Dead Mann Walking

It was one of those times I wished I could still use alcohol for something other than killing germs. I lay down, leaned back, and tried to think of something that didn’t hurt. It didn’t work. It was no coincidence Turgeon had hired me to find Boyle. I was on his list. It was a way to set me up, too. I told myself that if I didn’t pull out of the funk, he’d get me, but I couldn’t bring myself to care.

I tried to sleep but couldn’t, not really. I drifted in and out, but my head continued to buzz. The blood on the phone probably belonged to Grandpa or Watt. Maybe it was cherry syrup.

I went through some motions. The heads, what did they mean to Turgeon? There are all kinds of people, but four kinds of serial killer. There’s the visionary, where the killer has psychotic breaks and imagines himself on a mission from God or the devil. Mission-oriented, where they believe they’re cleansing the world of some evil, like children or women. Hedonistic, which doesn’t necessarily mean they kill for the pure sicko pleasure, though it includes that, but their motive could also be money or comfort, like your Bluebeards or Black Widows. And number four, power, where the killer wants control over something. Most number fours were abused as children. They play the same game from the other side, thinking they’ve won something.

I didn’t know enough to guess which Turgeon fit. It wasn’t a chak thing. The victims were all spouse killers. Was he avenging a parent, or trying to kill the other one? Did he want to rid the world of them because they were evil, because it was fun, because he wanted control, or just because? Spinning wheels got to go ’round.

Useless, fucking useless.

I let it go, but that was a mistake. When I did, I had that drifting feeling again, like I wasn’t holding on to anything, floating away from my body and up into space. It sneaks up on you like that. I grabbed at the train of thought but couldn’t hold it. The old noggin only worked in spurts at best. Now, as it sputtered, something insectlike crawled into the gaps—bikers with chain saws, Boyle talking about the future, Ashby’s hand rising from the vat.

Lenore.

Back when I was alive and had trouble sleeping, there was a trick I used. I’d stop trying to think in words and let the pictures take over. One image leads to another, and the next thing you know you’re snoozing. This was the opposite. I tried to cling to the words, the things that worked in straight lines, but pictures kept poking in—bony hands, talking heads, laughing skulls.

Lenore again.

So much time passed I wondered why Turgeon hadn’t come for me. Misty checked in now and again, but couldn’t shake me out of it. She’d come back I don’t know how often, hour after hour, talking, yelling, but no change.

I thought I heard howls and gunshots. I didn’t know if it was from the Bones, or my ears were remembering Bedland. At some point, I wanted to get up, but the office had vanished and the floor was opening up. Below, there was a sickly green liquid. I struggled, but then gave up. They say once you’ve already said fuck it, it gets easier the second time. It certainly felt easier.

I was more than halfway gone, and nothing was pulling me back.

19

I didn’t know how long I’d been there when the door clicked open and the rotten, stinking world rushed back into place. Misty stepped in, face wrapped in worry.

“Hess? Can you talk? You’ve got to get up. You have to.”

It was dark out, so I pretended I’d been asleep. “Huh? Whazzat?”

“Jonesey’s here. He’s pretty upset.”

Before I could say a word, Jonesey was halfway inside, pushing past Misty like she was a set of drapes. Things still felt arm’s-length distant, but some habit told me I should keep up appearances in front of a guest. I managed to turn on the lamp. The light hit him under the chin. His head was bouncing like a doggy decorating the back of somebody’s car.

“You look natural,” he said. I think it was a compliment.

“And you look like you’ve seen a . . .” I caught myself. “Never mind. What’s up?”

“Everything.” He took to pacing, and talking too fast for me to follow. “It’s gotten bad out there, right? Big cop presence? But I keep working on the rally, one pamphlet at a time, one chak at a time. It’s happening, too. Really, really happening. I’ve got commitments. One chak talks to another, and those chakz talk to more. It’s like a virus of positive energy . . . and then . . . and then . . .”

I was grateful for the pause. “Is there a point in there somewhere?”

“I managed to get the police to back off a little. The police. To. Back. Off. It was a miracle, a light from the sky, the dove from above. When they saw me in action, defusing tension, getting chakz to cooperate peacefully, I earned their respect.”

I tried not to roll my eyes. “Yeah. And now you’ll be the first chak elected president.”

Making fun made me feel better, but Jonesey wasn’t in the mood.

“Shut up. Don’t talk like that, Hessius. I don’t think I could take it right now.”

“Since when do you call me Hessius? What the hell is going on? Sit down and take it slow, for Pete’s sake.”

He sat down. The change in the angle of the lamp did nothing for his looks.

“Boom, everything goes to confusion. Boom. Out of nowhere, fucking nowhere, like out of the darkness before the world began, this . . . this . . . skeleton shows up and starts tearing things apart.”

At long last, something got my attention. I clenched my jaw. “Tearing things, or people?”

“Both, if he gets the chance. He’s worse than feral, and he’s strong. He puts his fist through a windshield, tries to grab the driver. The cops freak, the chakz freak, and everybody’s running like crazy back to square one.”

“Enough about the political climate. Focus. The skeleton, where is it now?”

Jonesey couldn’t sit still. He jumped up and started acting the story out. I have to admit, it helped. “The cops go after him, guns blazing, but they miss, miss, miss, and he ducks into an alley. Then they lose him, ten of them, probably because they’re so weirded out. So am I; so’s everybody. Two chakz moan just because they were watching. But I don’t panic. I stay in control, Mann, and I look, look, look and spot his freaky ass. I follow, figuring I can, you know, try to talk him down or something, but it’s like he can’t see or hear me, like I’m the same as any other thing in his way. I stand in front of him and he nearly tears me apart. And all the while keeps making this sound, like . . . like . . .”

“Heh-heh?”

Jonesey snapped his fingers. “That’s the one.” He twisted his head and stared. “You know him. You know him?”

“I know who it was.”

He shook his head. “He, Mann. He.”

That was Jonesey. He’d call a lamppost he or she. Part of his philosophy. Treat something as if it’s a person and it’s more likely to act like one. I somehow didn’t think it applied to a bunch of bones—me, either, for that matter. I was barely back from the brink, and the only thing holding me there was the thought that I could prevent some damage if I put a stop to it.

But hope springs eternal. Jonesey even thought I might have some answers. “How does he even talk? How does he walk? There’s no muscle.”

I shook my head. “I said I knew who it was, not that I know what it is. All I can tell you is that it’s what’s left of a chak after an acid bath, and its name used to be Ashby.”

He blinked. “Acid bath? You mean like a bath with acid in it?”

“Yeah. Long story. Right now we’ve got to find it before the police do, or before it gets its hands on another liveblood.”

Jonesey’s mouth opened so quick his jawbone cracked. “No, no, no. Another?”