Dead Mann Walking by Stefan Petrucha Page A

gave it something to do. That was my answer. It was something to do.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œUse 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.
    â€œYou got it. Hess, where are you going to start?”
    â€œWhere do you think? Scene of the crime.”
    â€œDon’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