Dead Mann Walking Read Free

Booth?”
    Nobody likes a show-off. Some things have emotional resonance even with a chak. That, for instance. Really strong feelings are physically uncomfortable for us, like forcing too much water through a thin, cracked tube. We don’t like it.
    â€œWhat’s this about, Mr. Turgeon?”
    He narrowed his egg eyes. “You can be offended. You’re higher-functioning than most.”
    â€œYou’re pretty high-functioning yourself, for a liveblood.”
    â€œI’m sorry. I need to be sure who I’m working with.”
    The apology surprised me. We don’t usually get that. It made me relax, but just a little. “Let me clear something up for you right now. I don’t kill and eat people.”
    The puffy lines under his chin wobbled as he shook his head. “It’s nothing like that. I have a touchy situation to resolve. I have to trust you first, though. May I ask another personal question?”
    â€œTry it and see how it goes.”
    The chair creaked again as he shifted. “At work one day you received an e-mail with a photo showing your wife, Lenore, engaged in coitus with your boss.”
    He looked as if he were going to giggle when he said coitus . This time, I wasn’t aware of having an emotional reaction, but my body disagreed. My knee started twitching.
    â€œYou put your fist through the wall,” he went on, “then raced home. Your boss, concerned, followed with some men. They found you hovering over your dead wife. She’d been beaten with your baseball bat. You claimed you found her that way, but no one believed you; you were known for having a temper. You were found guilty and executed.”
    Point of pride, desire for the job, whatever, I struggled not to react, but my knee just wasn’t doing it for me anymore. Fucking memory. It never rains but it pours. Fractured images, burning pricks, stabbed my brain: the color photo of Lenore and Booth together, the side of her enraptured face making a shadow on the nape of his neck, the feel of plasterboard buckling against my knuckles, the twisted, almost clownish look of surprise on Booth’s face as he burst into our kitchen and saw all the blood. Then a blur.
    The next clear sensation was my execution, the needle sliding into my arm, fishing for a vein, the sense of relief that it was all over. But it wasn’t. Next thing, it’s a few months later and I’m staring at the herpes sore on the lower lip of a chain smoker. He’s giving me my ten-minute exit interview, explaining how I was one of the “lucky” ones. A grave diggers’ strike left me on ice, refrigerated for three months. Between thick, wet coughs he says that with the right makeup, if I kept the lights low, I’d almost pass for a liveblood.
    Never tried it. Kept forgetting.
    He hands me my wallet and the little green vial I had in my pocket when I was arrested. Inside the wallet was sixteen bucks and two condoms. Lenore and I had been trying to have a kid, but when I didn’t get a raise, she decided to wait.
    The flashbacks retreated. Turgeon was still talking in his high, sweet voice. “Your fellow detectives were so eager to convict you, some DNA evidence was kept hidden from the defense. Between that and irregularities in your arrest and trial, you were exonerated and restored. Most people still think you’re guilty.”
    He paused. His eyes flared as if he felt guilty about dragging all this up, but he didn’t say anything else. I figured that meant it was my move.
    â€œIs there a question in there?”
    He rubbed the brim of his hat. “Well . . . did you do it?”
    I leaned back and twisted my head. Something in my neck cracked. I hoped it wasn’t bone. “I’ll answer you, but first, I like to know who I’m working with, too.”
    Turgeon pulled out an envelope and tossed it on the desk. It slid a little before coming to a halt against a crack in the