Dead Mann Walking

8

Parrots. We sounded like a couple of parrots.

He’d say, “Heh-heh. We’re going to find Frank.”

And I’d tell him, “Sure, kid, sure.”

It was a long drive back. Two or three times as long as it should have been, and I was speeding. All the while, I didn’t have the heart to ask Ashby if he realized we were only looking for Frank’s head. The rest had already been accounted for.

I’ve done stupider things than letting him tag along, but I couldn’t think of any. The really stupid part was thinking I could make sense of him. He was like his own ghost, stuck in what paranormal investigators call a “residual haunting,” a spirit replaying his trauma over and over. It’s not intelligent, can’t chat about the weather; it only plays it routine.

When he wasn’t talking about finding Frank, he didn’t even realize Frank was gone. Every now and then, for half a sentence he’d worry about his “upcoming” trial— you know, the one where he was convicted and put to death? Then he’d spin back to Frank.

“Heh-heh.”

The big thing I couldn’t figure out was why he hadn’t gone feral. Hell, I had enough trouble dealing with my own brain. How far a leap could it be from “heh-heh” to gnashing teeth? Did the brain damage work like a defense mechanism? If the gods watched out for drunks and madmen, God was his autopilot. Meaning, if he couldn’t pay attention to anything long enough to get depressed about it, he’d never get depressed.

Ha. If I wanted to avoid doing the wild thing, maybe I should bash my head with a crowbar a few times. Listening to him, I certainly wanted to.

It wasn’t until we cruised past the No Dumping sign, the land around it barren and lonely even in the daylight, that something different happened. Ashby spasmed like he’d been slapped, and spit out a jumble of words. He was talking so fast I was afraid to interrupt. I pulled over and listened, fishing as best I could in the babbling brook.

I thought about having him walk around, but it seemed cruel. The kid was sounding more and more upset, so I decided to get him back to town.

As the desert receded, Ashby calmed down. It was all, “Heh-heh. We’re going to find Frank,” again.

I had a few ideas about what to do next, but kept losing track of them. I didn’t know if any of them were good, but, afraid I might lose the one that was, driving with one hand I unpacked the new recorder I’d bought with Turgeon’s money. Nearly lost a finger on the titanium-plastic packaging. It was a pretty nice machine. Even came with a suction-cupped microphone, for recording phone calls, or conversations on the other side of a window. Once I got the batteries in and stuffed the microphone attachments into a pocket, I made a few notes, hoping I’d remember how to access the time stamp.

I was almost finished when the air conditioner stopped working. Aside from Ashby’s being such a great conversationalist, now I had to worry about staying fresh. Fucking microbes. Any chak who isn’t a germa-phobe is kidding himself. I thought about getting some of that power body wash, but it might eat my skin away.

Did you know you could melt a chak with a can of Coke? There’s a video up on YouTube. Takes a long, long time.

We reached Fort Hammer proper by the ugly midafternoon. The heat was making all sorts of smells rise off the pavement. I dropped off the car, paid the extra fees the manager slipped onto the bill, and headed to the local library, hoping to get a lead on Martin and Cara. Instead of the car, I had to steer Ashby. The guy couldn’t even turn a corner by himself.

The library was a small stone building with two faux pillars out front. Since it was a public place, technically they couldn’t kick us out unless we caused a disturbance, by, I dunno, eating one of the librarians. It was a step down from the Styx, our local cybercafé, one room about the size of a hotel lobby, with an Internet connection less reliable than a check in the mail, but I didn’t think Ashby would go over well with the Bohemians.

Once I maneuvered the kid through the doors, I felt a blast of cool air. At least it was air conditioned. I wasn’t cooking anymore. I was also relieved to see that, for a change, the Internet was up and running.

The only thing that made me worry was an old beanstalk standing guard at the head of the terminals. He was tall, withered, skin and bones except for the skin part, and his eyes were mostly white. I would’ve taken him for one of us, but a glob of spit on his lip pegged him as a liveblood. He was one of the homeless, trying to get out of the heat. Didn’t blame him, but street folk tend to get territorial, especially around chakz, since we’re the only ones they can push around; this box is mine, that rag is mine, and so on. But this poor old bastard looked less mobile than the book stack he was leaning against.

I found two terminals side by side and set up Ashby with some game that had bright shiny lights. My keyboard had the escape key missing, no metaphor intended, but some of the others looked worse, so I settled in and tried to do what I do worst—focus.

After checking my recorder to remind myself why I was there in the first place, I started with the clickety-click , seeing if I could come up with an address for the living Boyles. The only thing slower than my typing was the response time. I wanted to throw more coal into the damn thing’s furnace to try to speed it up.

I’d like to say the answer popped up, but it was more like it dribbled in, an apartment in the center of town on, wait for it, Wealthy Street. We were never much for street names in Fort Hammer. It was a family home. Both siblings and Martin Senior were listed. I guess word of his death hadn’t made it to the directories yet. In a way, it was better than a private estate, where they could have their security do all sorts of things to me in secluded splendor. I might be able to sneak in and out as part of the trash. If they were even still in the city.

Rather than wait for the full Google, I pulled out my recorder to get down the address. Almost had it, too, but the white-eyed string bean I spotted on the way in started screaming. I hoped he was doing a random schizophrenic thing, but the finger he jabbed in my direction said otherwise.

“‘Son of man, can these bones live?’ ‘O Lord God, thou knowest! ’ ”

Great. An evangelist. I knew the quote. Grandma was a churchgoer. Ezekiel in the Valley of Dry Bones. Famous passage, even has its own song—the leg bones connected to the hip bone, etc. But the old man wasn’t singing. He came closer, finger first.

“Unclean bones!”

I’d have been offended if it wasn’t so accurate. Ashby turned from his screen, looking worried. “Heh-heh.”

“You reek of brimstone and death!” Now he was aiming at Ashby.

“Hey, take it easy,” I said.

“Breathe!”

When I stood to block him, everyone in the small library stopped and stared. I guess we were more interesting than whatever they were reading.

The old man went into a fit, eyes rolling all over the place. If he’d been a chak I’d expect him to start moaning.

“Breathe on these dead!”

“Easy, easy! Could you give it to me in English, pal?”

He shook his finger at the kid. “There! There! Behold !”

His nostrils flared. His eyes rolled again, but this time he looked like he was really grossed out. I took a sniff and suddenly realized what his problem was. It was Ashby. His face and arms looked okay, but the smell was unmistakable. The kid had some rot on him somewhere, probably made worse after the hot car ride.

The last thing I needed was a fight with a crazy liveblood with a good sense of smell. I had the address, so I’d done all I could for now anyway.

“Okay, got it. We’re going! Come on, Ashby.”

“Heh-heh.”

“Back to the valley, back to the dust, unclean dead!” he croaked.

“Right. Exactly. We were headed there anyway.” I pulled the kid toward the door, then back out into the sun.

The old man kept yelling, but didn’t follow. Soon as we were clear, I yanked my hand back from Ashby. I should’ve been more careful about touching him. That stuff can spread fast. I’d been in a car with him last night and hadn’t even noticed. I had to get him back to the office so Misty could have a good look at him.

Taxi was out of the question. Only a few would hit the Bones to begin with, and an odor like the kid had could ruin the comfy seats. Turned out the smell was so bad, I couldn’t even get him on a bus. I walked him, fast as I could, nearly shoved him up the stairs and through the door.

Misty caught the smell before she even saw his face. I made some quick introductions.

“Can you take care of it?”

Her hands went to her hips, lingered, then covered up her nose. “You know I’m not a cleaning lady, right, Hess?”

“I know; I just have a lead I have to follow fast,” I said; then I tried to look helpless.

She narrowed her eyes. “If there’s any deep cutting, you’ll be helping.”

“Promise,” I said. I felt bad about that. I had no idea when I’d be back.

“Heh-heh.”

Ashby gave her what looked like a smile. Misty tried to smile back, but couldn’t quite manage it.