Dead Mann Walking

The second cab we called wouldn’t take chakz. When a third showed, Misty offered the driver an extra twenty. He was hungry enough to take it. Thank the stars for the desperate among us, for they can still be hired.

Back at the office, while Misty worked at the strap with a file and a pair of scissors, I collapsed into my desk chair. She wanted to talk. I didn’t. While she sawed away, I flicked on the set, hungry for anything except reality. I found what I was looking for. Tea with the Dead was on, one of a dozen zombie-themed shows. Most were comedies that portrayed chakz as a really lame, laughable threat, sort of like the Nazis on Hogan’s Heroes.

After a while, I heard Misty’s nails scratching, then felt the soft pads of her fingers on the back of my neck. She’d cut most of the way through the leather and was trying to tear the last inch. She grunted, strained, and I heard a sound disturbingly similar to ripping flesh. The collar came free.

“I keep thinking about poor Ashby,” she said.

“You and me both,” I told her.

“It’s so crazy. Why would anyone collect chak heads?”

I shrugged as I rubbed my neck. “Because someone’s a sick fuck, and sick fucks do fucking sick things.” After a pause and a look at her face, I got a little more introspective. “Could be a ritual thing. Psychos like to collect souvenirs, body parts. Y’know, in some primitive tribes warriors collected the heads of their enemies; gave them someone to talk to.”

Takes a lot to freak someone out when they spend all day with the dead, but she started rubbing her neck, too. “You joking?”

“I wish. I took some psych classes once, learned just enough to hurt myself. Freud wrote about some old chief who used to pull out the skull of his greatest foe, put a cigar in it, light it up for him, and have a good, long, one-sided chat—y’know, ‘Buddy, you’re the only one who understands me’ . . . that sort of thing.”

I must have shivered or something, because she started rubbing my neck and shoulders.

“Try not to break anything back there, okay?”

She slapped at my back. “You’re tougher than you think. Lucky, too.”

“Oh, yeah. My luck’s been amazing. Got one chak D-capped and another melted to the bone. Think I should buy a lottery ticket today?”

“You blame yourself for Ashby?”

“It’s not rocket science. I didn’t have to let him come with me. Could’ve forced him to stay with you. I didn’t, and he lost a lot of weight because of it.”

She shook her head, but I wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince. “He’d have tried to follow, and it could’ve wound up worse for him.”

I had to laugh at that one. “You’re the best, Misty, but get a bigger shovel, will you? What could be worse?”

“I don’t know.” She stepped away, looked out the window at the beautiful alley view. A cop car rolled down the main street, flashing lights that glanced on her face through the slats in the blinds. “The police are out in force. It’s because of the riot at Bedland and the . . . gas station explosion last night. When you called I was watching TV. Some talk-show guy was going on about how they should just get it over with, round up all the chakz, put them in a pit, and take a flamethrower to the pile.”

It figured. It was the same every time chak trouble made the news. Everyone would start talking bonfires. Good for ratings. It’d always blown over before, but I winced just the same. “That doesn’t mean I did the kid a favor.”

She turned back to me. “No, I’m just saying . . . you didn’t know. We never know what’ll happen. It could have been worse for him, even if we can’t imagine it. Did you . . . did you ever, ever see anything like that before, just a skeleton walking around?”

I shook my head. “If that’s what I saw. It was dark; maybe there was more of him left than I thought. Otherwise, how could the bones move? How could he talk?”

She came over and put her hand on my shoulder again. “Hess, maybe it’s his soul.”

Ah, the spaghetti monster in the sky again. I didn’t know how to answer. Fortunately, I didn’t have to. The sitcom was over and the news came on. They were leading with a story about a chak break-in on Wealthy Street. Cara Boyle was being interviewed. She was too upset to offer a decent description of what happened. I wasn’t, not yet anyway.

I shot Misty a glance. “The riot and the fire, huh? Didn’t mention my little part in the crackdown.”

“I didn’t want to . . .”

I waved her off. “Never mind. I know what you didn’t want,” I said. “Come to think of it, shooting that liveblood at the hakker attack probably helped a lot, too. I’m a one-man excuse for . . . what would you call it? Genocide seems redundant in this case.”

“Hess, you’re just making it worse. Thinking like that won’t help you keep it together.”

She was right about that much. I grabbed the remote, thinking I’d turn off the set. Given what happened next, it was the right instinct, but before I could hit the power button, the scene switched. A new face flashed up on the screen: the butler I’d socked in the gut. Only, according to the name on the screen, he wasn’t a butler; he was the main man himself, Martin Boyle Sr., Frank’s father. The guy who’d supposedly died from cancer.

What the . . . ?

For all my mistakes, the truth rushed me like a linebacker. “Turgeon!”

He’d lied. And I believed him.

I clenched my hands so hard it felt like I was driving my fingernails into my palms. No blood, of course. I stood and looked for something to smash.

“Fucking baby-headed Turgeon. He’s the psycho. The son of a bitch played me. I led him straight to Boyle. I killed them both. I killed Frank, too.”

We’ll talk soon. It was his voice, muffled by the mask.

With nothing handy to throw, I punched myself in the head. When that proved too hard, I kicked the recliner. A loud crack filled the room. I didn’t know whether it was the chair or my leg.

“Stop it!” Misty said. She pulled me back. “You’ll break your leg!”

Electric syrup bubbled inside me. Frank Boyle and Ashby were perfectly safe until I’d led the son of a bitch psycho straight to them.

I planted myself in the recliner. From the way it bent under my weight, it was the thing that was broken. Misty looked relieved. I suppose I should’ve been, too.

“Hess . . . you couldn’t have . . .”

I held up my hand to stop her. “Don’t. I’m supposed to be a detective. I should’ve at least checked Turgeon’s story before I did anything.”

She stood there not knowing what to say, the concern making her face vibrate. Looking at her was only making it worse. I clicked the set off. “Misty, don’t take it personally, but right now I need some me-time.”

“Hess?”

“Misty.”

She bobbed her head. “Fine. Sure.”

“Shut off the lights on your way out?”

“Okay.”

She scooped up the remains of the collar and headed out, pausing at the door. The curves of the peeling paint almost matched the shape of her unkempt hair. It’d been a long day for her, too. She looked drained, ready to collapse. She narrowed her tired eyes at me.

“You didn’t kill anyone.”

“Semantics.”

“Are you going to be okay? You’re not going to be in here for more than, like, a half a day, right?”

Chakz, she knew, could get so depressed they’d go into a torpor for a week or so before finally going feral. I waved my fingers at her and pushed the recliner back.

“I’ve just got to think it through. At least I know who to look for, right?”

She didn’t believe me, but she knew me well enough to realize I had to be alone. She closed the door.