Dead Mann Walking

annoyed.

“Stop it! I’ll put you back with the others! I can and I will! You’re not so big now!”

The others? Right. The duffel bag sat on a big flat wooden cart with a metal handle near the car. It didn’t take much to figure he was threatening to stuff the head in there. He gave it a little kick to make his point.

Jssshhhh.

“Of course I wouldn’t.” He sounded pouty again, like the last harsh noise had put him back in his place.

I reached the back of the Dumpster and tried to focus on the sounds.

Shtpp rrr wnnnn hlp yorr.

The noises were soft, struggling, but intentional, like someone trying to play a trumpet by blowing through the mouthpiece with a straw. It was using words, best as it could. The first sentence I made out was something like:

Stop or I won’t help you.

Turgeon gave it a loud tsk and stamped his feet on the dusty concrete. “It’s not just for me! It’s for all of you.”

“Stop.”

“You know I can’t, Daddy.”

Daddy? So the family-killer theory wasn’t far off the mark.

“Not your father.”

“Stepfather! Stepfather! Fine!” In frustration, he kicked the dolly.

Close enough. Either way, it was clear he wanted stepdaddy’s approval. He was begging for it. If the pattern held true, Turgeon’s stepfather must have been executed for killing his wife. That would be Turgeon’s mother, wouldn’t it?

Plenty of time to play Name that Sick Motive later. I had to decide what to do now, while he was distracted. If I rushed up to try breathing in his face, I’d have to come at him from the front. Too risky. I only had one shot, and I didn’t want to blow it. Besides, he was still talking. For better or worse, that good-cop instinct kicked in, the one that still thought about bringing him in to justice. And he was still talking. I didn’t know how far the conversation would go, but just in case, I fumbled for the recorder, pressed the button, and aimed the mike at Turgeon the Great and his amazing talking head.

Of course, the second the little red light went on, they shut up.

Not the duffel bag, though. Ever since he’d kicked it, it was pulsing more and more. Now a whole choir of scraping sounds came from inside, a jumble of sources. It dawned on me that Wilson and Boyle would be in there. Nell Parker, too? Not that I recognized any of the voices. Best I could do was pick out a couple of words, none happy:

“Help . . . die . . . why . . . murder . . . cutter.” That didn’t do much to improve Turgeon’s mood. He

That didn’t do much to improve Turgeon’s mood. He grabbed his ears and wheeled back toward the head ornament. “Talk to them!” he howled. “Talk to them!”

“No,” the “daddy” answered.

“Ripping . . . blood . . . monster . . . killer . . .”

The heads didn’t seem to like him very much. I wasn’t surprised, but Turgeon was. He looked hurt, like he was ready to cry.

“You’re the only one who can.”

“No.”

“I told you, it’s just these three! Just them, all right? Just these three and I promise I’ll be done. I swear I’ll stop.”

“No.”

Seeing he wasn’t getting anywhere, Turgeon forced himself to simmer down. He approached the head apologetically, stroked what was left of its cheek. “I’m so sorry I’m shouting. I get so angry. I get so upset. Ever since I saw that boy’s skeleton it’s been so hard to calm down. It almost got me! And that detective got away. He’s dangerous. He must know by now. He must know I killed his wife. He just doesn’t understand that I did it for him. None of them do!”

Lenore. He’d said it. There it was. A confession.

I couldn’t let him see me, but there was a loud roar and for the longest time I thought it came from me. Took me to the count of ten to realize it didn’t; it was the duffel bag. The heads in it were twisting harder, getting louder, like they were screaming for me. Turgeon, the idiot, had reminded us all that he was the one who’d stolen our loves, our lives, beaten them until their bodies caved.

“Killed her . . . you did it . . . oh, God. . . . why, God . . . killed him . . . no, not her . . . wasn’t me . . .”

The bag wobbled precariously. It took all I had to keep from running out and throttling him. If I was sure I’d actually be able to kill him, I’d have done it in a second.

Turgeon shouted at the bag like it was a disobedient pet. “They were hurting you! Driving you away! I was doing you a favor!” He turned back to the head ornament. “Daddy, tell them they’re free now! You have to tell them they should be happy!”

It moaned two words: “Put me . . .”

Relief washed over Turgeon so strongly, he looked like he shrank an inch. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

He wiped his brow, then gently, almost lovingly lifted the head. I saw the tendrils again, drooping from the stump of the neck. What muscles there were pulsed in tune with its words, fanning air up into the throat, like gills on a fish.

“One last time,” it said.

He put Daddy on the dolly and opened the edge of the bag. Using the same neck muscles that let it make noises, it squirmed inside the rustling bag. The weird slurred speech echoed through the space. Deferential as he’d been, Turgeon yanked the duffel bag closed and gave it a rough shake that quieted them down. Out of sight, out of mind, I guess. I’d hate to see what he’d do with a hamster.

Once they were silent, he stopped and looked around. I thought he’d seen or heard me, but no. I did get a good look at him, enough to see that his oval face was bare. The air was so thick with crap, I could taste it on my tongue, but Baby-head didn’t even wear a mask. Was this a suicide run?

No, he still didn’t have me. And me? I had a recorded confession, something even Booth might listen to. I had my cell phone. I was about to use it when he opened the back of the Humvee and the air filled with Nell Parker’s louder, more enthusiastic cries.

My whole body shuddered with relief. Not just because there was still someone I could save if I didn’t screw up, but that it was her.

Turgeon picked up the head clippers, held their big, curved blades open, directly over her neck. I tensed, ready to jump out at him, but he didn’t use them.

“You’re only still in one piece because I promised Daddy I would wait,” he said. “But it wouldn’t be the first promise I broke.”

She got the idea and settled down.

With some grunting, he loaded Nell onto the dolly, followed by the clippers and the duffel bag. The last thing he loaded up was a wooden crate with some writing on it: 40—8 Oz CHGS PE4.

What was that about? Damned if I knew what. Forty eight-ounce somethings. I tried playing Jonesey’s memory game in reverse, thinking whatever came to mind—chgs . . . changes, charges? And the PE? Phys ed? Pro education?

Plastic explosives.

Forty eight-ounce charges of plastic explosive.

I could’ve saved myself the trouble if I’d noticed the timer slapped to the top and the wires running down into the crate. Nell figured it out faster than I did. She flopped around so violently, she threw herself off the dolly. The heads started squirming, too.

Turgeon looked like an overwrought babysitter. “Quiet! Quiet!”

When no one obeyed, he stamped his feet, the sharp blasts echoing through the lot. I tensed, ready to go for him. The explosives made me think I should do something sooner rather than later. But the clippers were under the duffel bag, so rather than grab them, he pulled out a gun. If I wasn’t mistaken, it was my Walther P99. He aimed it