Dead Mann Walking Read Online Free Page A

problem was finding Jonesey.
    I tried turning my back on Anvil Head, but he grunted again, real loud, and kept it up. It was like Lassie trying to tell Mom that Timmy was trapped in a cave. I thought he wanted money, so against my better judgment I pulled out a buck and pressed it into his good hand.
    He didn’t want it. He pulled away quick. The loose arm fluttered like a bird wing.
    All of a sudden I realized what he was trying to say. He was answering my question about Jonesey, pointing as best he could toward the alley.
    â€œMuch obliged.”
    He nodded.
    I pulled out the recorder and made a note to have Misty come out with the bleach. Could’ve called her, but I forgot my damn phone.
    The alley was a car-wide slot between half-standing walls. Stepping in meant leaving even the sickly yellow streetlight behind. It’d been a hot day and I still felt it on the sidewalk, but as things went from dark to darker, it got noticeably cooler.
    Takes longer for chak-eyes to adjust to lighting changes. I could make out a Dumpster, and the fact that there was more garbage outside it than in. I kept going, farther back, toward what looked like a fire escape.
    I stepped on something. It was big, slightly soft, and when my foot hit it, it moaned.
    Not a sound you want to hear in this neighborhood. Better to hear a snake rattle. Moaning is what chakz do right before, and after, they go feral.
    This one obviously wasn’t feral yet, or it’d be chewing on me. It looked like he was under some cardboard. Poor bastard probably felt it coming on and crawled in here to be alone when it happened. We have an instinct for that sort of thing, like dogs.
    I didn’t think it was Jonesey, but I had to be sure. Jonesey had a red flannel piece of crap he called his lucky shirt. They buried him in it. When they rip you, they give you a cheap new set of clothes, generally prison gray, but Jonesey turned it down and kept his lucky shirt. It was the only shirt he ever wore. I think over time it melded with his skin, and he couldn’t get it off anymore.
    Not that I’m one to judge. Besides, it made him easy to spot.
    I lit a match and knelt for a better look. The moaner wasn’t him. I snapped the match out before it reached my finger. Odds are I’d feel the burn, but no sense in taking chances.
    My big plan was heading nowhere. I put an elbow against the Dumpster and tried to gather the few thoughts I had. This is often a bad move. I never know what I’ll get. This time, a picture of Wilson’s head popped into my mind. I’d only seen the guy on TV, and here he was eyeballing me like I was supposed to do something about his unfortunate situation. Like what? Buy him a hat?
    It wasn’t ESP, more like my brain was a cave about to crumble. Strong picture, though, colors vivid enough to make you puke. I’d been thinking about the head too damn much, the way I used to close my eyes and see cards if I stayed up all night playing poker.
    It was starting to get to me. And I never knew which freaky obsession would be my last. If I wasn’t careful about my mood, I’d wind up sharing a cardboard quilt with the moaner at my feet. If I had a happy place I’d try to go there, but I don’t.
    What was wrong with me, other than the usual? Maybe it was all that talk with Turgeon about Lenore. Lenore. There’s a famous poem about someone named Lenore, real famous, but I can never remember it. I wonder if the guy who wrote it knew whether he’d killed his Lenore or not.
    Damn it, Lenore!
    I may have started moaning right then and there. I’ll never know, because a big distraction showed up. A shadow flew down from the fire escape, right at me, looking like a dark sheet hurled out of a window. One second there was building and sky, the next, just black.
    It wasn’t a sheet. It was heavier, and it caught me at just the right angle. I went down. My back slapped the asphalt. I didn’t