Dead Mann Walking (27 page)

“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.”

For the first time since I'd seen him, the careful intent that Colby Green radiated vanished. It wasn't playacting. A vein throbbed in his neck. He looked pissed. But he nodded at the gunsels and they brought Nell over to Turgeon.

As the poor thing hopped along, Green kept staring at Turgeon with bug-zapper eyes. Turgeon kept his cool, though. It was only when Nell was squirming and struggling at his side that he handed the drive to the bald dog.

His men wasted no time trotting back to their master and giving him the drive. As soon as it was in his hand, Green relaxed so much he visibly shrank. I think the temperature dropped a few degrees, too.

What was on the drive? My guess, a “best of” video collection from the playground—more than enough to bring down the government of Fort Hammer and probably even the state.

“The activation key?” Green said.

“As soon as we're safely away.”

“You know the contents can't be copied.”

Turgeon winced. “I told you I didn't even try.”

“And if you'd turned it over to the local papers . . .”

Turgeon would've been better off nodding and agreeing, but he gave a little self-conscious laugh that made Green's eyes flare. He was hesitant—
childish
would be a compliment—but he did start acting like he was in control. “Local papers were never the issue, Mr. Green. National, worldwide, online, on the other hand . . .”

He glanced at the struggling Nell. “Could your men help put her in the back? She's quite feisty.”

Green went silent and stayed that way long enough to make everyone wonder what he'd do. If he'd really been a father, my father anyway, he'd have pulled out his belt and given his kid a whooping. But that was just an act for Turgeon's sake. Whatever else he was, Green was a businessman. He had the drive and whatever was on it. He slipped his poker face back on.

“Feisty? You don't know the half of it,” he said. He nodded to his men.

As the gunsels returned, Turgeon opened the rear hatch. I was close enough that if I still had my Walther, I might've tried to grab her and shoot my way out.

To my surprise, before they dumped her in, Green stepped up, waving for them to wait. Turgeon stiffened, but Green said, “I just want to say good-bye.”

Turgeon moved toward the driver's door, giving him some space. Green just looked at Nell for a bit, until something silver in the back of the car caught his eye.

“What is that?” Green asked. I knew. I'd seen it before.

The weirdest expression came over Turgeon's face. He looked half-embarrassed, half as if he wanted something from Green, punishment, or
approval
. “A head clipper, used by the authorities to remove the heads of chakz.”

Green didn't react, but he sure looked as if he wanted to. Instead he turned to Nell Parker and stared into her genuinely green, pleading eyes. Gently, maybe affectionately, he held her chin with his thumb and forefinger, brought her face close, and licked her cheek. As his tongue raked her flesh, she closed her eyes.

Maybe she was thinking he'd still change his mind; maybe she was praying he would. But after making a sound that could've been a sigh or a bored exhale, he stepped away.

With that final betrayal, her eyes flashed and she struggled again, harder. She was strong, but tied up. The gunsels grabbed her and tossed her in like she was a beautiful, oversize bag of litter. Turgeon came back and closed the hatch. Good soundproofing on that car. If Nell was screaming through the gag, or kicking, I couldn't hear it.

That weird expression still painted on his face, Turgeon slapped his hands. He figured he was as good as gone. But Green wasn't going to let him off that easy.

“You know you can't leave here unless I allow it.”

Turgeon tried to lose the goofy grin, but didn't quite succeed. “I said I was sorry. Once I'm safe I will call and tell you not only the new access code, but also exactly how I got the drive. Names and dates.”

“Name
s
?” Green said. So there were some moles in paradise. Not surprising. A man like Green probably played with a few livebloods the same way he did with chakz. Egghead had gotten to them somehow. Money isn't everything, after all. There's also revenge.

Turgeon shrugged. “Please don't worry. Don't worry at all. Not many. Your people are loyal. Mostly.”

The poker face nearly slipped, but Green kept it. Now Turgeon's grin went up to his eyes. He'd kicked Daddy in the shins and gotten away with it. All the same, he practically ran to the driver's side and jumped in. I couldn't see inside the car, but I imagined him rubbing his hands and giggling.

I had to make some kind of move or Turgeon would be gone and Nell Parker's head would be forced into a messy divorce from the rest of her. No way was I going to keep up with a car on foot. That left one option. Crazy for the living, not so much for the dead.

With Turgeon inside the car and most of the Humvee between me and Green, I crawled under the chassis. It was roomy, lots of handholds. Hoping the soundproofing worked both ways, I did my zombie death grip and latched on.

Stupidly, I thought I hadn't been seen. Turgeon hadn't noticed me, as far as I knew. The soundproofing worked both ways. But I caught a final bit of conversation from our hosts.

“Want us to do anything about that?” the balding gunsel said to Green.

The answer was whispered, but I saw Green shake his head. “No.”

Of course. The power was back on. They'd seen me on the security cameras. But now that he had his hard drive back, no reason Green wouldn't root for me. He probably hated Turgeon almost as much as I did. I even thought I saw him give me a little wave.

The engine roared; the car rolled along the gravel. Strong as my grip was, I wished I had a seat belt. Wherever the hell I was going, it'd be a bumpy ride.

T
he white-gravel blur beneath me turned to an asphalt blur. We were out on the street. Hit a few potholes, but by the time we reached the southbound highway, headed back to town, the ride smoothed out. Midday, the road was pretty empty, and Turgeon had a need for speed, passing whatever cars there were. If anyone spotted me, by the time they gave me a second glance, I'd be gone.

I'd seen the clinging-under-the-car thing in a couple of monster movies, the unsuspecting driver taking someone along for a ride. I'd always thought it was ridiculous, but the underbelly of the Humvee put more than a half foot between my ass and the road. It wasn't too bad a ride. I'd been through worse on packed buses. As long as Baby-head didn't drive off-road, or over a tall rock, I didn't have much to worry about.

Or so I thought. The catalytic converter was warm when the ride started. After twenty minutes, it was oozing heat like a desert sun, the rest of the exhaust system happy to bake along with it. Once my suit dried, and it was drying fast, I could catch like a pile of leaves. Turgeon would see me then, all right, through his rearview mirror as I rolled along behind him, in flames.

I maneuvered around like a giant upside-down tarantula, desperate to find a cooler spot. Unable to find one, I headed to the passenger side, put the heel of my shoe on the running board, and found a handhold near the bottom of the rear door. I was exposed, wind whipping my hair and clothes, but at least I was in his blind spot.

The side mirror was lopsided, like he didn't use it. It gave me a good view of myself. With the crap from the pool drying all over me, I looked like a half-full Hefty Cinch Sak caught on the car. I tilted my head, trying to get a peek at the driver. I had to twist into a funny position, but it worked.

There he was, watching the road like a good boy. His lips were moving. I figured he was on the phone, giving Green that activation code, and the names of whichever employees were stupid enough to betray him. But the minutes ticked by and he kept talking. I didn't think he and Green had a close phone relationship, so that meant it was something else. Every sentence or two he glanced over at the passenger seat, like he was talking to a little person sitting there. I raised my head, angling for a better look.

The passenger seat was still out of view, but I spotted something in the back and didn't like it at all. It was the duffel bag, the one from the warehouse, the one that looked stuffed with bowling balls. It was carefully strapped in with belts and shoulder straps.

And it was squirming.

My fears about what was inside thickened in the back of my throat. I looked again, hoping I'd see that the things inside were just settling, obeying gravity. But no, it looked more like they were jockeying for position. Trying to get comfortable.

I couldn't think about that. Not now. The old electric syrup was already bubbling, tingling inside me. I blinked and looked ahead. Bad move. I realized that the shoulder strap for the passenger seat was down, wrapped around whatever Turgeon was chatting with.

Now I was freaking. Muscles twitching, dizzy, images flashing, the works.

I lowered myself so I couldn't see anything. I tried to calm down, focus on the case. I thought about catching him, saving Nell. It'd work for a minute, then slip away. I had to distract myself, keep busy. How the fuck was I going to do that while clinging to a car doing seventy mph? There was nothing but the road and the mirror.

I had to take another look. I had to know. I peered inside. Turgeon was still talking, but now he looked unhappy, alternately hurt and annoyed. Then, steering with one hand, he leaned over and lifted what was on the passenger seat.

I knew what it was. Of course I did, but, God help me, I didn't want to. I didn't want to know a damn thing.

I thought about ducking, at least, or closing my eyes, but I didn't move fast enough. As he twisted and held it toward the back, I saw it: the head, the fucking head, just the head, only the head.

I snapped my own head down. I closed my eyes, but still saw it. It'd been a fraction of a second, but that was all it took. The image had burned into me, clearer and more colorful than the cover of an old EC horror comic. He hadn't used the chopper on this one; the neck was unevenly cut, victim of a sloppy ax job. There were thick veins hanging down like tendrils, flaps of gray flesh.

The face was older, old enough to be the psycho's father. It may have been handsome once. It had a strong, angular structure, the jaw long and bony, the chin a jutting V. The lower lips were partly gone, tear marks in their place, leaving the clenched teeth visible, still whole. The eyes were open, the mouth moving.

I shivered like a kid under a blanket. Now I couldn't even pretend the duffel bag wasn't full of them, the souvenirs, the relics, the
daddies
. And Turgeon meant for me to be one of them.

The syrup bubbled, rolled, grew, pressed against my insides so hard it felt like my flesh would pop and tear. And then, though I could've held on until doomsday, I let go.

I bounced. I rolled. The pain was enough to keep me in my body, snap me out of it, but not completely. A car screeched as it swerved to avoid hitting me. A horn blared.

But Turgeon hadn't seen. He was too busy with his friends.

I
made it to the shoulder, collapsed at the edge of a brittle, sunbaked field. A turkey buzzard wheeled in the sky above me, coming lower and lower. Once it got close enough for a good look, it turned and flew off. I wasn't even good enough to be carrion.

Forcing myself to sitting, I fished in my pockets. I couldn't find my cell, but I did get my hands on the recorder. I was thinking I should get some of this down. Not that I was worried I'd forget, but if Turgeon had spotted me, he might be on his way back, and I wanted to leave at least some kind of record.

Crap. The recorder was still damp. I pressed a button and a set of little black LED letters flashed on the screen. It still worked. I pressed record and tried to talk, but all I could do was babble. After about ten seconds, I turned it off.

I looked up and down the highway. Hondas, trucks, and hybrids. No sign of the Humvee. Good for me, not so much for Nell Parker. Soon she'd be one of his friends, one of his
daddies
, or, in her case, a
mommy
, and he'd be reliving the death of his own parent over and over and again for the sake of . . .

Wait a minute.

Christ, I think I'd set a world record for staring at something and not being able to see it. Whatever other relationship he was having with the heads, he
was
trying to keep them quiet.

What did they know? What was the one thing Wilson, Boyle, and Parker all knew? That they were
innocent
, that
someone else
killed their spouses.

Son of a bitch, son of a bitch, son of a bitch. What if it was Turgeon to begin with? What if he'd committed the murders and set them all up? It'd be a perfect gig for a psycho. Most murder victims are done in by someone they know. Need to kill someone? Find someone with a history of domestic violence, kill the spouse, and leave the aggressor to take the rap. Brilliant. It's not like they're not going to bring your patsy back from the dead, right?