Working Stiff

by Kevin J. Anderson

  As Sheyenne and I arrived at the cemetery, I wore my usual sport jacket with its stitched-up bullet holes and my traditional fedora, that didn’t quite go low enough to cover the exit wound in the center of my forehead. I looked fairly decent—maybe even handsome enough to accompany my vivacious blonde, blue-eyed ghost girlfriend. Sheyenne drifted along beside me through the lanes of tombstones, ectoplasmic and glowing, too beautiful to touch (which was a good thing: since she was a ghost, I couldn’t touch her anyway).

  We found the harpy standing next to the impressive new crypt, which looked like a private fortress with thick granite walls and massive columns that conveyed an ornate but unwelcoming appearance. I wasn’t surprised to see a broad-shouldered and bare-chested minotaur standing next to Esther. Yes, the classical architect would want to be there for the grand opening of his special new tomb.

  With a loud snort, Percy Minotaur, Sr. adjusted the golden ring through his blocky nose. “Thank you both for coming.”

  The door to the crypt was wide open to show an austere, cold interior, dimly lit by high narrow windows.

  “Where is everyone else for the celebration?” Sheyenne asked.

  “We only need you two,” Esther snapped, and gestured with a feathered arm. The harpy had an odd and unsettling feminine appearance, a sexiness that at first attracted men, then made them ill as they realized exactly what they’d been attracted to. “You’re here to test Elspeth’s tomb. There’s no time to waste.”

  “How is your sister’s condition?” I asked. “Any change?”

  “No, still terminal.” Esther sounded disappointed. “And still no closer to it.”

  The minotaur invited us through the open door of the tomb. “Allow me to show you the finer points of the new construction. It is magnificent, as usual.”

  Sheyenne and I entered the tomb, though there wasn’t much to see—an open empty vault with stone walls, stone floor, stone ceiling. The narrow slit windows at the top of the wall were thickly barricaded. The harpy’s hard face curled in a smile as she saw me looking at them. “Those are so my undead sister can look out like a sad kid on a rainy day … if she ever dies, that is.”

  The tomb walls glistened as if coated with some kind of thick varnish … or maybe saliva. “A special anti-ectoplasmic preventive coating,” said the minotaur architect. “One of the special upgrades Esther requested.”

  In the center sat a raised slab on which the resident’s body would lie in repose. “Is this where you’ll place your sister’s coffin?” I asked Esther.

  “Coffin? Hell, no! Why buy a fancy coffin? Who’s going to see her in here anyway? She can just lie on the slab.”

  “I take it that’s why you didn’t waste money on interior decorating, either?” Sheyenne asked.

  “Why would I waste money like that on Elspeth? This damned crypt is already costing enough arms and legs to make a body-repair shop happy! And it’s all his fault.” She snorted at Percy, who snorted right back.

  “Great work doesn’t come cheap,” said the minotaur. “This crypt is my finest creation so far. It is beyond a masterpiece, because I’ve already produced a masterpiece, and that’s just a beginning. Elspeth’s tomb will be—”

  Esther cut him off, “Will be serviceable, I hope.”

  “It looks secure,” I said. “Impressive.”

  “We’ll see about that,” said Esther.

  She and the minotaur slipped back outside the crypt, and before Sheyenne and I could ask any questions, the minotaur flexed his muscles and swung shut the massive door.

  The harpy had just enough time to say, in her shrieking voice (which could cut through stone blocks), “I sincerely hope you never get out. Ever!”

  After the slab sealed, we heard the loud clang of the massive bolt slamming into place.

  2

  When the harpy had first contacted us about her sister’s ailment, I couldn’t be sure if she was angling for sympathy or something else. She preened herself in front of Sheyenne’s desk. “Elspeth is dying, and she’s been doing so for a very long time—an unconscionably long time!”

  “Oh dear,” Sheyenne said. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Don’t be sorry for her—be sorry for me! I’ve had to put up with all this.”

  Esther’s sister suffered from a debilitating mange—a lingering illness that made her linger … and linger … and linger, like something out of a heart-wrenching movie of the week, but not at all poignant. Esther had been tending her, reluctantly, for some time.

  “Elspeth was obnoxious even on her good days—I got all the charm in the family.” Esther clacked her teeth together and curled her fingers so that metallic black talons extended from the tips. The harpy family must not have gotten a large share of charm to start with.

  “Eslepth won’t let anyone see her because the mange makes her revolting. I told her no one would notice, because she was revolting before she caught the disease—but she doesn’t believe me.”

  “You certainly have a bedside manner,” Sheyenne said.

  Esther fluttered her feathers. “I always wanted to be a doctor, except that I can’t stand sick people. They’re so needy.”

  I wished Robin were here, because she was always good at handling difficult clients. “Is the mange contagious?” I asked.

  “Always thinking of yourself, Mr. Chambeaux!” Esther snapped. “You have nothing to worry about—zombies can’t catch it.”

  “Actually, I was thinking about you,” I said.

  Esther flapped her arms, extended her plumage, inspected the small pinfeathers in her underarms. “What, do you see any symptoms? I douse Elspeth with bleach every day, as therapy—but if she’s infected me, I’ll pluck her naked, then tar and feather her all over again!”

  I tried to calm her. “Just asking a question. I didn’t notice anything in particular.”

  Sheyenne turned on the charm, which I knew hid her acid annoyance. “And how can we help you at Chambeaux and Deyer Investigations, ma’am?”

  “I’m having a new tomb constructed for my sister, a special monument with many added features, designed to my exact specifications. I’ve got to make sure it’s done on time—and properly. There’s no room for error.”

  She withdrew blueprints and spread them on Sheyenne’s desk, unceremoniously knocking aside the other papers and folders for our pending cases. As far as Esther was concerned, no other pending cases were as important.

  “I’ve hired the greatest architect to build thick walls, reinforced windows, and an unbreakable door, with a few external decorative flourishes that will make the tomb fit in with the other ones in the cemetery. They have covenants for landscaping and exterior design.”

  Looking at the blueprints, I was impressed. This massive structure would certainly stand out among the ostentatious crypts and memorial markers at Greenlawn Cemetery. I understood what she was thinking. “It’ll be like the great pyramids of Egypt.”

  Esther snorted. “No—more like Alcatraz. Once I’m finally rid of my sister, I’ll seal her up inside there. If she stays dead, then fine—but a lot of people don’t stay dead anymore.”

  Since I had come back as a zombie and Sheyenne came back as a ghost, I said, “Yes, we’re well aware of that.”

  The harpy strutted about our offices. “Elspeth is just too mean to stay dead. Once she goes, I don’t want to deal with her anymore. If and when my sister comes back, whether as a zombie or a ghost, I want her sealed up where she can’t bother anyone again. Ever. So, I have to be sure that tomb is undead proof.” Her eyes glittered at me and Sheyenne. “That’s where you two come in.”

  3

  A private investigation agency has to take cases of all kinds, but some are more unpleasant than others.

  We were sealed inside Elspeth’s fortress-like crypt, but I had no intention of staying there. As Sheyenne drifted in front of me, her faint glow illuminated the austere vault. Her blue eyes sparkled, and so did her smile. “It’s not so bad, Beaux—we’
re getting paid to be alone together in a very private place.”

  “I’d rather take you to a coffin-and-breakfast of our choosing.” I walked to the solid stone door, pressing my hands against it, tentatively using my strength. I knew it wouldn’t be easy to break out of the tomb, but I had to start somewhere. I pressed hard, felt no movement—the old immovable object and irresistible zombie conundrum. I felt around the crack with numb fingers, but couldn’t find any latch or self-release button on the door.

  Partly due to Robin’s recent legal efforts, laws had been passed requiring all crypts to have emergency-release locks, since you never could tell when someone might wake up and need to get out. But Percy the minotaur had not built this tomb to code.

  I pounded on the door, hard, but that did no good. My cold flesh didn’t even make a satisfying thump. I wondered if Esther and Percy were still waiting out there, amused, trying to see how quickly we could escape from this trap.

  “If you’re that anxious, I’ll just slip through the wall, undo the latch, and open the door,” Sheyenne said. “It’s handy to have a ghost around.”

  She drifted in front of me, gave me an air kiss. As a traditional ghost, she could flit through any solid object, and her poltergeist abilities allowed her to manipulate inanimate objects.

  She gathered speed as she headed toward the stone wall. Normally she would’ve melted right through without a sound; instead, I heard an alarming wet smack, and Sheyenne’s beautiful form flattened out as she pushed and pushed against the stones. It was a very strange sight. I heard a thrumming as she continued to push, growing more and more flustered. Her form was distorted into a strange blob-like female outline, plastered against the impenetrable wall. Finally she withdrew, recomposed herself, and hovered in front of me, shaken.

  “That’s not what I expected,” I said.

  Sheyenne ran her ghostly fingers on the surface. The glistening coating sparkled faintly with an afterwash of her spectral impact, and I remembered the protective film that the minotaur architect had applied throughout the interior of the tomb.

  She sighed. “Maybe this case is going to be more difficult than we thought.”

  If Esther’s sister came back from the dead, she would return as a zombie or a ghost; therefore, Esther had instructed the architect to design a tomb that was proof against either one. A ghost harpy sounded even more unpleasant than an everyday harpy. And a zombie harpy … well, I didn’t even want to go there.

  Zombies were strong and persistent, but it wouldn’t be hard to build thick enough barricades to contain a shambler, even a well-preserved one like me. A ghost was more difficult to contain permanently, but this new anti-ectoplasmic film seemed quite durable and effective.

  “Esther must really be worried about her sister harassing her from beyond the grave,” I said.

  With increasing persistence, then frustration, Sheyenne flung herself against different walls of the crypt, then the ceiling, even the floor, but she couldn’t get through. She drifted up to the narrow windows, hoping to find some chink there, but the reinforced panes remained sturdy. The anti-ecto coating was everywhere.

  When hiring us to break out of this unbreakable crypt, we hadn’t established any kind of time limit. That was my fault for not thinking through the parameters. Robin always chastised me for entering into agreements without my lawyer partner vetting them first. Live and learn … or, live, die, come back from the dead, and still miss the point.

  I yanked on the raised stone coffin slab, and Sheyenne stood on the other side using her poltergeist powers, hoping we could uproot it, topple it, find a loose floor tile or something. No good. The slab and its base remained as sturdy as a redwood tree.

  I removed my .38 from its holster, and Sheyenne looked at me, puzzled. If I fired the pistol, any bullets would just ricochet around the walls, but I had something else in mind.

  I use the butt of the weapon to hammer the saliva-like varnish, pounding and pounding, but the film remained smooth, unscratched. “I was hoping to make a dent, chip away enough so that you could work your way through a chink in the armor.”

  She pressed her ghostly hand where I had been hammering, but couldn’t find the tiniest nick. That stuff was tough!

  Thinking the windows might be more vulnerable, I pressed up against the wall, reached as high as I could, and grasped the narrow sill. Pulling myself up, I raised my other hand and pounded on the glass with the .38. Again, the glass was armored, and the anti-ecto coating too thick. I didn’t make a dent.

  Back on the floor again, I tried to think the problem through. The cases don’t solve themselves, but even with a hole in my head I can usually figure out a puzzle.

  “Ah, of course!” I reached into the pocket of my sport jacket, removing my phone. “I’ll just call somebody to get us out of here.”

  “That’s probably cheating,” Sheyenne said.

  “The case agreement didn’t preclude it.”

  Robin was far away and wouldn’t be back in the Unnatural Quarter for days, but I had plenty of other friends in the Quarter I could call—particularly, Officer Toby McGoohan from the UQPD, my best human friend. I just needed to get him on the phone, and we’d be all done here tonight.

  The phone said No Service. Of course. Esther and Percy would’ve thought of that and put in shielding. These days, almost everyone elected to be buried with a phone handy.

  I sat down on the stone slab. “I hate to admit it, Spooky, but I think we’re stuck.”

  4

  Early in the case, Esther insisted that we meet her architect, as if we were challengers in a grudge match.

  Percy Minotaur, Sr. was well respected in his field, not just in tomb design, but he had also studied with a man who claimed to be Houdini’s ghost, working on a contract job for the Unnatural Quarter’s prison system. Houdini’s ghost and Percy developed specialized unbreakable prisons and holding cells for various unnaturals, demons, specters, and the like. Eventually Houdini’s ghost was exposed as a fraud, that he was actually Jim Houdini, no relation whatsoever to the legendary magician. Jim Houdini was arrested, but before he could be brought up on charges, he had miraculously escaped and still remained at large.

  Percy the minotaur’s work, however, was quite remarkable. He had accepted Esther’s commission to build an inescapable, unbreakable tomb for her sister, just in case. He seemed to relish the challenge.

  Upon first meeting the bare-chested Percy, I asked him why he insisted on remaining shirtless all the time. Sure, he had a broad chest and decent biceps, but he wasn’t going to win any Mr. Unnatural America contests, especially with a paunch showing over what should have been washboard abs.

  The minotaur reached up to touch his big blocky head and his wide set of curved bullhorns. “Because of these. I can’t ever pull a shirt over my head.”

  That made perfect sense, I supposed.

  “How about something that buttons down the front?” Sheyenne suggested. “Maybe a nice Hawaiian shirt?”

  Percy seemed embarrassed. “I never thought of that.”

  Esther stood in the architectural offices, impatient. “On with it. Just show them your portfolio.” The minotaur displayed and explained photos of other buildings he had done, the façade of the Metropolitan Museum, several impressive tombs.

  “My aim is to become the most respected, most widely known minotaur architect in the entire Quarter. I’m very bullish on my career.”

  He had spent a summer sabbatical at Notre Dame, considering how to create a fusion of Gothic cathedral architecture with typical Unnatural Quarter buildings.

  “A developer wanted me to design tract homes in a new subdivision, but I would never stoop that low. A gated community is the minimum I would consider.” With a fist he pounded his unspectacular chest. “My great works will endure the test of time. They’ll last for millennia, like the pyramids.”

  “As long as they can endure a pissed-off undead harpy,” Esther said. “That’s all I care about. Better h
urry up and finish the building.”

  “How long do you think your sister has left?” Sheyenne asked.

  Esther made a disgusted sound. “She’s been at death’s doorway for years and years, but she just stands there on the welcome mat. How I hate it when she lingers. I wish she’d get on with her death, so I can get on with my life.” She pointed a talon at me. “Your case, Mr. Chambeaux, is to test out the new crypt. My architect is confident, but I don’t believe anyone. I wasn’t hatched yesterday.”

  “What exactly do you want us to do?”

  “You’ll be locked inside. If you can escape, then you get paid. If you stay trapped in there until Elspeth dies—and that could be years and years—then the minotaur gets paid.”

  5

  I had heard grim stories of trapped undead who were left to tolerate an eternity of unending boredom: vampires given the Jimmy Hoffa treatment, sealed in a coffin wrapped with silver chains and then sunk at the bottom of a deep cold lake, where the poor bloodsucker had to lie there without even a book to read or a digest of Sudoku puzzles. Or zombies that rotted and fell apart, unable to move … but if the brain remained alive, did the inanimate decomposing pile of tissue just while away the hours pondering the meaning of life?

  Now Sheyenne and I were stuck inside a sealed crypt. Nobody knew where we were, and the harpy certainly had no intention of letting us out.

  Through the narrow windows, we watched night set in, then daylight again … and now night had fallen once more. Sheyenne’s frustrated spectral glow was the only illumination to keep me company.

  We’d been stuck in the tomb for more than a full day. After we had exhausted the first round of escape possibilities, neither Sheyenne nor I had any idea what to try next. Robin wouldn’t come back to the office for another week. As soon as she found us missing, she would immediately know something was wrong, but she’d have no clue where to look for us.