Stefan Petrucha - Dead Mann Walking

With all the cops and the pedestrians gawking at the chakz, no one noticed when I drove around the hospital barricade. Only a complete moron would go in there anyway, right? With a thick whoosh that reminded me of being in a car wash, I passed through the plastic and headed down into the facility’s underground parking lot. Up to one hour of poisoning, free. My little VX capsule was less than a raindrop in a storm here. If I didn’t run into Turgeon, this might be a good place to bury it.

Only, it looked like I had run into Turgeon.

The second I flashed on my headlights, I spotted tire tracks in the dust ahead of me. Maybe I was just being paranoid, but if any remediation teams came in this way regularly, why only one set of tracks? I stopped the car and got out for a closer look. Took a while for my eyes to adjust, but I waited. They looked about the right size for a Humvee.

I followed the tracks on foot, down, down, down the graded concrete and steel, along rows of empty, numbered spaces. Sunlight was a thing of the past. At the bottom levels, the only light was the glow of an occasional Exit sign above a gray metal door.

I was about to turn the last corner when I heard that boyish voice. Turgeon. I thought he’d spotted me, even though I couldn’t see him or his car, but he was talking to someone.

“Please don’t talk like that. I hate it when you say things that way. I’m not the one.”

Whoever answered had some kind of speech impediment. The response came in a harsh, garbled whisper, almost like a toy train clacking on a track in slow, slow motion, or a paper bag dragged across cement, soft and crackly.

Gshhh chahhhh chhhhh.

Turgeon seemed to understand it. “That’s not what I meant.”

I slowed, crouched, hugged the wall, but made the last turn and kept descending. At the bottom, I made out the Humvee, parked near an elevator. The dim light made the piss yellow closer to the color of blood. A Dumpster, full of construction debris, had been plopped catty-corner in the space opposite him. Whenever Turgeon talked, I made for it.

His rounded back was to me, but he bobbed nervously, like he might spin around any second. “But it’s not my fault. Can’t you . . .”

As he spoke, he faced a heavy lump sitting on the hood. It wasn’t a silver eagle or a winged angel, but I guess you could call it a head ornament. It was the one head I’d seen strapped in the passenger seat. It was making the sounds.

Shhhhkkk ggrrllll cahhhh.

Don’t know why I didn’t out-and-out lose it. Maybe it was the dim lighting that made everything look flat and unreal, or maybe I was more fascinated than sickened. How could it make sounds at all? I noticed it moved its cheeks before it spoke. Curious, I exhaled, pushing all the air out of my lungs, then puffed my cheeks and forced the air through my nose. Maybe it was using those muscles to draw air through its neck. Could work, I guess.

Whatever it meant by its last crackles, Turgeon didn’t like it at all. His tone dived from whiny to annoyed.

“Stop it! I’ll put you back with the others! I can and I will! You’re not so big now!”

The others? Right. The duffel bag sat on a big flat wooden cart with a metal handle near the car. It didn’t take much to figure he was threatening to stuff the head in there. He gave it a little kick to make his point.

Jssshhhh.

“Of course I wouldn’t.” He sounded pouty again, like the last harsh noise had put him back in his place.

I reached the back of the Dumpster and tried to focus on the sounds.

Shtpp rrr wnnnn hlp yorr.

The noises were soft, struggling, but intentional, like someone trying to play a trumpet by blowing through the mouthpiece with a straw. It was using words, best as it could. The first sentence I made out was something like:

Stop or I won’t help you.

Turgeon gave it a loud tsk and stamped his feet on the dusty concrete. “It’s not just for me! It’s for all of you.”

“Stop.”

“You know I can’t, Daddy.”

Daddy? So the family-killer theory wasn’t far off the mark.

“Not your father.”

“ Step father! Stepfather! Fine!” In frustration, he kicked the dolly.

Close enough. Either way, it was clear he wanted stepdaddy’s approval. He was begging for it. If the pattern held true, Turgeon’s stepfather must have been executed for killing his wife. That would be Turgeon’s mother, wouldn’t it?

Plenty of time to play Name that Sick Motive later. I had to decide what to do now, while he was distracted. If I rushed up to try breathing in his face, I’d have to come at him from the front. Too risky. I only had one shot, and I didn’t want to blow it. Besides, he was still talking. For better or worse, that good-cop instinct kicked in, the one that still thought about bringing him in to justice. And he was still talking. I didn’t know how far the conversation would go, but just in case, I fumbled for the recorder, pressed the button, and aimed the mike at Turgeon the Great and his amazing talking head.

Of course, the second the little red light went on, they shut up.

Not the duffel bag, though. Ever since he’d kicked it, it was pulsing more and more. Now a whole choir of scraping sounds came from inside, a jumble of sources. It dawned on me that Wilson and Boyle would be in there. Nell Parker, too? Not that I recognized any of the voices. Best I could do was pick out a couple of words, none happy:

“Help . . . die . . . why . . . murder . . . cutter.” That didn’t do much to improve Turgeon’s mood. He

That didn’t do much to improve Turgeon’s mood. He grabbed his ears and wheeled back toward the head ornament. “Talk to them!” he howled. “Talk to them!”

“No,” the “daddy” answered.

“Ripping . . . blood . . . monster . . . killer . . .”

The heads didn’t seem to like him very much. I wasn’t surprised, but Turgeon was. He looked hurt, like he was ready to cry.

“You’re the only one who can.”

“No.”

“I told you, it’s just these three ! Just them, all right? Just these three and I promise I’ll be done. I swear I’ll stop.”

“No.”

Seeing he wasn’t getting anywhere, Turgeon forced himself to simmer down. He approached the head apologetically, stroked what was left of its cheek. “I’m so sorry I’m shouting. I get so angry. I get so upset. Ever since I saw that boy’s skeleton it’s been so hard to calm down. It almost got me! And that detective got away. He’s dangerous. He must know by now. He must know I killed his wife. He just doesn’t understand that I did it for him. None of them do!”

Lenore. He’d said it. There it was. A confession .

I couldn’t let him see me, but there was a loud roar and for the longest time I thought it came from me. Took me to the count of ten to realize it didn’t; it was the duffel bag. The heads in it were twisting harder, getting louder, like they were screaming for me. Turgeon, the idiot, had reminded us all that he was the one who’d stolen our loves, our lives, beaten them until their bodies caved.

“Killed her . . . you did it . . . oh, God. . . . why, God . . . killed him . . . no, not her . . . wasn’t me . . .”

The bag wobbled precariously. It took all I had to keep from running out and throttling him. If I was sure I’d actually be able to kill him, I’d have done it in a second.

Turgeon shouted at the bag like it was a disobedient pet. “They were hurting you! Driving you away! I was doing you a favor!” He turned back to the head ornament. “Daddy, tell them they’re free now! You have to tell them they should be happy!”