Death Warmed Over

by Kevin J. Anderson

  “I’m not that kind of guy, Spooky. I don’t do that on a first date.”

  She laughed. “Yes, you do. Or did I count wrong?” As if we had rehearsed it, we both took in a deep breath and let out a sigh. That one night would have to do. Dead guys can’t be choosy, and I would rather have a ghost of Sheyenne than any other real woman.

  “We could go out for fondue,” I suggested. “In honor of Sheldon.”

  “You’d have to invite Robin too. She’s the only one who could really enjoy the food.” Then her pragmatic streak came to the fore. “We could discuss cases, make it a tax-deductible meal.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  A crowd of patrons, many of them school-aged children, had gathered around the exhibits and the artificial pyramid that held the ancient treasures. I glanced at my watch—we were just in time.

  The museum intern designated as the mummy’s personal assistant (though Ramen Ho-Tep insisted on calling him a slave) hovered around the periphery of the audience, straightening chairs, nervous about this big debut. Recognizing us, the intern pointed to two empty chairs near the front; as guests of the former pharaoh, we had special VIP passes.

  Lujean Eccles was also in the audience, accompanied by the Patchwork Princess. The museum had consulted with Miss Eccles on how to spiff up Ramen Ho-Tep for his public-speaking debut. A smile brightened Wendy’s crooked face when she noticed I was wearing the jacket she had stitched up. She waved, and I waved back.

  The lights dimmed, and with great theatrical effect, the mummy of Ramen Ho-Tep rose from his sarcophagus and regarded the crowd, who oohed and aahed. The children’s eyes were as big as saucers. The mummy was indeed ready for prime time: His bandages were freshened, the stains removed, the caked dust whisked off him.

  Seeing us, he swelled larger with self-confidence. “I was a pharaoh of Ancient Egypt!” His voice boomed, sounding impressive. “I ruled the lands from the Nubian Desert and Kush in Upper Egypt, down to Thebes, and the Nile Delta and Memphis.”

  “Memphis?” asked a young boy. “Where Elvis lived?”

  “No! I was the King.” Ramen Ho-Tep crossed his arms over his chest. “I had thousands of slaves, and I was worshipped by my people. They gave me gold, lapis lazuli, myrrh, and pretty little paintings on sheets of papyrus. I was a giant among men, worshipped as a god.” He stood barely five feet high, shrunken due to desiccation and dehydration. “My father was Nor-Man Ho-Tep, and before him was—” The mummy rattled off a string of names, none of which meant anything to the listeners.

  When the audience started to yawn, the intern/slave scurried to the front and whispered, “Maybe you should skip the rest of the family tree, Mr. Ho-Tep.”

  “How did you get to be a mummy?” a girl interrupted.

  “Let me tell you, young lady.” Ramen Ho-Tep leaned forward. “When a great pharaoh dies, his body must be carefully preserved for the next life. I was taken to the House of the Dead by my priests and washed in palm wine and rinsed with water from the Nile. All my internal organs were removed—liver, lungs, stomach, intestines—and placed in canopic jars. That’s why I feel hollow inside to this day. The embalmers pushed a hook up my nose to pull out my brain, since I wasn’t using it anymore.”

  “Eww,” said a chorus of audience members, mainly the adults.

  “Do you need your brain now?” asked a boy.

  “I really don’t miss it.”

  Ramen Ho-Tep regarded the audience. “I had a beloved cat. As was tradition, and because I was Pharaoh of all Egypt, my cat was also mummified. Everyone needs a pet in the afterlife. His name was”—he uttered another mishmash of odd-sounding syllables, paused, then said, “It translates as Fluffy.”

  The kids giggled.

  Ramen Ho-Tep reveled in the attention as questions came at him from the audience. Bram Steffords stood at the back of the room, looking haughty, but unmistakably pleased with the presentation.

  “This is going to work out just fine,” I whispered to Sheyenne. “Ramen Ho-Tep is in his element.” Glancing down, I saw that her ghostly hand was resting on mine, though I couldn’t feel it. Imagining that we were holding hands did produce a surprising warm swirly sensation in my stomach, though.

  After the mummy had finished, and the audience members crowded forward to ask for his autograph on their program booklets, Sheyenne and I left the Ancient Egypt wing.

  Now that I had time, I decided to spend a few minutes at the Necronomicon exhibit out in the central hall. I wasn’t a scientist, nor an occultist (the two professions now had more overlap than anyone ever imagined), but this book’s strange magical powers, not to mention a ludicrous set of coincidences and a rare planetary alignment, had changed the world.

  If not for the Big Uneasy, I would have stayed dead after Brondon Morris shot me, and the cases wouldn’t have solved themselves. On the other hand, without the Big Uneasy, without JLPN’s scheme to eradicate the unnaturals, I probably wouldn’t have been shot in the first place....

  Near the rare books displayed in high-security vitrines, I saw the large black-gowned form of Mavis Wannovich, wearing her pointed black hat and the star-and-moon spangled scarf. She held a thick notebook in her hands, scribbling notations. Well behaved and very clean, her sow-sister Alma rooted around the displays, pressing her dark eyes close to the glass so she could read the information cards.

  The witch looked up with a smile on her face. “A pleasure to see you, Mr. Chambeaux. Alma’s here under a special dispensation—I’ve gotten her classified as a service pig.” Then her expression fell. “Oh, I heard about Mr. Fennerman. I’m so sorry our protective spell wasn’t good enough. I feel just terrible. That poor vampire!”

  “Your protective spell worked, but it would have taken a howitzer to drive away that monster.” After an awkward moment of silence, I added, “You’re looking good . . . much more relaxed.”

  Mavis self-consciously brushed down her frizzy black hair. “Thanks. Alma and I just had the most amazing spa and mud-bath treatment. Sometimes you have to pamper yourself.”

  “How are your jobs going?” Sheyenne asked. “Is the publishing house treating you well?”

  “Oh, yes. Now that our dispute is resolved, Howard Phillips is a fine company, and they definitely needed someone to organize their records. Alma and I have our work cut out for us. In fact, I’m here taking notes for the special rerelease of our annotated Necronomicon. There were typos in the previous printing, if you can believe that!” She rolled her eyes. Alma let out a loud confirmatory snort.

  “Any progress on reversing your sister’s condition?” I asked.

  “We’ll get around to that, but we’ve both been incredibly busy. Howard Phillips has an entire room full of slush-pile manuscripts. They’ve fallen far behind, all those aspiring authors just waiting for a response . . . Now it’s my responsibility to go through the shelves, alphabetize the submissions, and begin responding. I give each book a fair assessment, don’t pull any punches. And Alma can smell a bad manuscript from the other side of the room.”

  The sow circled, pressed her snout against a display case, and came back to us.

  Mavis added with a happy sigh, “This is my dream job, Mr. Chambeaux—working as an editor, dealing with writers, seeing a book through the publication process, typesetting, proofreading, printing. I want to thank you and Ms. Deyer for the opportunity. And yes, we will eventually start testing spells to reverse the effects on my sister, as soon as we institute some solid quality control.”

  “If you’re satisfied with our service, would you write us a short testimonial—just a few sentences?” Sheyenne said. “Did you receive our bill, by the way? I can print up another one, if you’d like.”

  “Oh, yes, don’t worry—the check is in the mail.” Mavis beamed. “And Alma and I would be honored to write you a glowing recommendation.” After pondering a moment, the witch added, “Now that I think of it, Mr. Chambeaux, you’ve been through such enthralling adventures in the Unnatural Quarter. Hav
e you ever considered writing about some of your more interesting cases, penning a memoir? The world would be fascinated to read it . . . or at least a number of our special-edition subscribers would.”

  I frowned. “Never thought about it.”

  “Since Alma and I have such fond feelings for you, if you were to submit a manuscript to Howard Phillips Publishing, I would give it my fullest attention.”

  Sheyenne hovered beside me. “Not a bad idea, Beaux. You could handwrite a few pages a day, and I’ll type them up. In less than a year, you’d finish a whole book.”

  I wasn’t convinced, but seeing Sheyenne’s enthusiasm, I decided not to turn her down right away. “I’ll think about it.”

  CHAPTER 46

  In rare cases, the wheels of justice turn swiftly, like a steamroller.

  The evidence against Harvey Jekyll was incontrovertible, and he did not deny the charges of his toiletry-based attempt at genocide. In fact, he seemed proud of himself, expecting “decent humanity” to rally to his defense. He was disappointed.

  Meanwhile, the unnaturals demanded revenge, some incensed enough that they called for Brondon Morris’s identifiable body parts to be strained out of the chemical sludge from the factory vat and also put on trial. Such a demand would have made more sense if the pieces had been reanimated, but no such luck.

  Instead, Jekyll had to face the music himself—and the music did not sound like Barry Manilow or the Carpenters.

  In his final statement to the court, Jekyll said, “One day, you’ll see I was right. When the last humans are cowering under their beds because the monsters have taken over the world, you’ll all wish they’d used Zom-Be-Fresh.”

  Verdict: Guilty.

  Sentence: Death.

  Knowing the brutish monster that Jekyll could become, the warden and prison guards were terrified to have him in their prison. Worried that he might sprout huge biceps and fangs if some additive in the prison pudding or chipped beef interacted with the trace residue of his transformational potion, they reinforced the cell walls and installed extra bars across the door. And all the while, the prisoner just sat there, a scrawny bald human who looked as if he should have been spending the days stroking a white Persian cat on his lap as he plotted the conquest of the world.

  But prison rules didn’t allow him to have a cat.

  After the trial wrapped up, Miranda Jekyll came to our offices to thank us profusely. She was lighthearted and aloof, completely free—and, in a way, scarier than ever. She was still dressed to kill, lavishly bedecked with jewelry, wearing a dress that had cost more than her imported automobile.

  She was accompanied by a hunk—tall, dark, and handsome, exuding power and animal magnetism. He had long black hair that seemed to flow in a faint breeze every time he turned to show off his profile. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest. When he greeted us, he spoke in a luscious and exotic foreign accent.

  Miranda introduced her male companion. “This is Hirsute, another once-a-month werewolf, my soul mate.”

  I shook the man’s powerful hand. “Hirsute?”

  “It’s French, I think,” Miranda said. She scratched her fingernails down his bulging sleeve. “He understands me like no one else ever has.” Hirsute raised Miranda’s hand, pressed it to his lips, and gave it a nibbling kiss. Her smile showed pointed teeth, and a purring growl came from the base of her throat.

  “I’m just informing you that I won’t be at Harvey’s execution, sweethearts. I’ve got a scheduling conflict. I can’t understand why the judge would pick a date so close to the full moon, and you know I always have other plans. Besides, I don’t need to watch the little worm get fried. Thanks to you, I now control JLPN. I have more wealth than I ever expected to get in the divorce. And I have Hirsute.”

  Though Jekyll Lifestyle Products and Necroceuticals took a severe financial hit from the scandal, Miranda had no intention of declaring bankruptcy. Her husband had been a frugal man and had squirreled away substantial liquid assets. If he’d succeeded with his Armageddon of unnatural meltdowns, he would have lost his customer base, so he had established contingency accounts. Miranda announced she would put the money back into JLPN to rehabilitate the company image.

  With her new fortune, she had also purchased a large game preserve up in Montana, as well as her own private jet. “Over five hundred acres of pristine wilderness,” she said. “Completely fenced off, plenty of room to roam and hunt. Hirsute and I will fly there every month on the full moon, where we can tear off our clothes and just be free, running naked in the moonlight.”

  “Sounds idyllic,” Robin said. “Maybe you should consider opening it for the use of all werewolves?”

  “I’ll think about that, sweetheart. After Hirsute and I tire of it.”

  Then Miranda and the hunky werewolf strolled off.

  Given the furor surrounding the case, the judge put Harvey Jekyll’s execution on the fast track. Since he was a human, there was no need for any convoluted or supernatural means of dispatching him. He would go to the chair, which was affectionately named Sparky, Jr.

  Because we were instrumental in solving the case, Robin, Sheyenne, and I received invitations to witness the execution, though it wasn’t exactly a social occasion. For years now, Robin had been a passionate defender of unnaturals, and her compelling speeches were vital in shaping public opinion; she had given brilliant testimony during Jekyll’s trial. Knowing that the mousy corporate head was actually going to die, however, gave her many second thoughts. She wrestled with her conscience and got over it.

  So did I. I had only to think about Sheldon Fennerman pinned to the brick wall or Mel dissolving into goo at the dump.... Worst of all, Jekyll had tried to kill my friends.

  No, I didn’t have any crisis of conscience.

  Although Brondon Morris had actually murdered Sheyenne and me, we were satisfied to let Jekyll take the fall for it in the public eye. Behind the scenes, Jekyll might have been second banana to Brondon in many ways, but now he got to be the star of the show. It was sure to be an electrifying performance.

  In the Pro Bono Mobile, we drove to the prison on execution day. Sheyenne rode in the backseat, although she could have drifted along at her own speed.

  The main prison complex looked not unlike the JLPN chemical factory—Jekyll probably felt right at home. Outside the gate, a dozen human protesters carried signs in defense of Harvey Jekyll: EXECUTION IS MURDER! HARVEY’S A HERO! and STRAIGHT EDGE CAN SEE IT, WHY CAN’T YOU?

  On the opposite side of the entry road, a large group of unnaturals had come for a tailgate party. They howled for Jekyll’s blood, flesh, and bones. (They were willing to settle for any scrap.)

  A van for Jekyll Lifestyle Products & Necroceuticals was parked near them, with a huge banner: UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT! Three volunteer workers—lawn gnomes, I think—were handing out free samples to the crowd. The unnaturals were skeptical, but most pocketed the samples for later use.

  After we showed our credentials and drove through the prison sally port, we made our way to the warden’s office. McGoo was already there and introduced us to the warden, who somberly shook Robin’s hand, then mine, and gave a polite nod to Sheyenne.

  McGoo wore his best uniform, clean and pressed. This was the serious part of his job, and he wouldn’t have missed it for the world. “You ready for this, Shamble?”

  “More ready than Harvey is.”

  “Right this way,” the warden said. “We’re on a schedule.”

  McGoo had brought popcorn, which I thought was in poor taste. He pushed the bag toward me as we turned toward the observation window that framed the medieval-looking electric chair. “Lighten up, Shamble. He’s the bad guy, dead to rights.”

  “Dead to rights,” I agreed.

  Then he told another one of his stupid jokes. “You know why witches fly on brooms? Because vacuum cleaner cords aren’t long enough.”

  We fell into a hush as the prison guards led Harvey Jekyll into the death chamber, w
here he got to see Sparky, Jr. The little man didn’t resist or beg for mercy as they adjusted the seat to raise him, then secured the leather straps around his thin wrists and ankles. All the while, his owlish eyes looked at me through the observation window.

  “I should have put the guy in prison back when he sold that garlic-laced vampire shampoo,” I said.

  Robin agreed. “If we’d shut down the company then, he never would have had a chance to plan this whole scheme.”

  “Brondon Morris still would have done it,” McGoo said.

  “After today, we can all rest easy.” Sheyenne turned to me, suddenly concerned. “Do you think that’s what’ll happen? Is that why I came back as a ghost? Am I supposed to move on after I see justice done to my killers?”

  “Do you want to leave?” My heart ached already, just looking at her.

  “I’d rather stay with you.”

  “I’d like that, Spooky. Death wouldn’t be the same without you.”

  Sheyenne looked touched, then gave me a wink. “Besides, you and Robin couldn’t run the agency without me. You’re not going away, are you?”

  “Don’t plan to.”

  The prison guards washed Harvey’s bald scalp, added conductive cream, put damp sponges inside the metal cap, then tightened it onto his skull.

  “Does that feel all right?” one of the guards asked. “Comfortable?”

  “It’s just fine.” Jekyll did not take his eyes off me.

  Unlike most traditional megalomaniacs, he didn’t deliver a long, eloquent speech, or curse us with his dying breath, or proclaim his innocence. He just waited as the clock ticked.

  Because so many unnaturals wanted to see (and preferably participate in) the execution of this toiletries version of Adolf Hitler, the judge had chosen a guest executioner by lottery, rather than using the regular one. One lucky unnatural was allowed into the control room to do the honors. The winner was a simpering, bug-eyed lab assistant with a small hunchback.