Stefan Petrucha - Dead Mann Walking

I’ve always liked pools, not for swimming, but to go under and see how long I could hold my breath. As a kid, the way it muffled everything except the thrumming of my heart made me feel alone and protected at the same time. It even reduced my father’s drill-sergeant voice to a distant gurgle. He was a real sink-or-swim kind of guy, my dad. You didn’t want to get on his bad side.

Keep that back straight or I’ll break it!

No heartbeat now, no angry father, but that made it easier to keep track of the fighting. The low budda-budda of the automatic fire registered more as a vibration than a sound. The screams, well, they were faint, but there were enough to tell me I’d be here a while.

Hess, you give me another two laps or you’re walking home!

Thinking of Dad made me squirm, but then my brain did something useful for a change. I remembered the “fatherly” tone Green took with Turgeon. He must’ve figured Baby-head would respond.

Devil or not, he was smart. What had he said? That Turgeon didn’t destroy the heads because he couldn’t —that he wanted their approval. Christ, he acted enough like a baby. Could it be that obvious? Raised in an abusive family, he still wanted the abuser’s approval, even after he cut his head off? Maybe he’d seen his father kill his mother. My mother and father got into it pretty bad sometimes. Mom swung a mean frying pan, but she was no match for Dad’s thick arms. It made me want to . . .

Had Turgeon killed his father?

The idea felt important. Might make him easy to find. I wanted to get it down, but there was no way I’d be making audio notes eight feet under. I hoped to hell the water didn’t destroy the recorder. As long as it was off at the time, and dry enough before I turned it back on, I had a shot.

Soon the sounds were more distant, harder to follow. Just trying to guess what they might mean made me tired. It’s not easy to keep focused for too long on a good day. Here I was comfortable and tired enough to drift off.

Next thing I knew I was lying back in a Barcalounger, a local paper open in front of me. There were slippers on my feet. I was in a bathrobe. My arms were thick like Dad’s. Lenore was humming in the kitchen. I knew the song, the closing theme from All in the Family . I turned to look. She was just out of view, but I caught a shadow of her swaying hips on the front of the dishwasher.

A knock came at the door.

My eyes popped open. I was back in the bottom of the pool. Little globs of brown and black swirled around me in the water. How long had I been asleep?

Another knock. Was I still dreaming? No. The power was back on, bringing Colby’s world back from the dead. That included the pool filter. A bare branch was dancing in front of the suction vent. Too big to go in, it hit the vent, drifted back, then got caught in the current so it hit again. Whenever it clunked, it sounded just like a door.

There was light above me, but electric, not sunlight. Other than that, silence. The assault was over. Of course the livebloods won; they always did. The crippled ferals would all be writhing in a bonfire by now. I said a little prayer for the undead.

I’m not a big believer like Misty. I just figured with all that pain floating around, someone should say something, and it might as well be me.

Green said he’d delay the swap for twelve hours. I checked my watch. At least three to go, so I waited, and did not dream, or think, really, again. Judging by the light on the water’s surface, I watched morning roll around to early afternoon. It was time.

I crawled to the nearest wall, stood, and slowly pulled myself up along the tile work, surfacing beneath the diving board. There was no one in the pool area. Through the estate’s windows, I saw people moving, pacing. Security guards. It didn’t look like anything was chasing them anymore.

Putting my hands on the edge of the pool, I pulled and flopped out, imagining I looked like a dead manta ray. I rose into a crouch. My clothes were soaked. The dead leaves covering me made it hard to move, but I managed to reach the low brick wall. I rolled over that with a loud slapping, slurping sound, then hightailed it for the hemlocks. Better cover.

My timing wasn’t bad. In under an hour, a piss yellow Humvee came up the white gravel drive. Ever since I found out Martin Boyle was alive, I knew Turgeon was my psycho. Who else could it be? But seeing it was still different from thinking it. I was angry at him for being a sick fuck, and at myself for feeling satisfied that I’d finally gotten the answer right.

I followed the car, keeping the hedges between it and myself. I expected it to head for the front entrance, but it turned. I almost lost it until, through the branches, I spotted its taillights moving along a narrower road.

Past the rear of the main building, the road curved into an open area. I slowed down to keep covered, and crept to the edge of a circular driveway. Big enough for a truck to do an easy turnaround, it sat in front of a pretty banal section of the otherwise ornate mansion. No fountain, no decorations to speak of, erotic or otherwise, only the gravel, a flat wall, and some doors and windows. The most expensive thing there was Colby Green.

He was waiting by the door with two more brand-new gunsels. He probably had a bunch of spares behind a door marked MEN. I missed the original dogs; at least they had attitude. One of the newbies was balding, the other fair-haired, but again they wore black clothes and dark sunglasses—like they were the red shirts from Star Trek .

The Humvee was in the drive, hugging to the farthest spot from the building. That told me something: Turgeon was afraid of Green. Which meant he wasn’t completely crazy. My clothes were a little drier, which made moving easier, and the muck left me with a nice earthy brown color that sort of matched the dirt and wood of the hedge.

I tried to stay down, on my hands and knees, but that obscured my view. Feeling a bit daring, I came forward a yard or so, but found myself staring at the rear end of Turgeon’s car and not much else. I heard a power window lower, then Turgeon’s eager-beaver, childlike voice.

“Where is she? Is she ready? Why isn’t she here?”

Developmentally arrested or not, he sure as hell was a brat.

I stretched my neck. Green hadn’t even nodded in response, but the balding dog pulled a slight figure from the doorway. Nell Parker, and she wasn’t dancing now. The ropes prevented that. She was tied up tight, gagged and squirming. Her green eyes flashed from face to face like she was watching a Ping-Pong match.

I assumed she was sorry she hadn’t believed me.

Green stuck his hand out and spoke two words real slowly. “The drive?”

He was using his “daddy” voice.

The window rolled back up. The door clicked open. Turgeon’s expensive lawyer shoes hit the gravel a few feet from my face. I couldn’t see the egghead’s face, but as he came around toward the back of the car, I saw his hands. One held out what looked like a ritzy version of a data drive, silver and sleek.

“Here it is. Right here. I’m sorry, you know, Mr. Green. I did offer to buy her from you. I did. But what can you get the man who has everything?”

He wasn’t very good at sounding sorry, or even pleasant. He was either afraid or trying to stifle a giggle, or both.

Green said, slowly, “Give it to me. Now.”

Turgeon looked as if he were going to do exactly as ordered. As if hypnotized by a cobra, Turgeon took a few steps toward Green. That brought his face into view. At once, his expression changed and he halted. It was like he’d realized Green hadn’t said, “Simon says.”

“No. That’s not the deal.”