Stefan Petrucha - Dead Mann Walking

I turned the beam to the four corners and crept into the tomblike reception area. It was surprisingly intact, with a front desk, still-life paintings on the wall, and one or two plastic potted plants. There was a big cracked coffee table surrounded by cushioned seats and couches. Some chak who was either anal or had kept his sense of humor had put a few magazines out on it. Far to the left there was a wide hallway with closed doors. Offices, I figured.

But no sound came from anywhere.

Turgeon whispered, “Now what?”

“Call him?” I suggested. I was going to try it myself, but he beat me to it.

“Is Frank Boyle here?” His thin voice didn’t even echo.

“Connect the dots,” I whispered. “Give him details. Little louder wouldn’t hurt, either.”

“Mr. Boyle, I have a message from your father!”

Nothing.

“More.”

“Your dead father. I mean . . . I’m sorry to say that your father passed away. That’s why I’m here. It’s unusual, considering your condition . . . but he’s left you a lot of money. His name is Martin Boyle. That’s your father, yes? I’m his attorney. Actually, I work for his friend. . . .”

Turgeon sounded like a bank manager from Ghana who wanted to transfer $62 million directly into Boyle’s bank account if he’d only kindly supply his social security number and blood type. I guess I should’ve done the talking.

He was about to say something else, but he didn’t have to. A sound like crinkling paper, but heavier, slower, came from that left-hand hall. The third door down, barely visible from where we stood, opened.

I aimed the light and caught a chak stepping out. My flashlight beam made his dilated pupils glow. He had a shock of curly hair I recognized from the photo. Half the skin on his face was gone, though. From the look of the other half, it may have been what scared it off.

He was of average height, good shoulders, and definitely Frank Boyle.

“My father’s dead?” he said in an even tone.

Turgeon smiled widely, way too pleased with himself to realize it’s not particularly appropriate to wear a shit-eating grin when you say, “Yes. Lung cancer.”

Before I could tell if Boyle cared, a string-bean shadow appeared behind him, shorter body, longer hair. It had a nasal, whiny voice that was even more annoying than Turgeon’s.

“Okay if I come out, Frank? Heh-heh.”

Boyle looked at Turgeon, then at me. I gave him a nod.

“Yeah, Ashby, it’s okay,” Boyle said.

Ashby stepped into the flashlight beam. He was a good half foot shorter, blond hair and aquiline nose. His smooth features made me think his bones hadn’t fully matured at the time of death.

“You tell ’em I didn’t shoot that cop? Heh-heh,” he said. I could tell by the way he twitched as he spoke that he wasn’t one of the smart ones.

Boyle grimaced like he was embarrassed.

“Yeah, we know all about that,” I said. “We know it wasn’t you.”

“Good. Heh-heh. Because it wasn’t. Heh-heh.”

“Sometimes he thinks he’s still in prison, waiting on his appeal,” Boyle explained.

“Good of you to take care of him,” I said. I meant it.

He looked at Turgeon. “What’s this about my father?”

Baby Head cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, but he passed on a week ago. You were named as the sole heir.”

Boyle twisted his square head. “Nothing for Marty Junior or Cara?”

“No. I don’t know the details, but it seems they had a falling-out.”

“They must be pissed.”

“Oh, they are,” I added. “But what with the hakkers coming, maybe we could all hop into Mr. Turgeon’s Hummer and continue this conversation anyplace but here?”

“Can Ashby come?”

“Heh-heh. I’m going, too? Heh-heh.”

Turgeon hesitated, maybe annoyed by the laugh. Bugged me, too, but I figured he couldn’t help it. Probably just as eager to leave as I was, after a beat he said, “Certainly.”

“Cool, oh, cool. Heh-heh.”

As Boyle stepped toward us, I felt a weight lift. For a second there, I was stupid enough to think the evening might end well. Maybe the good guys could win sometimes. Maybe that bank in Ghana really did transfer millions into your account now and again. But then Boyle stopped short.

“I’ve got some notes I have to give to Thornell. Come on back with me. It’ll take a second.”

“You mean the maps, heh-heh. He makes maps. He’s a mapmaker. Heh-heh.”

“Yes, Ashby. The maps.”

Not wanting to slow him up with any questions, I followed them down the hall. A few more doors creaked open, chakz sticking their heads out.

A woman with one eye hanging from the optic stalk, a dangler, said, “You’re not leaving us, are you, Frank?”

“Just for a little,” he told her. I couldn’t tell if she thought he was lying.

The kid straightened. “We’ve got some business, heh-heh.”

He sounded proud about the heh-heh part.

I was afraid there’d be a big social scene, or someone would want to throw a farewell party. But chakz are slow thinkers, so we made it to Frank’s room without much ado.

It was pretty big, an L-shaped deal with a couch, a couple of beds, even some shelving with old photos. Ashby threw himself on the couch and bobbed his head. Boyle headed straight for a big drafting table set up against the wall. On it, I made out plans for the factory complex, full of notes in colored Magic Marker. Boyle wasn’t just one of the smart ones—he was doing better than some livebloods.

I pulled out my recorder, thinking I’d make an entry, then forgot what I’d wanted to say. Wouldn’t be the first time. Instead, I looked over Boyle’s shoulder. Using thumb and forefinger, he peeled up the masking tape holding the paper.

Curiosity got the best of me. “Still got a lot of dexterity in those digits, too. Grave diggers’ strike? Kept refrigerated until use?”

“Uh-huh,” he said. “My IQ only dropped fifteen percent. I could work a real job if someone would hire me.”

Turgeon cleared his throat. “You won’t have to work anymore, Mr. Boyle.”

Still peeling, Boyle asked, “How much are we talking?”

“Roughly? Forty million.”

“Whoa! Heh-heh!” Ashby said.

The kid was happy enough, but something about it bugged Boyle. “And not a penny for Marty and Cara?” Was he regretful? Certainly confused. “What could they have done?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Turgeon said.

Boyle straightened, ready to go, then slumped into the chair in front of his drawing board and muttered, “Forty million.”

“Buy a fast-food place! Heh-heh!” Ashby said. “Lickin’ Chicken! Merger Burger and Fries and Lies! Heh-heh.”

Turgeon blinked with every heh .

Frank was more contemplative. “I could open a home for chakz. Someplace safe.”

“If that’s what you want, easily, Mr. Boyle,” Turgeon said. “My firm would be happy to help you manage your finances, as we did for your father.”

While Eggman yammered, I scanned the pictures. The glass was clear. He cleaned them regularly. There were a few self-portraits, no surprise, given the head shot Turgeon gave me. Others had him arm in arm with a slightly older, taller man, likely his significant other.

I thought maybe he kept Ashby around because he reminded him of an old lover, but the kid looked nothing like the man in the photo. Then I spotted a three-shot, both men along with a fair-haired cherub with an aquiline nose. Bingo. Boyle smiled in all the photos, but in the individual shots he had a practiced expression. Those with the older man put a real smile on his face. In the shots with the boy, his grin was widest. He looked really . . . happy. The boy was the one Ashby looked like, or would’ve if he was younger and still alive.