“Don’t have to. He’s rich. Have you seen his house? His monthly water bill would feed a small country for a month.”
“Well, how do you know he’s rich if you haven’t checked his bank accounts?”
“You really want me to check into his finances?”
“Is the pope Catholic?”
“Did I mention how behind I am on my paperwork?”
“Did I mention how much you owe me?”
“Finances, it is.”
12
Nothing sucks more than that moment during an argument when you realize you’re wrong.
—T-SHIRT
I’d parked Misery on a side street half a block away from the abandoned mental asylum and did a crouch run to the nearest Dumpster, where I dived for cover behind a group of evergreen bushes. Then I waved my arms about wildly and spit a few times when I realized the bushes were covered in spiderwebs. After a shiver of revulsion, I gathered myself, summoned my Mission: Impossible chi, and scaled a chain-link fence to the top of a dilapidated shed. Once there, I curled into an embryonic ball and whimpered. Chi or no chi, scaling fences sucked, mostly ’cause it hurt.
I pried open my throbbing fingers and scanned the area. Nary a Rottweiler in sight, so I jumped down and booked it to the basement window I used to sneak into the place. I turned the latch I’d rigged to unlock the window and pulled. Normally, the window opened out and I could do a drop-and-roll kind of thing into the basement, which was kind of like a duck-and-cover thing with less concern over radiation poisoning resulting in permanent hair loss, but the window was stuck. I pulled harder and it gave. For about half a second before it slammed shut again. What in the name of Zeus’s testicles?
Before I could try again, Rocket appeared, his nose pressed against the glass like a giant kid in a nightmare version of peekaboo. He grinned. “Miss Charlotte!” he yelled, as though I were a thousand miles away.
“Rocket,” I whispered, jamming an index finger over my mouth, “shhhhh.” I glanced around, waiting for the pitter-pat of Rottweiler paws. I had no idea if canines could hear the departed but figured this was not an ideal situation to find out. “Rocket, let me in.”
He giggled again. “Miss Charlotte, I can see you through the glass!” he yelled louder, pointing to it over and over in case I missed it. “Can you hear me?”
Oh, for the love of Godsmack. I crawled onto my stomach and inched the window open. “Rocket,” I said through the open slit, “you have to let me in.”
“You can’t come in. I have company.”
“Company? Seriously?” Rocket had died sometime in the fifties. How many people could he know? “There are huge dogs out here, and I have to give you some names.”
He brightened. Like literally. It was weird. He pushed open the window another inch and poked his nose and mouth out. “Names?” he whispered.
“Yes, names of people. I need to know if they’ve passed or not.” I could lose him any second. Keeping Rocket’s attention for more than several seconds was similar to winning the lottery, minus the monetary gain.
He pushed the window frame against his face to scrunch it and was making fish faces at me. “Hellllllloooooo, Miss Charlotte.”
I drew in a deep, calming breath. “Rocket, where are Strawberry and Blue?” Blue Bell was his sister who died in the thirties from dust pneumonia. I’d never met her. Apparently, she didn’t want to be introduced to the grim reaper. Strawberry was the departed little sister of a local police officer who worked with my uncle. She was a pain in the ass.
With his face still scrunched, he smiled. “They’re hiding from you.”
“Oh, great, now they’re both going to avoid me?” At first I got a little irked under the collar; then I remembered I disliked children, so this was actually quite nice. I had no choice. I had to give him the names. He would probably bolt through the asylum and I’d lose him entirely, but that was better than having a leg gnawed off. “Teresa Dean Yost.”
He stepped back and froze, his lids fluttering as he flipped through his mental registry. Then, as quick as that, he refocused on me. “No. Not her time.”
His answer stunned me. Really? She was still alive? What the hell? I was positive Doc Holliday killed her. Two million smackeroos was a lot of smackeroos. But she was alive. I still had time. “Rocket, I love you.”
He laughed, then slammed the window shut again.
“Rocket, wait.” I pulled and jerked to no avail. The guy was like a boulder. Rocks were digging into my ribs and elbows, and I’d have to go home and change before I could do anything else. After a herculean yank, it budged, but only a little. “One more name, sweetheart,” I whispered into the slit.
“Can you say the magic word?”
“Please?” I said, after exhaling loudly.
“Please is the magic word? I thought it was abracadabra.”
“Oh, right, sorry. Okay, are you ready?”
He nodded, his eyes glistening in anticipation.
This was going to be trickier. Earl Walker had several aliases, and who’s to say what his real name was, but it was worth a shot. “Earl James Walker.”
“Dead,” he said, matter-of-fact.
I blinked in surprise again. “Wait, are you sure?”
Rocket closed the window and latched it with an evil laugh.
“Rocket, damn it.” I pulled and fought, unlatching it over and over only to have him latch it back. “Rocket!” I rasped.
He finally stopped laughing long enough to look at me.
Hoping he could hear me through the window, I said, “Earl James Walker. You’re sure he’s dead?”
He opened the window again, just enough to talk through it, refusing to give up the game, then shrugged. “Most of them are.”
“Most of what? Earl James Walkers?”
“Yessiree.” He counted on his fingers. “Seven dead since the black storms. Who knows how many before that?”
I had no idea what the black storms were, but Rocket had grown up during the Dust Bowl era. Maybe that’s what he meant. “But, are there any alive?”
He counted again. “Two.”
Wow, that meant maybe Reyes wasn’t crazy. Clearly these Walkers weren’t the most creative lot, naming all their kids Earl James. “Can you tell me where they are?” I asked, knowing the answer.