Stefan Petrucha - Dead Mann Walking

It moaned two words: “Put me . . .”

Relief washed over Turgeon so strongly, he looked like he shrank an inch. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

He wiped his brow, then gently, almost lovingly lifted the head. I saw the tendrils again, drooping from the stump of the neck. What muscles there were pulsed in tune with its words, fanning air up into the throat, like gills on a fish.

“One last time,” it said.

He put Daddy on the dolly and opened the edge of the bag. Using the same neck muscles that let it make noises, it squirmed inside the rustling bag. The weird slurred speech echoed through the space. Deferential as he’d been, Turgeon yanked the duffel bag closed and gave it a rough shake that quieted them down. Out of sight, out of mind, I guess. I’d hate to see what he’d do with a hamster.

Once they were silent, he stopped and looked around. I thought he’d seen or heard me, but no. I did get a good look at him, enough to see that his oval face was bare. The air was so thick with crap, I could taste it on my tongue, but Baby-head didn’t even wear a mask. Was this a suicide run?

No, he still didn’t have me. And me? I had a recorded confession, something even Booth might listen to. I had my cell phone. I was about to use it when he opened the back of the Humvee and the air filled with Nell Parker’s louder, more enthusiastic cries.

My whole body shuddered with relief. Not just because there was still someone I could save if I didn’t screw up, but that it was her.

Turgeon picked up the head clippers, held their big, curved blades open, directly over her neck. I tensed, ready to jump out at him, but he didn’t use them.

“You’re only still in one piece because I promised Daddy I would wait,” he said. “But it wouldn’t be the first promise I broke.”

She got the idea and settled down.

With some grunting, he loaded Nell onto the dolly, followed by the clippers and the duffel bag. The last thing he loaded up was a wooden crate with some writing on it: 40—8 Oz CHGS PE4.

What was that about? Damned if I knew what. Forty eight-ounce somethings. I tried playing Jonesey’s memory game in reverse, thinking whatever came to mind— chgs . . . changes, charges? And the PE? Phys ed? Pro education?

Plastic explosives.

Forty eight-ounce charges of plastic explosive.

I could’ve saved myself the trouble if I’d noticed the timer slapped to the top and the wires running down into the crate. Nell figured it out faster than I did. She flopped around so violently, she threw herself off the dolly. The heads started squirming, too.

Turgeon looked like an overwrought babysitter. “Quiet! Quiet!”

When no one obeyed, he stamped his feet, the sharp blasts echoing through the lot. I tensed, ready to go for him. The explosives made me think I should do something sooner rather than later. But the clippers were under the duffel bag, so rather than grab them, he pulled out a gun. If I wasn’t mistaken, it was my Walther P99. He aimed it at Nell, too agitated to realize it wasn’t that much of a threat. Seeing it only made her struggle more. He grabbed some oily cloths from the car and stuffed as many as he could into her mouth.

I was starting to feel like fucking Hamlet: Should I stay or should I go? But rushing up while he had the gun was not a good idea. If nothing else a few slugs would slow me down; two in the knees would bring me to a halt.

Liveblood at a toxic site with a bag full of heads and a bomb? The cops might not believe me, but no reason they wouldn’t listen to Misty. I crouched back down and fished out my cell phone. Given how near Turgeon was, I wished I could text, but instead I had to hit the speed dial at 1.

After two rings, she answered. Unfortunately, she answered very loudly.

“Hess, are you okay?

Terrified that Psycho-baby would hear, I kept my voice low. “Shhh! I’m in the hospital parking lot, lowest level, with Turgeon. He has explosives. I think he’s planning to bring the whole place down. Get the cops; tell them you have proof he’s been killing livebloods. Get them over here fast.”

“What? What’d you say?”

There were airy sounds behind her, crowds. She was on the street. Crap! She’d gone to the rally! At least it meant she was close.

I tried to explain again, but still kept my voice too low. After her third shrill, “What?” Turgeon heard us.

He was faster than he looked. He barreled over before I could stand and slammed into me. Before I knew what was happening, I was down on my stomach. There was no way to spit in his face while his knees pressed into my dried-out kidneys.

I saw the cell phone skitter and spin along the dusty floor. Misty’s voice was still coming from the speaker, saying, “What? What?”

When he realized who I was, he started giggling.

Yeah, surprise! Happy fucking birthday. Look what I got you—me, your only missing victim! Am I a pal, or what?

He didn’t have cuffs, plastic or otherwise, but he had some rope and used it to hog-tie me pretty quick. Then he gagged me with the cloth that hadn’t fit in Nell’s mouth. I was on my stomach the whole time, head sideways, so I couldn’t get a straight shot with the VX if I tried. A minute later, I was piled on the dolly with Nell, a bag full of heads, the clippers, and a crate of explosives.

Beside himself, Turgeon wheeled us to the elevator, pressed the button, and said, “Going down?”

I think he thought it was funny.

29

If you have to be tied up, rope’s more comfortable than handcuffs or plastic bands. Rope gives, breathes a little. It also gives you hope. If I wriggled and twisted my hands, pulled, relaxed, repeated, eventually they’d loosen. Eventually they’d loosen enough for me to get free. At best it would take an hour or two, long after whatever Turgeon was planning would be all over. Still, it was something to do.

I was lying near the front of the flat cart, looking up at Turgeon’s back while he looked up at the elevator lights. They blinked lower and lower: basement, subbasement, sub-subbasement, then some initials I didn’t understand. It felt like I was in one of those old cartoons where the elevator goes so low that the doors open up in hell—flaming pits and a grinning devil with a pitchfork. Wrong floor. Besides, I was already in hell.

Behind me there was a frantic rustling. If it had been Nell, that would’ve been bearable, but the shape was wrong and the pieces kept coming apart and rolling off one another. Heads, I lose. They were shifting around like they still had bladders and had to pee real bad. I tried to stay calm, concentrate on the ropes. I was doing okay, relatively, until, through the bag, I felt a mouth close on my shin.

Electric-syrup time.

I dry-heaved. I pulled my legs in tight. I crammed my eyes shut. I stayed that way until the elevator stopped and the doors opened. When Turgeon wheeled us out, the drone of the dolly seemed to calm the heads, so the gnawing stopped.

I looked again. Turgeon was pushing from behind, so I couldn’t see him at all. We were in the lowest part of the complex. Plastic sheets were everywhere, ceiling to floor, a poor man’s picture windows, held by a series of monolithic concrete pillars. It looked like a buried temple to some industrial god who couldn’t care less whether you worshiped him or not. As good a place for a nightmare as any.

A thin, barely visible cloud of white powder hung in the air, but there was a steady breeze disturbing its peace. The hum of vacuums sucking air through long, cylindrical tubes was loud enough to make the plastic vibrate and drown out the dolly’s wheels. Part of the remediation. They were trying to take asbestos out of the air.