Stefan Petrucha - Dead Mann Walking

That one time almost ended things. I went to counseling for a year, learned to step back instead of forward. That helped. We still shouted. Sometimes I punched a wall or smashed a plate, but I never touched her, never again. Maybe we shouldn’t have been together, but the fights were rare and, stupid as it sounds, I loved her and thought she loved me. The marriage was heaven on earth, with occasional side trips to hell, or so I thought.

By the middle of the recession, the cuts reached the homicide department. Short on staff, I wound up working extra shifts, which meant less time at home. Thanks to ChemBet, we had a string of former convictions walking around. Folks we’d arrested were popping back up on the street. It was a whole new world with all new problems. With so much going on, I lost track of her. Things seemed okay, so I wasn’t worried, but I wasn’t paying attention. I didn’t even blink when she asked that we stop trying to have kids for a while. I was too busy resenting all the time off Booth was enjoying. He’d earned it, I guessed, five more years than me. When he retired I was next in line. Except for the fact that I wasn’t well liked. Tended to be a loner, and everyone knew I had a temper.

Then came the morning the photo showed up in my in-box, Lenore’s skin smooth like a goddess’s, her body caught in an instant when it’d been writhing in pleasure, pushing up against Booth’s muscles, her hands clawing at his hairy back. Didn’t matter that it was a photo. I could see them moving. I could hear the moans of pleasure.

Something inside me crashed. It felt like my life was over, like I’d died, as if I knew what that meant. I did like my counselor said: I hit something else, in this case the wall. But it was in the office this time, and to be honest, for the first time, I was imagining it was her.

I rushed home, thinking . . . I don’t know what. I don’t remember. I like to believe I’d calmed down by the time I was halfway there. I hope I was planning to talk things out, or tell her I’d give her a divorce if she wanted it. Only, that doesn’t sound like me. Still, I hold on to the possibility that the last conversation I was planning to have with her would be the best I had to offer, not the worst. The fact is, the car ride’s a blur. Whatever I was feeling is one of those blank spots in my soul. Message erased.

I do remember stumbling into the kitchen, stepping into her blood and wondering what was so damn sticky. I remember her crushed face, looking like a broken egg with a different palette of colors. They never found my bat and I’ve never been sure it wasn’t me.

Now I knew it wasn’t, and I had a real good idea who it was.

I got to my feet, screaming. I staggered out onto the highway, still screaming.

What a sight that must have been, zombie dirt monster raging in the middle of the highway. Cars zoomed by. I’m sure someone would’ve hit me if they weren’t worried about ruining their finishes.

One asshole driving an old Civic must have been text-ing or watching a DVD. By the time he saw me, he had to turn the wheel so hard, he nearly flipped his car. Instead, tires squealing, it spun and came to a halt on the shoulder. The air bag popped and he was just stupid enough to be angry about it.

Face in a fierce snarl, he pushed the air bag away, popped the door, and stormed toward me. He was early twenties, hair baked blond and dried like the field, a football player, someone who’d kick a boulder in his way rather than walk around it.

“You stupid mother . . .”

I guess he hadn’t noticed I was dead and howling until about then. I saw no reason to stop screaming for his sake.

“Holy shit!” He backed up, put the car between us. I came forward, getting louder. I wasn’t feral, but I wasn’t real happy, either.

He thought about getting back in his car, but I hopped up on the hood and gave him a real loud one, nearly tore out my vocal cords. He started backing up. He didn’t want to give up the car, but he didn’t want to die, either.

With a final, “Oh, shit!” he turned and started running.

I got behind the wheel. The engine still running, I put it in gear and drove past him.

I won’t take credit for planning any of it. It just sort of happened. But you should have seen the look on his face. Wish I’d had a camera.

I did about eighty until I spotted some state troopers and had to slow down. The Humvee was long gone. No way I’d catch up, and I didn’t know where he was headed. Aside from everything else eating at me, now I had the sick feeling I couldn’t save Nell.

The only other lead I had was that other chak, and right now I couldn’t even remember his name. I did remember the notes I’d made with Ashby, so I tried working the recorder while driving with one hand. Couldn’t manage that, so I had to pull over, lose even more time.

Took me about five minutes to find it, my creaky voice saying, “Odell Jenkins, works for Hammer Rejuvenations, LLC.”

Ashby gave off a little heh in the background. Funny, it was nice to hear him again.

After a lot of twisting and yanking at the dried muck on me, I even found my cell phone. As I pulled back onto the road, I hit 1 on the speed dial.

Misty answered on the first ring. “Hess, where the hell are you? Are you okay?”

“I’m not so bad, considering. I figured out who killed my wife, and I’ve got a new car.”

Rather than give her the details, I gave her the name of the remediation company, asked them to inquire about Jenkins and call me back as soon as she knew anything. The sooner I got to Turgeon’s last potential victim, the better chance I had of finding him.

And then what?

As I drove, I tried to come up with a plan. Part of me wished I still had the gun. Then I could shoot Turgeon over and over until the only thing that made him twitch would be the impact of the bullets. Partly I wanted to play “good cop.” I wanted to nab him, bring him in, have him arrested, tried, and fried, with me in the audience.

The missing gun mooted the first option. Being a chak put the odds against the second. By the time I reached the Bones, Misty still hadn’t called back, so I headed to the office. The phone was in her hand as I walked in. There was some poster board and markers on her desk, so I figured she’d been making signs for Jonesey.

I thought she’d have a harder time guessing what I’d been up to, but as she rose for a better look at my makeover, she said, “You look like you’ve been sleeping in the bottom of a swamp.”

“Close. Colby Green’s swimming pool.”

She grabbed a spork from her lunch and used it to scrape off the bigger chunks of dirt. While she worked, I filled her in on the details. By the end of it, she looked more upset than I was. I wanted to thank her for that. Instead, I asked if she’d made any headway on Odell Jenkins.

“Yeah, he’s at a job site.”

“Good. Did you get a number? Can we call him?”

“Already tried. His boss said he keeps his cell off while he’s working. Doesn’t want to get distracted using power tools.”

“Makes sense. What’s the address? I’ve got to get over there.”

“Wait. Hess, what if you run into Turgeon? You can’t go.”

I gave her a look. “I can’t not . Put aside Wilson, Boyle, Parker, and their spouses, which probably doesn’t scratch the surface of his victim list, Misty—this guy killed Lenore.”

“And if you make one wrong move, he’ll cut your head off and put it in a bag!”

“He’s going to try to do that anyway.”

“We can move out of the state. I’m still half-packed.”

“I’d go feral on the bus, knowing he was out there.”

“Then . . . then . . . call Booth.”