The fact that he didn't answer meant nothing. The battery could be dead, he could be dead, or he could be on a flight to the Bahamas with his share of the take. I hoped it was the battery.
What next? Could I let Frank Boyle's killers go without doing something? As for Turgeon, I didn't particularly like him, but I owed him. The odds sucked royally. Liveblood millionaires and a chopped-up chak. It would be the hakkers all over again, only this time my opponents would be intelligent, so it wouldn't be a fair fight. I wouldn't hear them coming.
Tell that to my roiling guts. Even if I tried to let it go, I doubted it would let go of me. I'm not exactly a starry-eyed idiot, but I really thought Frank might build that home, and maybe I could get myself a room. That alone could drag me to feral city. I was going down one way or another, sitting or standing. So I grabbed my coat and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?”
“I've got some things to do.”
She cut me off in the hallway, forced her face in front of mine. Brave girl, given my kisser.
“Hess, are you . . . okay?”
She knew I wasn't. That wasn't the real question. What she wanted to know was whether I was going to keep it together or do the wild thing. I was her lifeline as much as she was mine. If I went down, so did she.
It wasn't multiple choice. There was only one answer I could give. “Yes. I'll be fine.”
“You sure?”
I looked around, trying to think of some proof. I stared at the paint peeling on the walls, watched a rat scurry off with a piece of hamburger bun in its teeth. Its hunger, at least, gave it something to do. That was my answer. It was something to do.
“I have to find whoever did this. I'm not going anywhere until I do. Ask me again when it's over.”
She gave me a slow nod, like a nanny not quite buying the child's explanation, but not wanting to challenge it.
Before she said anything else, I handed her my cell. “Put Turgeon's number on the speed dial for me? I want to keep trying him.”
It took her half a second, but by the time she handed my phone back, she was warming to the idea of working on this. “I'll keep an eye on the news and take notes for you.”
“Use the pad, not the Post-its. Number everything,” I told her. Post-its are great for small stuff, but this would require more organized thinking.
“You got it. Hess, where are you going to start?”
“Where do you think? Scene of the crime.”
“Don't forget your hat. You need the shade.”
I grabbed it, and some of Turgeon's cash, and headed out alone, except for the day, and the day was never much company, especially during the summer. Moist heat makes it easier for bacteria to grow, for rotting to set in. The sunlight makes it easier to see the gray tinge to my skin, makes it harder for even a “lucky one” to blend in, unless there was a real early Halloween party. I wasn't wild about it, but if I really was going to do anything, I had to leave the Bones.
I kept the hat on at the Rent-A-Wreck, hoping I could get in and out before they realized I was among the dearly departed, but the agent grabbed my hand to shake and spotted the gray skin. With a grin he doubled the fees for the cheapest piece of shit on the lot. I didn't object so much as groan, but he still went into his song and dance. It wasn't enough he was screwing me; he had to yammer on about the extra insurance for chakz, and how he was within his rights to refuse to rent to me at all. I handed him the cash. My nice big wad of bills was already getting smaller.
I kept the windows up and the clunky AC on. The trip was uneventful, a straight shot, so I didn't have to worry about my driving much, and it was broad daylight, so no hakkers. My biggest concern was that the damn four-cylinder tin can I was driving would overheat and leave me to bake in the desert.
Once I recognized the spot from the news, I pulled over alongside the prominent No Dumping sign and got out of the car. Fucking desert. The heat from it rose right up through the bottom of my shoes. First thing I noticed was that someone had dumped a few garbage bags right next to the sign. Funny. They didn't mind the kitchen trash so much as the bodies. It didn't attract coyotes as much, or freak the families on their way in or out.
I scanned the dried weeds, the dust swirls, the sand that wanted to be dunes but couldn't get its act together because of the rocks. Beyond that, except for a few pieces of shriveled, dried plant, the ground was flat. A few marks could be tire tracks, or not. I followed and they petered out. A bit of police tape twisted in the wind.
I trudged around, kicked some sand, pretended some other marks might be more tire tracks, or a spot where an arm or a leg might have been. Wilson and Boyle were both dumped here. Were the heads out there, too, still . . . thinking?
That image wasn't helping. I had to focus, but there wasn't much to focus on here. Maybe I should head back to town, try to retrace their steps. But I had no idea where the Humvee headed after it dropped me off; I only knew where it came from. Big piss yellow thing like that would be easy to spot, though. Some druggie or low-level chak back in the Bones may have seen it and thought he was hallucinating.
I headed back toward the rental, absently calling Turgeon as I walked. One ring, nothing. Two rings . . .
I heard a chirping behind me. I whirled, tried to follow the sound. The ten rings passed and I got his message again. The second time I hit the number on the speed dial, I found it, facedown in the sand, a brownish streak along the plastic, a darker color than the silver or the sand. Blood.
I wished I had a plastic bag to put it in, so I wouldn't contaminate the evidence. Old instinct. I tore off a piece of shirt and picked it up as gingerly as I could.
It wasn't good news. Chakz don't bleed like that. If we bleed at all, it's more what that old horror writer Lovecraft called a “putrescent ooze.” The red stuff on the phone belonged to a liveblood, and I had a sinking feeling I knew who.
Poor baby. He was as much out of his depth as I was out of mine. Had a gun, didn't he? Two, counting mine. I wonder if he went down fighting. I was sure Boyle did. He'd go crazy trying to protect . . .
Ashby. I'd forgotten all about him. Fucking memory. They hadn't found his body either. Whoever did this probably didn't expect a third party. The chances were slim to nothing, but maybe he'd survived. I had no idea where Turgeon lived or worked, but if the kid could walk, he'd likely head back to the only place he knew.
I hopped in the car and made for Bedland.
The radio told me what to expect. The place was still a mess. A bunch of the inhabitants
had
gone feralâwonder why. The national guard was all over the place. Ignoring the sanitation truck where they piled the bodies, I parked. If I'd been a liveblood, the guardsmen might have stopped me for my own protection. As it was, as long as I wasn't moaning, after casting a suspicious glance my way they didn't care.
They'd already cleared the buildings, but were still hunting the brush. As I walked along, every now and then I'd hear a rifle crack echo through the dry woods. Cripple 'em, D-cap 'em. Boyle and Wilson could have been anyone, really.
There but for fortune.
With all the decapitations, it wasn't easy finding a familiar face, but an hour later, as far away as you could get from everything, down in a basement rec room, I stumbled on Thornell. With the gunshots muffled to near nothing, he was shooting pool all by his lonesome. He looked up when I came in.
His arm was back on. Krazy Glue and thread. I didn't think the hand was working, but it made a nice bridge to lay the cue on. With a sound too much like a rifle crack, he sank an easy corner shot.
“Mann, you came back,” he said.
I was going to ask how he could play games with the shantytown crumbling around him; then I realized he was just like me. He had to do
something
to keep busy. Solve a crime, play pool. To each his own. From what I saw outside, they'd lost at least thirty people.
I heard a howl from somewhere outside. Thornell rubbed his cue with chalk, loudly, trying to drown it out. I didn't know if he had heard about Boyle, or if it would make any difference. I had to be careful. Finding out he was chopped up could be the straw that broke Thornell's back. I decided to play it by ear.
“Pretty crazy seeing you. What do you want?” he said. “Got more good news for a chak? Better hurry while there's some left.”
“I'm curious about Frank Boyle,” I said. “He have any enemies?”
Another gunshot, then the crack of the cue ball against number eight. “Enemies? Are you fucking out of your mind? Sure, he had enemies. Almost seven billion.”
“Good point.” I waited a few shots, then asked the big question: “That kid Ashby find his way back here by any chance?”
Thornell stood up straight as an arrow. Pay dirt. “Who wants to know?”
I shrugged. “Me. Why? Anyone else looking?”
“The cops, maybe,” Thornell said. “Didn't you used to be a cop?”
“Used to be,” I told him. “Look, I just want to see if he's okay, that's all.”
“He's not,” Frankenstein said. He nodded toward what looked like a supply closet. I took a few steps toward it.
“So much for that haven, huh?” Thornell said. So he did know about Boyle.
Something popped into my head. I hesitated to mention it. Then, I don't know why, but I said, “You know Jonesey from the Bones? He's thinking about organizing a rally.”
Thornell seemed amused. He snorted through his nose. “Really? A chak rally? That's bat-shit crazy.”
I agreed, then opened the door.
The space on the other side was small, windowless, full of mops, cleaning supplies, and a big pile of rags on the floor.
Only the pile of rags had a nervous laugh. “Heh-heh.”
I got closer, nudged the pile with my foot. It trembled.
I tried to remember how to sound gentle. “Ashby, you remember me?”
“Heh-heh.”
I scanned his body, checked his limbs. He looked like he was in one piece.
I knelt so he could see my face. “I was in the car with you and Frank, remember? Big yellow car?”
He picked his head up a little. “Cool car. Heh-heh. Frank. Frank. Frank.”
I spoke slowly. “Did you see what happened to Frank?”
He shook like his whole body remembered. “It was bad. Heh-heh. They thought I shot the cop, but he shot himself. Heh-heh. I ran and I ran. Frank knows I didn't do it. He has to tell them or I'll be executed.”
Damn. He was half in the room, half back in the convenience store. “Right. Frank knows you were innocent. He was in the big yellow car with you and Mr. Turgeon. Do you remember that? You dropped me off and drove away?”
“Frank shoved me. I ran and ran. They thought I shot that cop. They jumped out and came after me.”
They?
“Who came after you? Was it Boyle's brother and sister? Cara and Martin? Do you know what they look like?”
Stupid question. They'd have hired some local goons.
“Thought I shot the cop. Had a pair of clippers. Needed two hands, heh-heh,” he said. Then he clamped his fists, slammed them together, and made a cutting noise.
“Did you see what happened to Mr. Turgeon? The driver? Guy who looked like an egg?”
He twisted his head. I thought he was nodding.
“Frank?” he said. “Heh-heh. Can you find him?”
This was getting nowhere fast. I patted him on the knees, rose to leave, and said exactly the wrong thing. “I'm going to try.”
He got up, ready to follow.
“I'm coming with you,” he said. “Heh-heh.”
He was the only witness. I figured taking him would be safer than leaving him here. The place was falling apart at the seams, and the Boyles might decide to tie up loose ends. Maybe I could sort through all that gibberish and get some details. Besides, like Thornell, like me, he needed something to do, too.
“Heh-heh.”
But the laugh was already getting to me.
8
P
arrots. 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” trialâ 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.