Stefan Petrucha - Dead Mann Walking

At least it was something. If Jonesey could help me find Parker, I’d be able to warn them both. Not bad for a half hour’s work. I had nowhere near enough information to convince Hazen of anything, but I figured I could e-mail him the details along with my “confession.” At least he might follow up on Turgeon. There’d be a record of his 911 call during the hakker attack to back me up on that much.

“Okay, Ashby, let’s get out of here.”

“Did you find Frank? Heh-heh.”

I was wondering how to answer that one when I noticed the light in the hallway shift. The shadows on the linoleum floor wobbled and grew. Jim Hazen? No. Of course not. Not in this life.

Next thing I knew, Tom Booth was blocking the only exit, and while he wasn’t surprised to see us, he wasn’t happy about it either. And he had company, a pair of toughs in black tees and jeans. Their pretty faces made mine look like it belonged to a cover model. They looked like they’d been in a thousand fights, losing more often than winning. One had dark skin, crew-cut white hair, bushy eyebrows, and enough wrinkles to be a grandpa. The other was younger, light skinned, thicker, stronger. He didn’t look so bright, a forty-watt bulb at best. The scar across his forehead was big enough for his brains to have seeped out.

The kid started shivering and doing his heh-heh , heh-heh thing. He wasn’t staring at Booth, though. He was staring at his friends. He was terrified of them.

“Ashby,” I whispered, “these the two guys who attacked you and Frank?”

“Heh-heh,” he said. From the way he said it, I could tell he meant yes.

I didn’t need any more proof, but my opinion wasn’t worth much. The livebloods who could give Booth grief would need something more, like a confession, something recorded that would play nice in the papers. Hand in my pocket, I slipped my fingers around my recorder and pressed a button, hoping it was the right one. All I had to do, aside from getting out of this in one piece, was try to look natural.

I nodded at Booth’s new friends. “They accepting Orcs on the force lately? I knew things were bad, but . . .”

He shook his square head. “They’re not on payroll. I hired them special, just for you. Professionals.”

“So why aren’t they jumping out of a cake?”

“Not that kind of pro. More a cleanup crew.”

“I guess old Hazen told you I’d be here, huh?” I said.

Booth nodded. “Good cop.”

“Matter of perspective,” I said. “That mean he does or doesn’t know about Wilson and Boyle?”

Booth’s lips curled like he was getting pissed, but instead he looked confused. “Who?”

“I’m dead, but I’m not that stupid. The chakz your buddies here D-capped for you because they had the gall to be innocent. I know you blame me for Lenore, but why not just come after me?”

At the mention of her name, a sound like a cracking walnut came from his clenching jaws. “That the shit-ass theory you told Hazen? You think I’m the man? Maybe I killed Kennedy, too, or brought down the towers. I take shits I’m more worried about than a couple of chakz.”

He sounded for real. “But . . .” I said. That was as far as I got.

He tensed like he was going to charge. “If I thought you were still the man who killed her, even half that, I’d not only start with you, I’d do it myself. Cut your head off? Too good. Garlic press, maybe. But you’re not; you’re all just a set of recordings with a stench.”

Crap. Was I wrong? I stared at the help. “Tom, you ever work with these guys before?”

He didn’t answer me. He grunted a few words at them. “Break some bones and leave him close enough to the border so he can crawl out of town.” Then he walked away.

16

If I hadn’t ever been a decent detective I wouldn’t mind being such a shitty one now. Don’t know what made me think I could handle this one. Instead of getting involved, I should’ve just wandered into a cemetery and asked someone to bury me.

If it wasn’t Booth, it’d be a pretty big coincidence he’d hire the D-cappers. That didn’t quite fit either. The older one, Grandpa, didn’t seem to have anything against chakz. He asked if the cuffs were too tight, and even lowered Ashby’s head as he pushed him into the backseat of their sedan. He came across like a good limo driver, doing a lousy job he’d done a dozen times, intent on doing it well.

Mastermind or hired hand, if we were going to get away, Gramps was the one I’d have to take out. Knock him down and Forty-watt would wander around like a windup toy not knowing what to hit. I was surprised the old man let him drive. Despite the GPS, Grandpa had to keep giving Watt directions. They were kind of like Lennie and George from Of Mice and Men . Couldn’t imagine why they were working together, but the third time Grandpa reminded him to turn right, I ventured a guess.

“He your son?”

I don’t think he liked the question very much, because in response, he pulled out a piece and aimed it at me with one hand. He fished something out of his pocket with the other and held it up in front of me. It was a bullet.

“Know what this is?” he asked. “Know what it does?”

Recognizing the aluminum tip, I nodded. “It’s a devastator. Like Hinckley used on President Reagan and Brady, back in ’eighty-one.”

Random memory, quick lesson on bullets. Dumdum and hollow points are what they call expanding bullets. They shatter on impact so the pieces can do more internal damage. For a liveblood, that’s life and death. For a chak, it may just be an inconvenience. The devastator is an honest-to-gosh exploding bullet. Behind that aluminum tip it had a lead azide center that blew up on impact. It could cost you bones, a limb. They say President Reagan only survived because the bullet that hit his rib and entered his lung failed to explode.

“Those’re illegal, you know.”

“So’s my cleaning lady. I don’t want you to get any ideas about being able to take a few slugs before rushing me.”

“Well, not now .”

“Good. Tell your friend the same thing.”

Ashby was looking out the window, watching the streetlights. “Don’t sweat it, Gramps. He doesn’t have any ideas of his own. A little like our handsome chauffeur.”

The old man winced. “Tell him anyway.”

I nudged his shoulder. “Ashby, don’t get any ideas, okay?”

“Ideas. Heh-heh.”

“See?”

Grandpa’s move with the devastator made me realize something that made me think D-capping Boyle was not their idea. “You don’t have a lot of experience with chakz, do you?”

He got a little defensive. “You’ve got bodies, don’t you? Made of the same stuff as everyone else. It’s all meat, dried or not.”

“Sort of. Blow an arm off somebody else, it’s not going to come crawling after you, is it?”

Forty-watt opened his mouth for the first time. “Can they do that?”

“No,” Grandpa said. “He’s shitting you.”

Of course I was, but Watt didn’t know that. Grandpa shook the gun in my face. “Tell him you’re shitting him.”

“I am shitting you,” I said. I gave Forty-watt an exaggerated shrug, so he’d still wonder if it was true.

Had to make sure, so I figured I’d ask. “Either of you have anything against someone exonerated for the killing of their spouse?”

“What? No.”

So Booth and the chak chopper somehow hired the same team. Maybe Grandpa and Forty-watt had flyers up in the grocery stores, little chits at the end with the number to call. Somehow I didn’t think so. Was it someone Booth knew? Another cop? Hazen? No, he’d open the car window to let a fly out rather than kill it.