuck you doing here?”

I was almost thinking I’d pull through this mess in one piece until I heard the sandpaper-against-a-bass-drum voice that answered. Angry, full of bile. How do I put it? It was the kind of voice that even if you knew the owner was supposed to protect you, you’d rather take your chances with the crooks.

“You’ve got a lawyer stuck down there, dipshit! Get that twisted hunk of crap away from the door before I put you in lockup and introduce your fat ass to some real criminals.”

Boyle blew out his lighter. A metal groan filled the dark.

“Hey, man, easy on my bike, okay?”

So the wash-and-werewolf had survived the impact. Only two bodies, then.

He was told to shut the fuck up. The mangled doorknob jiggled; the door shifted like a sarcophagus lid, then froze. It wouldn’t give.

I heard that voice again: “There a Sturgeon down there?”

From the gloom, my client’s shiny head rose like a miniature sun. He shifted past the quiet dead, a twitchy smile on his face, and stopped at the base of the stairs.

“Turgeon. William Turgeon. Yes. Could you . . . identify yourself?”

“You hurt?”

“I don’t think so. I’m not bleeding. Could you identify yourself, please?”

“He won’t answer,” I whispered. “Not even with the magic word. It’s Tom Booth, head of Fort Hammer homicide.”

Turgeon gave me a quizzical look. “Isn’t he . . . ?”

I nodded. “My old boss.”

Also the man who diddled my wife and found me standing in a pool of her blood. Small world. Tiny world. So tiny, sometimes I wish I could put it between my thumb and forefinger and crush the damn thing. Booth must have caught a night shift, thanks to the budget cuts. Dragging his ass out here was the last thing either of us needed.

A stubborn son of a bitch, he went at the door again, pulling, yanking, kicking, growling. Much as he might be our savior, no one from our side helped. I could feel the dead stiffen around me, worried they’d fallen from the pan into the fire. They must have heard me say his name. Booth hated me most, but after that, it was any other chak. He figured we were all RAR. Any overturned conviction was like someone tracking mud across his nice clean kitchen floor.

After a few full, long minutes, the yanking stopped.

“Could you ladies stop scratching your ball sacs and get some kind of wedge for this thing? A crowbar, something? Just give me one of those chak arms lying on the floor.”

Big charmer, Booth.

The next crunch was loudest. With a sound like Bigfoot’s fingernails against a blackboard, the door swung back into the hall and fell off its lower hinge. A flashlight beam danced down the steps, Booth right behind it. Lantern jaw and a curly red fuzz on his head, he looked as strong as I used to wish I could be. Good-looking, too, if it wasn’t for the pug nose that said canine in a big way. A show dog, but a dog.

Turgeon motioned for Boyle to join him at the base of the stairs. Ashby gave off a nervous heh- heh and followed. Turgeon looked at me to do the same, but I shook my head. With Booth, I was better off hiding with the mob. Fortunately, Turgeon understood and didn’t ask twice.

Spotting Turgeon’s pinker flesh, Booth waved him up the stairs. “Let’s move it.”

Turgeon pulled at Boyle and Ashby. “These men are with me.”

At the word men Booth twitched and turned away like he couldn’t stand the smell.

All the while, I was backing up, hoping to disappear into the darkness. No such luck. After they were a few steps up, Boyle, thinking he was doing me a favor, pointed me out. Unlike the nosy Turgeon, he didn’t know the history.

“You, too, Mann. You’re with us.”

Booth tensed up so fast I heard his bones crack. Hiding was no longer an option.

After a pregnant pause, Turgeon managed to speak up. “Yes. He’s working for me,” he said. Then he lowered his big head and flinched as if expecting to be hit.

Booth pivoted his flashlight into my face. I winced, not because I had to. My pupils don’t work quite the same way anymore. I was hoping it’d made him feel better if it looked like I was squirming. It didn’t.

“Hessius Mann.” There was so much venom in his tone that even though the basement was packed, everyone around me stepped back.

Saying nothing seemed worse than saying something, so I shielded my eyes with my hand, and nodded. “Tom.”

He turned to Turgeon like he was ready to push him back down the stairs. “Do you know what it did?”

I’ll say this for Baby-head: He was frightened, but held his ground. “He was exonerated, no? Partly because you beat him during his arrest?”

Booth sneered. I could smell the wood burning. More than likely he was pondering the downside of caving in Turgeon’s head with the flashlight. But Turgeon was a liveblood, and where the living were concerned, in the end, Booth followed the rules.

Besides, he still had his favorite chew toy to play with, me.

“Remember what I said I’d do if I ever saw you again, Mann?”

Crap. I didn’t. I knew it was something colorful, earthy, involving body parts detached and being forced into various orifices, but the details escaped me. I tried to remember; I really did. I even had it recorded somewhere.

I kept my voice even. “It’s not like I was expecting you.”

Turgeon cleared his throat. “Detective, I’d like . . .”