Dead Mann Walking (31 page)

The next surprise was that they could move. Not that they'd win any races at the county fair, but the one with the fancy part had enough neck muscles left to inch along as if he were being pulled by a few thick worms. Not to be outdone, Mohawk Joe, on his side, used his jaw to crawl.

As they moved, they made those scraping, hissing noises. I barely heard them, but they meant something to the heads still in the bag. Working their jaws, pulsing their remaining muscles, like the two on the floor, they all shuffled out of the bag. Some rolled off the dolly and fell to the ground. Others settled on the wood before jumping down to join the others.

Most were male, but there was one woman, a redhead with a missing eye. Some were older, with bald spots; some had neatly cropped hair. One was ugly as a prizefighter, nose broken in a dozen places; another was still handsome enough to have a career modeling hats. I wouldn't say they were all high-functioning. More like they ran the gamut.

Daddy emerged last, as if he'd waited for the others. I took a good long look at it. Despite being the cleanest, best-cared-for of the lot, it looked the most drained, the most worried. When it hissed and clicked, the others gathered around.

As the heads arranged themselves, it turned and stared right at me. There were lines in its face that told me that in life it had been a tense, angry man, kind of like my own father. It blinked, hard, over and over, trying to communicate. I showed it my ropes, but it didn't seem to care. When I nodded toward Jenkins, though, it followed my gaze. Its hissing grew louder, frenzied. Obedient, the others started moving, rolling, crawling, under the plastic, toward Jenkins.

That could work, too. If they kept heading toward him and making those creepy noises, he might hear them. The heads on their way, I thought I'd go back to working the ropes. A scraping turned my eyes down. It was a head. Instead of going along with the others, it had squirmed up to me. It was right below my face, listing left, then right, trying to get my attention. I had to fight an urge to kick it away.

When it realized I was watching, it rolled onto its side. Mouth opening and closing, it made the same two terrible, impossible sounds over and over—
achshh bree achshh bree achshh bree
.

I knew what it meant. It was saying, “Ashby. Ashby.”

It was Frank Boyle's head, asking about his adopted son.

For better or worse, I had an answer. “He's at peace.”

As it took in the news, Boyle's head made a motion like it wanted to swallow hard. It blinked, huffed some air through its nostrils, then turned to join the others.

The heads moved slowly, but surely. Ten feet from Jenkins, seven. Their little noises were barely a whisper above the vacuum's rush, but they might make it. They might.

If Turgeon hadn't spotted them first.

He emerged from the dark with a wicked glint of silver, still a few yards from Jenkins, but knowing he had to make his move fast. He crept with exaggerated slowness, choppers out, blades extended. The heads picked up speed, hopping, rolling, trying to make themselves loud enough to warn Odell about what was inching toward his neck.

It definitely wasn't something you see every day.

A
s Turgeon slinked, the heads lumbered, increasing their little gasping so much I thought for sure Jenkins would finally turn. He had to. But no.

Oblivious, Jenkins turned and yanked out a chunk of plasterboard that looked like South America. It buckled against his knee with a crack and an asbestos-laden puff. The way he stood now, when the heads
did
get his attention, he'd wind up putting his back to Turgeon to see them.

I had to get into the game or it was over. I braced my elbows against each other and pulled so hard the rope threatened to tear into my dry skin like old, worn leather. I tried my ankles. There was more give, but not enough to matter. I tried to work the gag out, but the filthy wad of cloth was too deep in my mouth for me to maneuver my tongue behind it. My best efforts were as pointless as a condom in a dead man's pocket.

I thought of Ashby, how I wished I'd struggled more when he went into the vat. Was I still holding back? Afraid to hurt myself? Being dead, it was second nature to be more careful, to keep things from getting damaged. But there was no point now in worrying about cutting some wrist skin. If ever I should break some bones, it was now.

I pulled at my wrists as hard as I thought I could; then I pulled harder. The rope's prickly fibers jabbed my skin, but I kept at it until it felt like they were tearing muscle. Still, no go. I worked my ankles like an epileptic having a fit, smashing them into the edge of the cart. I heard a crunch, thought I'd broken something. The rope was looser, but still held.

The only thing left was my tongue. I balled it up and yanked it back in my throat for all I was worth. I felt the little flap connecting my tongue to the bottom of my mouth, the frenulum, grow tight, but I kept pulling. I imagined that day at the office when I saw the photo of Lenore and Booth. I pictured myself punching a wall, harder and harder.

With a shivery burst of rage, I pulled at my tongue until I got it behind the gag. At best I'd bruised something. It hurt like hell when I pushed against the gag, but the pain was easier to manage than the rope.

Just as I saw Turgeon lunge, the wad of cloth finally moved. His face was lit with the kind of rapture a kid has when he's riding a two-wheeler for the first time.

The first sound from my throat was an airy pop as the gag flew out. The second was loud enough to make me forget I was the one yelling and wonder who the fuck was being murdered.

“Look out!”

As I screamed, I threw my head back, so I wasn't sure exactly what happened when. When I looked again, Jenkins still had his head. He'd spun in time to save his neck. Not his arm, though. The clippers were buried in his left shoulder.

With a giggle, Turgeon clamped the handles. The blades scissored; the orange suit shredded. I saw white padding, then Jenkins's gray skin beneath. Next came a crunch that almost sounded like another piece of plasterboard buckling against Jenkins's knee.

Hanging by a few orange threads, Jenkins's arm twirled slightly before it fell. It landed right in front of the parade of bobbing and hissing heads. Jenkins looked from his arm to the heads to Turgeon. To say he was shocked would be a gross understatement.

The psycho worked to get the clippers open again, but a bit of orange jumpsuit cloth was wedged between the blades. Fishing it out slowed him so much, he wasn't even looking when Jenkins's meaty right arm came up and swatted the clippers.

The D-cappers flew over the heads, hit the floor, flipped and clattered against the concrete. When he realized what happened, Turgeon's baby face went still. Then it got all puffy, as if he were going to break into tears.

I thought Jenkins had him for sure. Now he'd bash that egghead in, make an omelet, but that's not what happened. His first swing was reflex. Now he had a few seconds to think about things. Instead of belting Turgeon again, Jenkins patted the space where his arm used to be. Then he checked his work suit as if it had slipped down there somehow, like an errant set of car keys. He was going into shock.

“Snap out of it!” I shouted, but it didn't help. It also hurt like hell. My tongue was killing me.

Realizing he had a second chance, Turgeon rushed for the clippers. The heads tried to stop him, but they were no more a nuisance than a pile of glaring watermelons.

Stppp
, the daddy head said.
Stop.

Turgeon kicked it out of the way, bent over, and grabbed the clippers.

Out of nowhere, for no reason I could see, other than the universe hates me, Turgeon decided to look up and stare straight at me. He gave me a wicked, thin-lipped grin that told me I was next.

I jerked at the ropes, bucking so violently my body moved across the dolly until there was nothing under it but air. I hit the concrete sideways, earning a gash on my cheek. I flipped onto my belly, raised myself on my haunches and threw myself, wrists first, on the corner of the dolly, and rubbed my bonds against the wood for all I was worth.

I tried to cut it; I tried to use the edge to pull at the knot. The dolly rolled. I followed until it stopped against the concrete pillar and kept rubbing. A splinter the size of a steak knife stabbed what used to be the meaty part of my right hand, but the rope was giving faster than my body. Soon the knot looked loose enough for me to go at with my teeth. I chomped at it, clenched my teeth, and tried to pull an end free.

At my back, a struggle was going on. I couldn't make out the details, but it was lasting way too long for Jenkins to be winning. There were thuds, crunches, hisses, and crackles, and then the horrible snapping of those blades. I madly hoped Jenkins had retrieved the clippers and was cutting up Turgeon, but then I realized he couldn't use them with one arm.

My hands came loose, but I didn't enjoy the freedom nearly as much I'd expected. Another sound came to my ears, a steady electronic beeping. It was coming from the dolly. After I pulled the remaining ropes off my ankles, I lifted myself up to see what it was.

For the love of . . .

The timer. Somewhere along the line I'd kicked the crate enough to get it ticking. I had no idea how to turn it off and didn't have time to experiment.

I turned back to the fight, relieved at what I saw. Apparently the choppers had clamped around air. Jenkins didn't look any worse. He and Turgeon squared off. Turgeon had the clippers open again and out. His good arm poised to strike, Jenkins bobbed back and forth looking for an opening. The heads were trying to squirm under Turgeon's feet, to trip him. So far, he hadn't fallen.

A muffled moan took my eyes back to the dolly. Nell. When I tried to stand and step toward her, I crashed to the ground. In my effort to escape, I'd broken my ankle. My left foot twisted sideways, tearing skin and some muscle. Whether Misty, needle and thread, and some superglue could mend it didn't matter much at the moment. I pulled myself along the dolly's edge, yanked out Nell's gag, and untied her ropes.

This wasn't the time to ask what she was feeling, but those green eyes, glowing in the wispy poisoned mist of the air, told me. She still thought I was crazy.

“Get out,” I told her. My wounded tongue made every word agony. “Bomb's gonna explode.”

She sat up. “Why are you doing this?”

Now
she wanted to chat? “Didn't you hear? Plastic explosive! Get out!”

She looked at the timer, then back at me. “Why . . . why are you helping me?”

Was it
that
surprising? “Go!” I said. This time I gave her a shove.

Instead, she came forward, close enough for me to feel her dry breath on my skin.

“Why?” she insisted.

I could've said something about how I used to be a cop, and helping people was an old habit. I could've explained how Turgeon had killed both my wife and Nell's husband, and I didn't want the sick son of a bitch to enjoy any more success. I could have told her that there was something about the way she looked and moved that might have struck me as garish when I was alive, but now tickled some frayed and otherwise desiccated part of my being just enough to almost make me remember . . . something.

But my tongue was killing me, so instead, with her so close, I grabbed her, pressed my lips into hers, and hugged whatever felt like it would fit against my body.

Was it a kiss? It sure as hell reminded me of one.

I felt the pressure, the shape of her mouth. It was hard to tell where I ended and she began. It took my mind off my tongue and my ankle for a bit. I even think I felt my heart beating, but that was probably the beeping timer.

She pulled away. That are-you-nuts? expression glowed on her face like green fire. She wiped her lips with the back of her hand, but she did it slowly, like she was remembering something, too. Then she turned and ran. Her final words echoed in the toxic dust:

“You're fucking crazy!”

I didn't disagree, but I had more crazy shit to do. Jenkins and Turgeon were still circling, skirting each other. Each one was afraid to get too close, or to back off. I picked my left leg up. The foot hung in place. As I brought it down, I found I could bounce on it long enough to bring my right foot forward. I limped past the plastic sheet.

Turgeon saw me first. And Jenkins . . . well, for all his physique, he wasn't much of a fighter. Probably just pumped iron in a gym. When Turgeon looked at me, Jenkins could've used the distraction to swat the clippers again. Instead, he looked at me, too.

Turgeon turned back first, and stabbed forward. The clippers didn't get Jenkins just then, but they made him stumble. He moved his left foot backward so it skimmed the cheek of one of the heads. If he'd had both arms, or even if he'd been used to having one, he might've stayed standing. As it was, he twisted the wrong way, looking surprised as he went down.

The dry stub of his shoulder hit the floor first. He was pushing himself up on his remaining arm when Turgeon got the blades around his neck and snapped them shut.

I heard that sound again, like plasterboard buckling, only thicker, deeper, longer. But I was too damaged and too far away to do a damn thing about it.

C
runch
.

They say the brain protects itself from unpleasant memories by forgetting them. This was a sound that wouldn't leave easily, no matter how bad your memory.

Crunch
.

It was already crawling around between my ears, looking for a spot to lay eggs. I'd forget the texture of Lenore's skin, the sound of her voice, her eyes, her name, hell, my own name, long before I forgot that sound.