Stefan Petrucha - Dead Mann Walking

She shook her head. There were tears on her face. She looked like she had a dog I didn’t know about, and it’d gotten hit by a car.

“What?”

“You have to see. . . .”

“What do I have to see?”

She could hardly talk. She turned her back, looking like she was going to run. Instead, she turned on the TV. A familiar talking head, the “litter-news” blonde. Over her shoulder a drone camera showed a stretch of the desert highway outside Fort Hammer. The scene looked familiar, like it was the same footage they used yesterday during Colin Wilson’s story. Was it something new about him? Not bloody likely. Misty wouldn’t shed tears over that. Still trying to orient myself, I caught a few snippets from the speaker:

“. . . another chak body in pieces . . .”

“. . . again, no head . . .”

“. . . the mess never ends . . .”

Cut to garbage bag commercial. Nice placement.

The thought of another head out there gave me a shudder, but that still didn’t explain Misty’s reaction. While the set squawked about the bag’s tight seal, I searched for her eyes in the dim room. What was I missing? She’s bighearted, might be sympathetic about a D-cap, but it’s a rough world and she knows it.

“You worried about me? Okay, so I was freaked out about Wilson, but do you really think a second D-cap story is going to put me over the edge? Hey . . . did I even tell you about Wilson?”

She didn’t say.

The news came back on. Bust-shot blondie had up a picture of the victim’s face. They always publicize the identity so they can charge surviving family for the cleanup. All at once I realized why Misty was upset.

It was a photo from better days. He was sporting one of the genuine smiles he had when with his loved ones, a grin that seemed to say, Me? Lose my husband and child? End up convicted, then ripped? Cut into little pieces for the litter police to find? No way.

They ID’d him off his fingerprints. Funny how fast. Maybe because he was tied up with the Bedtown hakker attack. Whatever.

It was Frank Boyle.

Less than twelve hours ago I’d risked my neck for him, and now he’d lost his. Another fantastic plan from the universe that brought you mankind.

A syrupy electric current, thick and deadly, rolled along my spine and into my gut, so strong it almost made me feel alive. But my body couldn’t handle the overflow. The first thing I wanted to do was smash the wall with my fist, but before I could a wave of nausea swept over me. I looked around for a bucket until I remembered I couldn’t throw up anymore. Out of some old reflex, I started panting.

“So one of the hakkers got him?” Misty asked.

I hadn’t noticed, but she’d moved up alongside me and put a hand on my shoulder. We both stared at the set as it flashed a body-wash ad. She stroked the crumpled jacket I hadn’t bothered taking off, trying to comfort herself more than me. When someone started yammering about the stock market, she turned the television off.

The hakkers. Not a bad guess, given the circumstances. But I doubted it. “Booth put the fear of the lord into them. They were heading in the opposite direction.”

“Then who?”

I stated the obvious. “Cara and Marty Junior. His brother and sister. Turgeon said they wanted him out of the picture. But what the hell happened to Turgeon? Anything about him on the news?”

She shook her head no. “Do you think he’s all right?”

I shrugged. “At best they’d paid him off; at worst the body just hasn’t been found yet. Forty million is a lot of money. Enough to start a war in some parts of the world. Should be easy to get a few people offed for that much.”

“But they’re family . . . .”

I tried not to laugh. “There’s no enemy like a blood enemy.”

Some species eat their young, but siblings can do even worse. I didn’t have any myself, as far as I knew. Oh, my father liked to scare me by pretending I once had a brother who’d gotten out of line and had to be dealt with permanently, but I’m pretty sure he was kidding. Point being, while I didn’t know if the Boyles were behind this, I knew they sure as hell could be. Hell, do you even call it murder when the victim’s dead to begin with?

“We’ve got to call someone, tell them what we know.”

“Yeah, if only we knew a detective.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I’m not hurt. I haven’t dealt with this kind of thing since I was alive.” I struggled to my feet and started pacing. “The cops won’t help. They wouldn’t listen to me, wouldn’t care about Boyle. But if Turgeon’s in danger . . . Misty, didn’t he leave . . . a . . .”

“Phone number? Yeah, there was one on his card, I think.”

I snatched it from my desk and struggled to punch the numbers on my cell. Chakz don’t have the same dexterity in their fingertips. At least I didn’t. It was like trying to dial with heavy work gloves. That’s why I never text.

After a few awkward seconds, Misty looked like she wanted to grab the phone out of my hands. “Do you want me to . . . ?”

“I got it,” I snapped. Now I knew how Max, Lenore’s grandfather, felt whenever I tried to help him up the stairs.

I somehow managed, but it was a worthless effort. Turgeon’s phone number took me straight to voice mail. His recorded voice pronounced his name like nothing was wrong. I left a message saying something was, and he should get in touch ASAP.

The fact that he didn’t answer meant nothing. The battery could be dead, he could be dead, or he could be on a flight to the Bahamas with his share of the take. I hoped it was the battery.

What next? Could I let Frank Boyle’s killers go without doing something? As for Turgeon, I didn’t particularly like him, but I owed him. The odds sucked royally. Liveblood millionaires and a chopped-up chak. It would be the hakkers all over again, only this time my opponents would be intelligent, so it wouldn’t be a fair fight. I wouldn’t hear them coming.

Tell that to my roiling guts. Even if I tried to let it go, I doubted it would let go of me. I’m not exactly a starry-eyed idiot, but I really thought Frank might build that home, and maybe I could get myself a room. That alone could drag me to feral city. I was going down one way or another, sitting or standing. So I grabbed my coat and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“I’ve got some things to do.”

She cut me off in the hallway, forced her face in front of mine. Brave girl, given my kisser.

“Hess, are you . . . okay?”

She knew I wasn’t. That wasn’t the real question. What she wanted to know was whether I was going to keep it together or do the wild thing. I was her lifeline as much as she was mine. If I went down, so did she.

It wasn’t multiple choice. There was only one answer I could give. “Yes. I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?”

I looked around, trying to think of some proof. I stared at the paint peeling on the walls, watched a rat scurry off with a piece of hamburger bun in its teeth. Its hunger, at least, gave it something to do. That was my answer. It was something to do.

“I have to find whoever did this. I’m not going anywhere until I do. Ask me again when it’s over.”

She gave me a slow nod, like a nanny not quite buying the child’s explanation, but not wanting to challenge it.

Before she said anything else, I handed her my cell. “Put Turgeon’s number on the speed dial for me? I want to keep trying him.”

It took her half a second, but by the time she handed my phone back, she was warming to the idea of working on this. “I’ll keep an eye on the news and take notes for you.”

“Use the pad, not the Post-its. Number everything,” I told her. Post-its are great for small stuff, but this would require more organized thinking.