Dead Mann Walking (25 page)

The other had his hand cupped over his ear. “
More
ferals inside? Bullshit!”

He slapped his pal on the shoulder, bringing him to a stop. “This is fucked-up. Nobody knows what's coming or going. They want me to seal the basement manually. You check on the girl. Green still wants her ready.”

I assumed Nell was “the girl,” but ready for what? Was Green going on with the show?

Dog One headed back where they came from. Once he was out of sight, I followed Dog Two nice and easy, sticking to the walls when I could and hoping the cameras were out thanks to the blackout.

A few rights, a few lefts, I didn't count. Instead of quieting down, like they would if things were getting under control, the shouts and gunfire were getting louder, which meant things were getting worse.

The current hallway ended in a glass wall with a nice view of the playground. I guess it was like a TV for the servants, in case they got bored. Dog Two stopped at the last door and rapped. As he stood sideways, I ducked to the side of a pedestal holding a headless Roman bust. No accounting for taste.

“You almost ready, Nell?”

“What the fuck's going on, Charlie? Where's the lights? What's with all the noise?”

Her voice was rough, typical for a chak, but it surprised me just the same. It wasn't what I expected from her.

“Don't worry about it; just get ready.”

“Why? He really still wants me to go on?”

The dog started barking. “Do I look like him? Do I sound like him? Just get the fuck ready!”

“Be nice, Charlie! I'm doing it. Takes a while, is all, especially without the electricity. I'll be out in fifteen.”

“Make it ten,” Charlie said. He stomped off, right past me.

Ten minutes. If I was going to talk to her, it'd have to be quick. I didn't think knocking would work and I figured the door was locked, so I raced up and shoved my shoulder into it. Either the door wasn't locked, or I was a lot stronger than I thought. It flew open, slammed against the wall.

And there she was, stark naked, standing on a plush white carpet, surrounded by mirrors and racks of outfits. All the clothes were in shades of black or white, except for one gown that was as green as her eyes.

She snatched a towel and covered up. That was bizarre. Modesty in a chak was unheard-of. She looked pissed, too.

“Who the fuck . . . ?”

Green said she was smart. All those dance moves meant she had a lot on the ball above the brain stem. That shit requires neurons. Of course, I was the one whose tongue started acting like a dead piece of pigskin.

“You're in danger. Someone's going to try to kill you.”

She glared. I looked away as she grabbed a robe. All of a sudden I felt like I was in one of Green's weird little experiments, as if someone was watching from somewhere, trying to figure out if we were real or not.

“Kill me?” she said once she covered up. “Little late for that, don't you think?”

I took a step closer. “I don't mean kill. I mean cut up, at the neckline. D-cap.”

She stopped at that. “Like those chakz on the news? The litter?”

She
was
smart. “Exactly. They were executed twice for killing their spouses. First by the prison, then by decapitation. Sound familiar?”

Her face flipped through a dozen expressions like it was searching for the right one. “Wait. What? Hold it. Who the hell are you? What are you playing at? You'd better get out of here before they catch you. They've got a nice little spot in the basement for troublemakers.”

“I know; I've seen it. I'm Hessius Mann. I'm a. . . .” Calling myself a detective sounded silly in this place, like I might just as well say
cowboy
or
spaceman
. “Never mind. What matters is I'm telling the truth. Just give me a minute and listen to me, please.”

I told her what I knew. I think I spoke in English sentences, but I was talking fast.

By the time I finished, I could tell she hadn't bought into me or the story. She was glaring again.

“Nice story, but I've got two big problems with it. First, no one's
ever
tried to help me, not when I was alive, not since I died. My husband? I didn't kill him, but I
would
have. The bastard deserved worse than he got. The second? Even if it is true,
this
is the safest place I've ever been. I'm his favorite. He watches after me.”

“I hate to burst your bubble, but I'm afraid there's more to it. There's something going on here, and Green's not saying what it is. There are ferals loose out there. The estate is practically empty, and he still wants you ready for a show? You call that watching after you?”

“Okay, so maybe I'm not always treated perfectly, but I've got it better than any chak I know! See this room? It's mine! See this stuff? Mine!”

She pointed, and every time she did, her robe flopped open and I couldn't see anything else. I don't know why—I didn't know her at all—but I stepped closer still and grabbed her shoulders.

“Okay, forget the ferals; forget my stupid theories. You think you'll always be up here? You don't think he'll run out of variations and you'll wake up in that basement sooner or later?”

She twisted away. “What have you got, some kind of noir audiobook hooked into your brainpan? Why am I even talking to you?”

I had no answer for that one, but I couldn't leave. There was something about her that pushed all my buttons, even the ones I thought were broken. I was scared for her, and at the same time she was pissing me off.

I grabbed her arm and pulled. “Listen to me! I've got to get you out of here!”

I'd never had a fight like this with a chak. Even our arguments were tepid at best. This was so . . . so different.

She started screaming. I was so crazy, I actually tried to drag her out. But she was a dancer, strong legs, arms, and hips. She knocked me off easily, then reached for a lamp to bash my skull in.

I heard the Reservoir Dogs thundering down the hall. How'd they find me? Cameras? Of course—some of that emergency power would be tapped to keep tabs on Green's favorite.

That was it, then. She was staying.

There was one window, so I went for it. Before I tried to open it, I turned back to look at her. “You win; I'm out of here. Just remember what I said. Keep your eyes open. Just do that, okay?”

She lowered the lamp and laid those real-green emerald eyes on me. “Who the fuck are you?”

“My name is Hessius Mann. I'm a detective.”

It had never sounded more stupid. And, for a dead man, I'd never felt more alive.

I
was better off when I was depressed. Hessius Mann, detective, didn't last.

First, the window was stuck. By the time I'd opened it half an inch, the Reservoir Dogs were through the door. I was off my feet before I knew what was happening. The one with the slightly bigger jowl smashed my head into the floor. If the rug hadn't been plush, I'm sure my skull would've cracked.

His twin wrapped some plastic cuffs around my wrists, tying me like a garbage sack. The skin tore. I'd have rips for Misty to patch—if I ever saw her again.

But as they yanked me toward the door, I gave Nell Parker a wink.

The muscles on her face moved like the feathers on a startled bird. I wondered if that meant I was getting to her. Once I was in the hall, though, she stepped up to close the door. As the line of light narrowed, before she vanished, I caught another expression on her face, like she was thinking. It was something, I guess. Better than nothing?

I don't know. I was never one for whistling in the dark. I could never carry the tune.

I tried to keep pace with the dogs, but they kept speeding up. They'd pull me off my feet, half carry, half drag me. We headed back down the stairs I took to get up here, through the tiled hall, and into a kitchen big enough to service a hotel.

There, they plopped me right next to the recycling. Nice smell.

Except for flashlight beams skittering across the windows, it was dark inside, and quiet, except for muffled gunfire. The slightly smaller gunsel lit a ciggie. The other stared at me like I was the Loch Ness monster.

“Something on my cheek?”

“I don't get you,” he said.

“That a question?”

The smoker took a drag and wagged a finger. “Green said to keep him here. Didn't say to talk to him.”

“Didn't say anything about smoking in the house, either.”

The smoker shrugged. “The detectors are hardwired. No one will ever smell it over the rest of the stink.” His pal kept glaring until the smoker raised his hands in surrender. “But I take your point. So talk to him.”

Mr. Curious turned back to me. “The runners I understand; they want out. Ferals everybody understands; they're animals. You, we let in, you break out, and then instead of leaving, you sneak back in to talk to a dead stripper. You working for someone?”

“Nobody living,” I told him.

“Maybe he just likes her,” the smoker said with a puff.

“He's a chak. They can't like anyone.”

“You sure?”

He brought his face closer, genuinely puzzled. “That it? You planning to run off with her and start a new life in the suburbs? Get a nice morgue? Adopt two-point-five chak kids?”

“No, thanks. I'm more the beach-house-and-dead-dog type.”

As he pulled on the filter, the red tip of the cigarette lit the smoker's face. “Hey, in his case, it really could be two-point-five kids.”

A burst of gunfire startled him, knocking the ash from the end. We all froze until it stopped; then I heard something else: car wheels on gravel. I thought maybe the cops were arriving, but there were no sirens, and the sound got quieter instead of louder. Someone was driving away, fast.

“Mr. Green's guests leaving?” I asked.

They eyed each other in a way that said I was right.

“Did anyone even call the police?”

Again, they eyed each other. This was too easy.

“But you've got ferals out there.”

The closer dog kicked me. “Shut it. You'll be moaning soon enough yourself.”

“I'm just asking. Hate to run into one with my hands tied, you know? Hate to run into a bunch of them with my hands
free
. I saw that cell before it was opened. There were maybe thirty in there. You boys know what you're dealing with, right? Numbers that big, pack instinct kicks in. You can't just pick them off. They start hunting.”

I was lying. It was an urban legend, but as far as I knew, a bunch of ferals have as little idea what they're doing as one. But I wanted to see if they knew that.

The smoker eyed his jowly twin. “Nothing to worry about. It's covered.”

I pretended he was talking to me. “Thanks. You wanted to know what I was doing up there, right? Seeing as how we're all friends now, I'll tell you. I was trying to warn Nell, same way I tried to warn Green. There's a psycho out to nab her, maybe the same guy who knocked out your power. . . .”

I stopped in midsentence. They were looking at each other again, like it was all old news. “Wait a minute. Did Green
know
someone was after her before I got here?”

I fell into that one, but it fit. It would certainly explain all his clever observations about Turgeon's motives if he'd already been thinking about it. Crap. I didn't see that coming at all; then again, I didn't expect what happened next, either.

The jowly dog cupped his ear. “Didn't catch that. Changing her mind? Who told her she had one?”

So I had gotten to her, a little at least.

“Okay, we'll put this one downstairs, then deal with her.”

“The basement?” I said. “Ah, come on, boys! Can't you just lock me in a cabinet? I promise I'll be good.”

“No.”

Getting ready to leave, the smoker looked around for a place to crush his coffin nail, only everything was clean white tile and polished metal. He looked at me for a second, like maybe he could get me to swallow the damn thing, but then he walked to the sink and opened the window behind it.

When he leaned forward to toss the cigarette, two gray hands, torn flesh dangling from the fingers, reached up and grabbed his arm. The feral had probably been crouching out there for an hour, an unseen thing. Sure could see him now, though.

As I said, once a chak grabs on to something, feral or not, we don't ever have to let go. The feral's fingers had pierced the smoker's black suit sleeves. The fabric glistened with fresh blood. By the time the jowly dog got there to help his pal, the smoker was across the sink and halfway through the window.

He started screaming. Oh, I understood why, but it was definitely the wrong thing to do. One of the reasons we have such bad press is that pained, wet liveblood screams attract ferals. Jowly Dog knew that much wasn't an urban legend. As he tried to drag his buddy back inside, he kept saying, “Shut up! Shut up!”

Man, did I hear moaning then. Lots, like it wasn't just one, but a mob hiding right below that kitchen window. Maybe I was wrong about the whole pack-instinct thing.

If the idiots hadn't cuffed me, I might've helped the dogs out. I'm not one to hold a grudge against the hired hands. Thinking the ferals'd be in soon, I realized I might not get to my feet fast enough, so I squirmed across the floor and through a swinging door. Last I looked there was a real tug-of-war going on at the window. Five feral hands pulled at the smoker.

Bet he wished he'd quit.

The kitchen sounds grew more violent. There was a tearing, deeper, more heartfelt screaming, and then one gunshot. I was in a short access hall, another swinging door about five feet away. I rolled through it onto to the wooden floor of a huge dining hall, accent on the “hall.”