Dead Mann Walking (22 page)

I knew the stories. “So I take it you don't buy the press about how he fights for chak rights?”

“Sure, he fights for our rights, but that's just to keep his
access
, Mann. He runs
the
biggest chak-up palace in the country, as a hobby. In his basement, he's got chakz in pens, like cattle. Some of his friends are into dead
kids
, you know what I'm saying? Cancer victims or whatnot whose parents brought them back in the early days, then abandoned them when they decided they were freaks. Anyone tries to press child-rape charges, Green's lawyers argue that since they died six years ago, even though they were ten at the time,
now
they're sixteen, the age of consent, so it's
legal
. It doesn't get more perverted. And Nell Parker? She's his favorite stripper.”

“That's a long walk. Her file said she used to be a women's advocate.”

“Yeah, well, she walked the walk. Right now she'd be better off if your psycho got her.”

“That's sort of what Misty said about Ashby, but I don't see it. It's not as though she can quit when she's a head.”

“Funny. Stay away. You need someone to help? Fuck, help
me
. I've got maybe thirty chakz lined up for the rally, but, honestly, most can't march in a straight line, let alone hold up a sign. I could use you. What do you say?”

He pulled out one of his flyers and handed it to me.

“Come on, at least read it.”

Crazy as life was, the rally struck me as crazier. I crumpled the flyer and stuffed it in my pocket. “Sorry, Jonesey, wrong
as if
. I liked your first speech better.”

Two blocks north there was a train station on a line that'd take me north to the Colby estate. It practically had its own stop. I'd missed the last one for the day, but there'd be another in the morning.

“Hess, you do this and I'll . . . I'll tell Misty.”

With a bit of effort, I managed to glower. “Tell her or not, I'm going. But do us all a favor and don't. She's got her own problems. After I'm gone, I'm sure she'll be happy to help you paint some signs, though.” I pulled some bills out of my pocket. “For supplies, and a couple of hot meals for Misty. She likes breakfast, home fries, but make sure she eats the eggs, too.”

By the time he stopped looking at the money, I was half a block away.

“You're nuts!” he called out.

Depends on how you kept score. Colby Green was the shit you find on the bottom of a shit pile. I could easily, real easily, wind up stuck there as one of his playthings. But I had this weird idea that someone as fascinated with chakz as he was might believe what I had to say about Turgeon. Whatever his reasons, he might even help try to stop him.

And that was worth the risk.

Back at the office, Misty looked like she was asleep, so I stepped over her. She wasn't.

“You find Ashby?” she said in a half mumble.

“Yeah, it's all fine now.”

Her eyes popped open. She propped herself up. “Meaning you put him down.”

“Had to, Misty. You know that.”

She slumped. “I do. You've got to pull yourself together and get the guy who did this, Hess; you have to.”

As if. “That's what I'm trying to do.”

She went on. “No more lying around watching the inside of your eyeballs.”

“Did you hear what I just said?”

I headed for my office, but she grabbed my arm. “Don't act like we both don't know how close you were. You were into that, that . . .
torpor
shit. And then I'm supposed to smash your head in? I can barely lift that sledgehammer. You scared me, you son of a bitch; you really scared me.”

I looked at her. “I'm back now, okay? I'm back and I'm going to try to find Turgeon, at least warn his victims.”

She let go.

It was only when I stepped into my office that I realized how tired I was. I didn't want to sleep, but my brain insisted. I threw myself down and closed my eyes. It was the real deal. If I dreamed anything, I didn't remember.

Judging from the shadows through the blinds, I slept the morning away. It looked like noon. If I was going to do this thing, I'd better be on my way. I took a few hundred for expenses and thought about how nice it was for Turgeon to provide the funds for his own investigation. Then I had a funny feeling.

I decided to check all the bills. I'd looked over the first wad when he handed it to me—that was legit, but not the other two. At least half were phonies, unless they elected Dumbledore president of the United States and nobody told me. Shit. By the time I finished counting, I had about a third of what I thought. So much for redecorating.

Cursing, I grabbed it all and headed out.

Misty was still lying down. “Where you going now?” she said, still half-asleep.

“To deposit the cash at an ATM, so the debit card will be good. Then I've got to catch a train.”

“To where?”

“A lead. For real. I don't know how long I'll be gone. Go find Jonesey. He's got some work for you, and some money for food.”

“You couldn't tell me that last night? I'm starving,” she said drowsily. “You sound better, like . . .”

Her eyelids fluttered. She mumbled something I couldn't make out. Poor thing had probably been awake the whole time I was losing it. Now she was catching up. A little bit of drool slid from her half-open mouth, down to the rumpled pillowcase.

I pressed my dry tongue to the roof of my dry mouth and tried to remember what it was like to drool.

T
urned out I'd slept through more than just morning. By the time I was on my way, it was late afternoon. The ride was nothing to speak of. My car was empty. There were flashes through the filthy windows whenever the power lines sparked. The train passed ticky-tack suburbs, trash-strewn woods where teens ran wild, before it squeaked and shuddered into Cherry's End.

The only thing visible from the station was the forest. I got off the platform and still didn't see much of anything. Why? Because that's how Colby Green planned it. A few years ago, there was a court case over whether or not Cherry's End was even part of Fort Hammer. Green was rich enough to muddy the jurisdiction. Even got his own area code.

The huge stone wall surrounding his property sneaked up on me. That's hard to manage with something so big, but this was no Collin Hills, protected by cinder block made pretty with a trowel swish. Consumerism is a superficial sin for superficial people. Ninety-nine percent of the folks living at Collin Hills couldn't tell you what cinder block was made of. Green knew exactly where his Italian marble came from, the city, the quarry, the name of the foreman. Not that he cared about architecture. From what I understood, he was like that with everything. He knew the world inside and out and now wanted to play with it the way a cat likes to toy with a mouse, amused at the way it hovers between life and death.

Which is probably why he likes chakz so much.

I followed the wall maybe ten minutes until I spotted the front gates, iron monsters buttressed by Italian marble columns. Sneaking around a lion's den seems disrespectful as well as pointless, so I figured I might as well walk up and knock. It is, after all, one of the few places open to chakz.

Adjusting my jacket and tie, I told myself that if I presented the case just so, and he really liked this Nell Parker, at the very least he'd want to take steps to protect his property. Made sense to me. But making sense just made me uncomfortable, the world being fucking crazy.

The gate didn't get closer as I walked so much as bigger and bigger. When I finally got to the iron, I heard some weird sounds—a
bzt
followed by a g
zt.
Peering between the bars, I looked up and saw those bug zappers Jonesey was talking about, bugs swarming, dying, being “reborn.” No rumor, then.

Bzt!
You're dead!
Gzt!
You're back!

I hoped to hell he didn't have any puppies.

“Can I help you?”

I was so busy being horrified I hadn't noticed the camera and monitor. A round face with a lascivious grin that reminded me of the master of ceremonies from
Cabaret
eyeballed me from some unknown location.

“My name is Hessius Mann,” I said. “I'm a detective. I have reason to believe someone may try to break into the estate.”

His lipstick smile turned upside down. “Detective? No, no. That's next week. You must have gotten the wrong schedule! Today it's Voyage to the Bottom of the Chak! A
nautical
theme. Oh, well, come on in! The party is just getting started!”

“Wait, I'm not . . .”

The screen went dead; the gates swung open. Dogs barked in the distance. Looked like I'd be entering under false pretenses.

There was a wide, white gravel driveway, but I took a gray stone footpath instead, passing bubbling fountains and major landscaping. I don't know the names of many plants, but there were lots, different leaves, different flowers, different smells, all neatly arranged.

It wasn't until I passed some rows of tall hemlocks that the main building punched me in the face, and it wasn't interested in leaving much space for clouds or sky. I didn't recognize the architectural style, or even if it had one; I only knew there was a lot of it. So this was Xanadu, or the Best Little Whorehouse in Texas, on steroids, if you prefer. I'd seen pictures, but they didn't do the place justice. The only camera that could take the whole thing in was up in orbit and available on Google Earth.

“In my father's house are many rooms,” it says in the Bible. Judging from the number of windows, Colby Green was in competition with God.

A few seconds later, I was facing a twenty-foot black slab with a knob. I felt like I should sacrifice a goat to it, but then realized it was a door. It swung open, the clown from the security monitor behind it, wearing an open magenta silk robe. It definitely wasn't his color.

He winced at the sunlight and gave my arm an old-man grab, the kind that's stronger than you expect, like it's holding on for dear life. Then he dragged me into a foyer that could have comfortably held a 747, and twisted me around for a look.

He didn't like what he saw, but that made two of us. In the quieter light, his grin looked more like a side effect of too many Botox injections. His eyes were still expressive, so I could sort of tell what he was thinking as long as I didn't pay too much attention to that smile.

“Nice try,” he said, “but we have much, much better outfits in the dressing room. How are you with pole dancing?”

“Hold it. This isn't a costume. I'm here on business.”

His eyes joined in with the grin. “But you're a chak.”

“Gee, and they told me at the funeral that I looked so natural.”

“Forgive me!” he said with a chuckle. “Chakz generally only arrive here for one reason.”

“I know, but I'm here for another.”

“A chak. Here for another reason.”

“Someone tells you two and two is four, does it matter who says it?”

“I was never very good at math.”

“I'm hoping your boss is.”

“Ah, well, I'm sure you won't be disappointed. Mr. Green is good at everything.”

He let go of my shoulder and wiped his hand on his robe, like I was the one who'd have cooties. “He's in the playground, watching some entertainment with his guests. You're welcome to try to speak to him. I can't promise anything. I can't promise anything at all.” He lowered his voice to a giggly whisper. “I can't even promise you'll be permitted to leave.”

“Thanks. I'll keep that in mind. Which way? Do I need a map?”

“A guide to fashion, perhaps. You're sure you don't want to freshen up just a bit?”

“Nah. Under the circumstances, I think I'm better off sticking out, don't you?”

He flared his nostrils. “I get your point. And believe me, you do. I'll take you there, but I'd wait until Nell finishes dancing. She's his favorite.”

“Oddly enough,” I said. “That's what I'm hoping.”

He gave me a shrug that said he didn't understand and couldn't care less, then led me down an arched hallway three times wider than my office. It was lined with life-size statues, all with an erotic bent. Some involved men and women, others animals, some both. When the hand on one statue moved to stroke itself, I nearly jumped out of my wrinkly skin. They were animated, like those figures in Disneyland's Hall of Presidents. Did Green think it funny?

When I started, the gnomish doorman sneaked a peek to see if I had any further reaction to the decor. When I didn't supply any, he trotted along, a little disappointed, then opened another set of doors into what had to be the “playground.”

It was big, of course. The lighting was intentionally soft, almost dim. The arched ceiling, a floor or two up, was covered with twinkling lights in the shape of constellations, only, like the statues, they were animated, so that, you guessed it, it looked like the stars were screwing. The rest of the space was part stage, part pool, part recreation area. There were jungle gyms, swings, all sorts of toys, but no one under thirty was playing with them. No one living, anyway. The stage area, aside from three silver poles and a black velvet curtain, was empty at the moment. There was plenty going on everywhere else.

The smell of chlorine from the pool was strong, but not nearly strong enough. For the first time since I died, I felt like I needed a shower. Like the emcee man said, there was a nautical theme. Chakz were dressed as everything from pirates to cephalopods. Some of the LBs were playing dress-up, too, fish masks and all; others didn't bother. Among them I spotted some of Fort Hammer's rich and famous. The only one I could put a name to was the DA, and frankly it would've been safer for me if I hadn't.