Dead Mann Running (9781101596494) (4 page)

He shrugged. “Can’t do it. If you already think you know too much, would knowing more really be a good idea?”

“Right. In that case, we’ll all head over to police HQ together.”

“That’s a long walk. It’s raining.”

“We’ll take your car. On the way, you can entertain us with the witty story of how you nicked it.”

I pulled the briefcase from under the cushion. Jack rolled his eyes.

“Shit. I’d have found it easy.”

“So I ruined the chair for nothing. Make for the door.”

But HJ didn’t. “Last chance. You might not care about a bullet or two, but your friend will. Give me the case, or she’ll wind up bleeding.”

“Did I miss something? I know my memory’s bad, but near as I can tell, I’m still the one with the gun.”

“Yeah, but not the only one.”

He flicked his wrists. Two small black objects flew into his hands. Derringers. The good news was that they’re not repeating, one shot each. The bad news was he was already squeezing a trigger.

I threw myself into Misty. There was a firecracker pop and the wall behind us spit plaster. Soon as I caught my balance, I fired back. Big mistake.

Chakz are weak, light, and have brittle bones. In terms of recoil, a Walther P99 is the most I can handle. This monster nearly took my hand off. The kickback knocked me off my feet. The gun flew through the air and across the floor, where it disappeared under a bookcase.

And Jack had one shot left.

I rose in front of Misty, holding the case between us.

At long last, he lost that stupid grin. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! Put it down!”

“Thanks for letting me know it’s more valuable than I thought,” I said. I held it out. “Back off, or I throw it out the window.”

He pointed his gun up. “Don’t. Just…don’t.”

“What’s the blue stuff worth? What
is
it?”

With his free hand he pulled out a cell. “We can work something out. I’ll get you someone to talk to.”

“Maybe later,” I said.

Using the briefcase as a shield, I pushed Misty along. She was stunned, but by the time we reached the stairs, she was running under her own steam and I was the one having trouble keeping up. One of my ankles pretty much came off a while ago. She glued it back on, but it never sat quite right. Now I have a limp.

Three stories down, the last step nearly collapsed beneath our weight. We half jumped onto the wet, windy streets.

My first thought was to take the patrol car. The doors were open, but no keys. It was in such bad shape even a Fort Hammer cop wouldn’t be caught dead in it. One of the headlights had been smashed, the grill was lopsided, making it look kind of like a winking face with a drunken smile.

“Now what?” Misty asked.

“Keep running!”

We did, carrying God knows what, God knows where. Whenever I fell behind, I told her not to slow down for me, but she did anyway.

The livebloods have a few nicknames for chakz; gleets for those still oozing, danglers for obvious reasons. Since the passage of the Chak Registration Act, they had a new one. Thanks to a quirk of the ripping process, it was only the smarter chakz, the ones who still had some mind to lose, that tended to go feral. It was only the smart ones that could fail the test, only the smart ones they bothered rounding up.

The rest, left to rot, were known as goners.

As I dragged my sorry leathery ass along the broken sidewalks and barren streets, the goners, the lesser dead, dripping from rain and God knows what else, were all around, rousing themselves long enough to watch us go.

A spiteful wind drove the rain into our faces, eyes, and ears. It didn’t just hit me, it got inside me, pooling in the hollows of my body, block after block, until I finally began to wonder why, if the case was so damn important, Happy Jack hadn’t followed.

T
he Styx, a downscale cyber/coffee shop, sits on the edge of the Bones, marking the line between the land of the living and the land of the dead. Druggies, thrill seekers, and chak-haters cross over at will, feeding their addictions, doing damage, or both. For tourists, the Bohemian crowd, or anyone who wants to look but not touch, the Styx was close enough.

We stopped under an awning that vaguely protected the entrance. Misty caught her breath, shivering puffs of water vapor bursting from her lips. The cold was fine for me, but she’d fled without so much as a coat. Her new blouse was plastered against her skin like spandex, and her teeth chattered louder than the rain.

I shook and stomped, trying to lose the water weight I’d put on during our run. Body integrity not being what it used to be, chakz don’t dry so much as drain. Water dribbles into the damndest places. I doubted the barista
would appreciate my dumping a tub-load on his nice clean floor, assuming I’d be served at all.

Between the storm, my stamping, and her chattering teeth, we barely heard her cell phone ring.

“Ch-chester?”

From what I could make out, no, he
hadn’t
sent anyone. He’d been called in on a drug raid across town, got her message two seconds ago. He didn’t know about any missing squad cars. He’d be there in fifteen minutes, ten, if he speeded.

“Speed,” she said before hanging up.

“Let’s go in,” I told her. “Better to be around people.”

I led her into a poorly lit space done up in shades of brown, thanks to all the once polished, now sticky, wood. The only other splotches of color came from framed posters and glowing screens. As for being around people, I’d spoken too soon. Thanks to the arctic monsoon, the place was practically empty, a pity for more reasons than one. In a crowd, the barista might not have spotted me right off. As it was, he was gawking in an unfriendly way.

A quick glance down told me why. I was standing in a growing puddle. All my stamping hadn’t done much good. At least old people can wear adult diapers.

“Order something pricey so he doesn’t get pissed,” I whispered. “I’ll head to the bathroom and try to freshen up.”

She grabbed my arm. “You’re not leaving me alone.”

When she squeezed, more water ran down to the floor. She let go.

“Okay. I’ll get a double latte. But hurry back.”

I looked around. There were maybe six people, all sitting at rigs, happily stuck inside their own heads.

“Looks safe enough,” I said. “Besides, I’ve got the McGuffin.” I patted the briefcase.

Stylized emoticons on narrow doors against the back wall indicated which was for the ladies, which for the gents. Some places have separate chak facilities. No such luck here. I entered the men’s room, stuck my arms over the little metal sink and squeezed them out best I could. That left the rest of me. From the looks of it, if I put a foot up on the sink, I’d rip the thing out of the wall. I made for the stall, hoping to drain myself into the toilet without having to look too much at what was in it.

Some detective. I hadn’t even noticed I wasn’t alone. A guy in a raincoat was standing next to the air-dryer trying to blend into the wall. I knew he was a chak right off. First, no liveblood can be that quiet. Second, half his right cheek was gone. What was left of his face bore a slight resemblance to that old actor, Jimmy Stewart.

Realizing I’d seen him, he gave me a sheepish nod. “I…I think I passed.”

Given the state of the toilet, all sorts of ugly ideas popped into my head. I knew what he meant. He thought he’d been taken for a liveblood. Kind of a Holy Grail among the less self-aware. Hard to believe, given his face, but maybe he walked in sideways. At least he was smart enough to talk.

“Good for you,” I said, twisting my leg above the toilet.

“How about you? You don’t look too bad.”

Water sluiced down my pants, plopping into the bowl. “Not today, thanks to the leaks. Geez, I stayed on the bottom of a pool overnight once and didn’t sop up half this much.”

“Did he say you had to stay in the bathroom, too?”

“Eh?”

“The barista. He said I had to stay in the bathroom. Is it crowded out there?”

If he hadn’t been smiling like an idiot, I might’ve told him the truth. “Um…a bit, yeah.”

He nodded. “I knew that was it.” He picked up a Styrofoam cup precariously balanced on the dryer. “Nothing like a hot cup o’ joe, huh? You drink?”

I flushed, then twisted the second leg, hoping there’d be some end to it. “Maybe some water if I want to sound LB on the phone. Other than that, don’t see the point. Had a friend who used to like espresso, though. Said it worked for him.”

He raised his cup to his lips. “Well, it works for me, too.”

Having done what I could about the excess moisture, I shifted out from the stall, trying not to hit Jimmy Stewart.

He seemed upset. “They’re letting you sit inside?”

I shrugged. “Oh, not me, pal. I’m with a liveblood.”

“Chakking up?”

That’s what they call it when a liveblood gets his jollies with the dead. Kind of like necrophilia with an animatronic corpse. Weirdly, it wasn’t
un
common. Most chakz need the cash and couldn’t care less what a liveblood did with their orifices.

“No, nothing like that. She’s a friend.”

“Huh. Well, praise Kyua.”

Kyua. I’d heard the word before. It was one of those catch-all words, used for all occasions, like
fuck,
a verb, an adjective, a noun. Some version of Japanese for
cure
.
It could mean literally, a cure, or Maruta, the man who “cured” death, or God, salvation. It started out as a joke among the smarter chakz, but we’re not all that smart, and some of us took it literally.

Jimmy Stewart raised his head and took a gulp from the cup. Light brown liquid, mixed with white foam, dribbled from a crack in his neck. I don’t think he noticed.

“Good luck to you, too,” I told him.

Misty’d sat at the table farthest from the counter. She was looking damp, but shivering less. A blanket was over her shoulders and a steaming mug of something in her hands. She’d signed on to one of the machines and was so busy typing, didn’t notice me until I was practically on top of her. Apparently I’d gotten most of the water out, because the trail I left looked nearly human.

“Barista put you back here on my account?”

Still intent, she was kind enough to shake her head. “I sat here because we can see the door, but whoever comes in won’t see us right away.”

“Good.” I slid the case under the table and nodded at the screen. “Checking your friends’ status?”

“No. I left the netbook at the office, right? It’s got a camera. I’m trying to see if I can pull it up.”

Impressed, I slipped into the chair next to her. “You should be the detective.”

“Actually, Chester suggested it when he called.”

“Okay,
he
should be the detective. Um…he isn’t yet, is he?”

She stopped typing to look at me. “Not yet…Oh, my God…”

I leaned in closer. The image was pixilated because of the crappy light, the view askew, from a low angle. The
netbook must have been sideways on the floor. But I could see our reception room and a chunk of the office.

Happy Jack was still there, lying on the floor, shoulders bunched up, arms twisted in front of him, hands dangling, like he’d fallen asleep while giving himself a hug.

“Is he dead?” Misty whispered.

I squinted and moved my kisser closer. The son of a bitch was still smiling. His eyes were motionless, though, despite one being jabbed by his pinky.

“If it takes one to know one, oh, yeah,” I said. I touched my yellowed fingernail to a spot above the body. “What’s going on in the background?”

Papers were floating around. At first I thought it was wind, but then the whole desk shifted. An unpaid electric bill landed on Happy Jack’s face, covering his eyes.

“Somebody’s rifling the place,” I said. “They’re looking for our door prize. Can you zoom out, clean up the picture any?”

Misty waved her hands helplessly. “I don’t know how.”

A blur flit by the lens, too dark and fast for the camera to focus. It may have been someone wearing robes. For that matter, it could’ve been a werewolf, or Voldemort. Unsatisfied with whatever it found off camera, it flit by again.

“Can you record this? If only in case someone decides to blame us for killing Happy Jack?”

She shook her head. “It’s not like I had time to read the manual.”

The feel of a hand on my shoulder made me jump.

“Till Kyua comes.” It was Jimmy Stewart, from the bathroom. A big coffee stain covered the lower right of
his otherwise gray neck. I motioned toward the same spot on my own neck.

“You got something there, brother.”

He patted me and headed for the door. Judging from the windows, the rain had slowed. By the time I turned back to the computer, the image had gone blank.

“What? The battery run out?”

“Weren’t you watching?” Misty said, upset. “Whoever it was kicked my netbook and it went flying. Damn. I only had that thing for two hours!”

“You get a better look at him?”

She shook her head.

In my mind, at least, the figure looked the same as the one I’d spotted on the roof. Unless ChemBet had some new products I hadn’t heard of, a chak can’t move, jump, or climb that fast. Definitely liveblood. One helluva liveblood.

C
hester O’Donnell was impressive against the coffeehouse gloom. Ginger-Irish, red curly hair, freckles, cherub cheeks, he was Ralph Malph from
Happy Days
, but with gravitas. Misty flew into him so hard, his grunt made everyone turn. Laying her head sideways against his chest, closing her eyes, she looked, for the first time in a while, as if she felt safe. It made me feel like chopped liver. Well, chopped liver if you left it outside for a week.

I couldn’t blame her, but I did anyway. Not that I had romantic notions, but when I’m deluding myself, I like to pretend I can protect her. If breathing some nerve gas on her a month back hadn’t put that fantasy to rest, watching her relax in his arms did. Plus, he was alive.
They
were alive. I should be a picture on her mantel at best.

I’d been thinking of disappearing on her, let her move in with Chester. The only thing stopping me was that I was sure she’d waste a lot of time trying to find me. That was one of the reasons she deserved better.