Dead Mann Walking (5 page)

Not that anyone ever asks the deceased. I've yet to see a new chak run around screaming, “It's great to be back, Fort Hammer!”

But here we are.

I gave Turgeon's car a once-over. I don't go for gas-guzzlers, but the Humvee was probably the only model that'd make him look normal size. I opened the door, surprised to hear some particularly misogynist gangsta rap on the sound system, the lyrics going on about there being one less bitch to worry about. I gave him a look as I climbed in. After a little giggle, he shut it off and our great buddy movie began.

Sure to be a classic.

Other than the damage to the environment, the drive was uneventful. It's a straight line to the outskirts of town, so it even lacked the excitement of turning. Soon, with the city lights behind us and a single-lane highway ahead, Turgeon made a stab at conversation. If only he'd decided to talk about the weather.

“Do you really think we might die tonight?”

“
You
might. Me? Been there. Done that. Got other problems now.”

“I'm not afraid of dying, you know,” he said. Then he asked the question every chak loves to hear. “But . . . what is . . . what is it like? Being dead?”

I stared into his blue contacts. “What's it like? What's it look like?”

I don't usually talk like that to a client, but I already had two envelopes full of his cash, I was risking my neck, and he had a habit of pushing the wrong buttons.

He shrugged. “I don't mean now. I mean before . . . when you
were
dead.” He kept his voice soft, as if that meant he was concerned about my feelings. “You know,
really
dead. Right after the execution.”

I leaned back and stared at the headlight beams. “Oh, then. Everything went dark for a little while, and then I saw a bright, golden light at the end of a long tunnel. It felt warm, welcoming. I could see, on the other side, all my deceased loved ones, beckoning me forward to everlasting joy. I've never been happier.”

His lips parted. They stayed that way a while, like his nose was stuffed and he had to breathe through his mouth. “Really?”

“No.”

“What, then?”

“I don't remember.”

“Do you know . . .”

“And no, I don't know any other chak who remembers, either. One of us would have written a book about it by now, don't you think? Had the money stolen by a publisher or an agent?”

He wasn't about to let it go, though. “So it was quiet for you? A big nothing?”

“I don't know means I don't know.”

“So strange. They conquer death and still don't know what it is.”

“Yeah, a real laugh riot, like Woody Allen's early films.”

I hoped that was the end of it, but no. He was like a kid asking why the sky was blue, just so he could ask why again.

“Is it different?”

“Is what different?”

“The
way
you don't remember death. Is it the same as not remembering whether you killed your wife?”

Now he was back to pressing the other button. And here I had so few.

“For the love of . . .”

“I'm sorry. I'm only curious. Please tell me.”

I squirmed in my seat, wondering if there was any other way to get him to shut up. Something told me there wasn't. “Fine. Whatever. Yeah, it's different. I don't
miss
not remembering what death was like.”

He had to think about that. “So . . . that means you
do
want to know about your wife?”

“No. I didn't say that . . . but with Lenore, I feel . . . a gap.”

“Ever try to push at it, try to get it back?”

“You
should
be a lawyer, you know? All the questions? There are some things you don't want to push at.”

He didn't like that answer. “I don't understand. What do you mean? Why not?”

I felt like a rat trying to get out of a maze. Images started clawing at me, Lenore's face turning into Colin Wilson's head.

Maybe I should tell him a bedtime story, distract both of us. “There's something I do remember. It's a story, but if I tell it to you, you've got to stop asking.”

“Why?”

Jeez. “Because if you can't figure it out from this, I can't explain it to you. Okay?”

I'd never seen a grown man pout before. Frankly, I never wanted to see it again.

“All right,” he said. “Tell me your story.”

Satisfied we had a deal, I went into it. “Back when I was a cop, there was this suicide. Guy named Flitwick stuck a garden hose from his exhaust into the driver-side window of his Lexus and closed his garage door. He climbed behind the wheel and let the engine run until his heart stopped beating and his brain stopped doing whatever the hell it is a brain does. According to his friends and family, though, he had everything to live for. He didn't suffer from depression, business was great, and he'd even brought his wife back from the dead.

“Booth thought it smelled funny. He never liked chakz, so he had me take a look at the wife. She was my first chak interview. Quiet little thing. Wouldn't say mousy so much as still. Didn't move or talk much. Detectives have, like, a radar for liars, but the cues are different with the dead. I didn't know what to make of her. I didn't think she'd killed him, but I couldn't tell whether she felt guilty or didn't feel much at all.

“For her part, she didn't have a clue why we were suspicious about her husband's death. I had to spell it out—if he didn't have a reason to kill himself, maybe she did. That, she seemed adamant about. The idea made her shake, like it hurt to think about. She didn't hurt him, she said; they'd always loved each other deeply.

“When it dawned on her how important it was, though, she did tell me something she hadn't told anyone else. Mr. Flitwick kept a journal. He wanted to keep it private, so she'd kept it from the police and hadn't even read it herself. It's a chak thing, especially among the low-levels, taking things too literally. Private meant private. But with a little coaxing, she did give it to me, and it did explain things.

“According to what he'd written, ever since he'd brought her back, Flitwick felt something was missing. Nothing crass, like sex—he understood the limits of the process—but there was, in his words, a sense of intimacy missing. He thought it had to do with the fact that she'd experienced death and he hadn't. So he kept asking, like you, what's it like? What's it like?

“She told him what I told you, she didn't remember, but that wasn't enough. Flitwick was convinced she'd had some mystical experience, and that was what was keeping them apart. If only he could feel what she'd felt, they could love each other the same way again, whatever that means. I'd seen that kind of thinking in rape or violent crime cases. It's a variation on survivor's guilt. Some spouses even put themselves in dangerous situations, trying to get the same thing to happen to them.

“In Flitwick's case I don't know if it was guilt, curiosity, or exactly like he said, but he decided to kill himself. He didn't tell her why, though, didn't want her to know he doubted their relationship. He figured that of course she'd bring him back. Then they'd be together like in the old days. Cue sappy music. So one fine morning, he kissed her on the cheek, headed to the garage, and sucked down some exhaust fumes. But she didn't bring him back. As far as I know, she never considered it. Once I knew the whole story, of course I told her about her husband's expectations.”

Turgeon was wide-eyed, but I let him hang until he asked.

“And did she? Did she bring him back like he'd wanted?”

“No.”

He looked angry. “Why? Why not?”

“I asked her the same question. Even had the same look on my face you do now. She had a hard time phrasing it, and I didn't really understand until I came back myself, but it was something along the lines of she'd never do that to anyone, let alone someone she loved.”

He exhaled, made a sound like a word. I think it may have been
bitch
, like from the song he was listening to. No wonder he didn't have a family.

Whether the story satisfied his curiosity or not, the conversation was over. A dull glow to our right told me we were nearly there. Dim orange fingers poked through the maze of dead branches. I tapped him on the shoulder.

“Slow up. You'll miss the turn.”

His head twisted. “Is that a fire? Does it mean the hakkers are here?”

“Nah. All it means is that they don't have electricity.”

Even so, I rolled down the window and listened carefully. Nothing.

“The real thing to worry about is a motorcycle whine,” I explained. “Hakkers love riding in on rice grinders. Makes them feel like they're playing polo or something. Your hearing's probably better than mine. Keep your ears peeled and don't keep any strange sounds to yourself.”

He nodded. “If you don't mind my asking, then, you've seen an attack?”

“I never mind smart questions. Not usually, anyway. Yeah, I did, once. It's why I moved back to the city. Look, Mr. Turgeon, I was against it, but we're here now and things look quiet. Do what I say when I say it and I think we'll have a decent shot at getting out of this in one piece. Okay?”

He didn't answer. He was so mesmerized by the dark rectangles of the buildings above the tree line that he missed the turn. We had to back up.

Not a good start.

Once we were pointed the right way, the Turgeon-mobile took the buckled asphalt and rocks easily. I started thinking the Hummer wasn't a bad idea. It could probably even handle its share of machete and crowbar blows. Worse came to worst we could take cover in it. Wished it wasn't piss yellow, though. Aside from being embarrassing, the gaudy color was easy to spot.

After a few curves, the road straightened on a nice postcard view of Bedland. Years back, Mayor Kagan and the board convinced Bedland Mattresses Inc. to open a factory here. Everyone thought it'd bring a ton of jobs. Two thousand, they guessed. In the middle of construction, the recession hit. Bedland went under, and I don't mean under the blankets, and stiffed a bunch of local contractors. One wound up throwing himself off the main building so his family could collect on his life insurance policy. Nobody ever brought him back either. Lucky bastard.

With the girders, concrete, and drywall in place for three buildings, it made a perfect home-away-from-home for a certain class of pulse-challenged undesirables.

The banana-mobile crunched along, its halogen headlights hitting makeshift tents and tin-and-cardboard huts. They usually housed the overflow crowd, but they were dark, lifeless, to coin a phrase. The fire lights we'd seen from the main road were inside the buildings. Funny.

Funnier still when, as we watched, one by one, those lights went out.

They'd spotted us. It dawned on me that there was another really good reason coming here at night was a stupid idea. Mistaken identity. Nobody ever visits shantytowns at night except hakkers, so that's what they took us for. How could I be so stupid?

“Slow down!” I said.

Too late. The air in front of the Hummer exploded.

Turgeon slammed the brakes so hard the shoulder belt nearly crushed my collarbone. As the heat blast hit the windshield, an enormous fire flower blossomed a few yards ahead. I could barely make out the shape of the wrecked car behind it.

“The chakz are getting more aggressive in their defense tactics,” I said. I was impressed. I opened the glove compartment and found a flashlight. With a click the light came on.

“Are you sure it's the chakz?” Turgeon said. His voice had gone up half an octave.

“Pretty much. Relax. Kill the engine and get out of the car, slow. Once we're outside, don't say anything; just stand behind me.”

He was busy staring at the fire, so I had to tap him and repeat myself. Once he cut the ignition, he pulled a large piece from the same jacket pocket that used to hold the envelopes.

Looked like a forty-five.

“Put that away,” I hissed. “And don't take it out again unless I say otherwise.”

He hesitated.

I put my hand on the gun. “This is what you paid for, right? My expertise?”

He gave me that pouty expression again, but shoved it back in his pocket. I wanted to pat him on the cheek and tell him what a good boy he was.

Instead, I got out, my eyes half on the fire, half on Turgeon. Once I was certain he was between me and the Hummer, I faced the burning car and held up my arms.

“Hey! We're not hakkers, you idiots! You think those lowlifes could afford wheels like this? You think if they
could
they'd drive it out here and scratch the finish? Hello?”

Nothing. I pointed to my face.

“I'm one of you! I'm a chak! Hessius Mann! Any of you out there with half a brain left know me?”

Again, nothing.

Turgeon nudged me and whispered, “Ask about Boyle.”

I waved him off. “Shh! They heard me. They're thinking about it. Keep quiet and watch.”

I trained my eyes on the edges of the flames, trying to peer into the long, flat darkness between the burning car and the main factory building. That's when I saw them. They'd blended in so well with the shadows, the dead bushes, the broken bits of concrete, they were as good as invisible until they moved. It was as if they'd planned it that way.

Chakz. Lots. Five. Ten. Twenty. All shambling toward us. A field of rotting flesh and gnashing teeth.

“Oh, my God,” Turgeon said. He whimpered and staggered backward.