Unnatural Acts

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Mavis said, “I only had time to create a general all-purpose restorative spell, not one of the gourmet specialty items. I hope that’s all right.”

  “He doesn’t need a gourmet spell,” I said. “And he doesn’t need to get well too soon or too easily—he won’t learn his lesson unless he’s hammered over his thick head with it.”

  “Oh, one of those types.” Mavis nodded. Alma snuffled and snorted, and her sister translated. “Alma wants to know if he’s cute.”

  “Not your type—not for either of you.”

  Sheyenne’s ghost lingered beside her brother’s bed while he lay in a coma. He still looked gray, motionless. She perked up to see the Wannovich sisters.

  “Neffi said he needs a restorative spell, Spooky,” I told her. “They brought one.”

  “Who ya gonna call?” Mavis held out the ceramic pot. Her sister wandered to the other side of the bed, snuffling at the heart and blood-pressure monitor.

  With great care, Mavis unscrewed the cap on the clay pot to reveal a bubbling, fuming cup full of noxious goo. “We rub liberal amounts of this restorative unguent inside his nostrils, on top of the tongue, around the gums.” She smiled. “For added efficacy, it’s even recommended we apply it in suppository form.”

  I felt queasy. “This isn’t how you plan to restore me every month, is it? As part of our deal?”

  “Oh no, your restorative spell will be much easier. He’s in far worse shape than you are.”

  “That’s saying a lot, considering that I’m dead.”

  Mavis leaned forward slowly and with great relish, letting the fumes roil near Travis’s slack, gray face. Suddenly, his eyes flew open, and he took a huge gulp of air. The cardiac monitor bleeped an alarm; his blood pressure jumped up fifty points, and he squirmed in the bed, trying to shrink from the foul-smelling pot. He sat up wide-eyed, his lips trembling. “Get that away from me! Get her away!”

  Mavis took a step away from the bed, satisfied. “That does it.”

  “You mean you’re not even going to apply the stuff?” I admit I was disappointed, though I didn’t really want to be around for the suppository part of the procedure.

  “As I said, it’s a powerful restorative spell. The mere threat of having this in one’s orifices is usually enough to give the patient-victim all the energy he needs.”

  “Thank you so much, Mavis.” Then I added, very advisedly, “I owe you one.”

  “Oh, we’ll be calling soon.” She tipped her pointed hat to me and led her sister back out into the hospital corridors. As they left, I heard her suggest to Alma that they should stop at the hospital cafeteria’s all-you-can-eat salad bar before they went home.

  Sheyenne’s delight to see her brother recovering lasted only a few seconds before her reaction set in; she’d been stewing most of the night. “Travis, Mom and Dad are dead. I’m dead! Isn’t that good enough for you? Why would you want to kill yourself like that?”

  He tried to make a joke. “Can you think of a better way than death through sex? Coming and going at the same time.”

  She slapped him, and her hand went right through his face. “I thought you were desperate! You said you had no money. How could you pay for something like that?”

  Travis turned his head on the pillow, tried to withdraw into the bed. The silence hung for a few moments, until I spoke up. “Sheyenne, you already know where he got the money.”

  Sometimes when you love somebody, you don’t want to see what’s staring you in the face. It’s that voluntary blindness when it comes to family members. She gaped at her brother. “You didn’t! You pawned our jewelry to spend the money in a brothel?”

  “Not all of it,” he said in a very small voice.

  “I don’t believe this, Travis! Even after I’m dead you’re still jerking me around!”

  “Look, I’m sorry.” He weakly raised his hands. “She was so pretty and . . . I got carried away. I didn’t think it would turn out—”

  “Just stop at ‘I didn’t think’!” Her spectral form glowed brighter as her fury became incandescent. “I—I need to leave before I say something I will regret for the rest of my . . . forever. I don’t know why I bother.”

  In disgust, without even a glance at me, Sheyenne departed straight through the solid wall. I was required to leave by more conventional means, but not before I turned my most baleful glare on Travis. And zombies have a knack for baleful glares.

  “I’m tired,” Travis muttered; it sounded like a whimper. “Leave me alone, I need to rest.”

  “Normally I don’t get involved in family matters,” I said in my most threatening tone, “but if you mess with Sheyenne, I promise I’m going to get very involved.”

  At my undead pace it was difficult to storm off, but I did the best I could.

  CHAPTER 25

  At noon, McGoo invited me to attend the autopsy of Snazz the gremlin, as his personal guest. VIP seats. It’s great to have friends in the right places.

  I arrived at the thick metal door at the rear of the morgue, and the fidgety ghoul attendant asked for my ID, compared it with the approved names on his clipboard, and checked me off the guest list.

  Inside, McGoo lounged in a hard plastic chair, holding his usual cinnamon latte. “Hey, Shamble, how many ghouls does it take to wallpaper a room?” Before I could stop him, he said, “Depends on how thinly you slice them.”

  I looked around the morgue. “What are you trying to do, make all the corpses get up and walk out of here groaning?”

  “You never appreciate fine humor.”

  “Hmm, I haven’t heard any in a long time.”

  The murdered gremlin was laid out on a stainless-steel slab. All around us, tables were cluttered with Bunsen burners and bubbling beakers filled with colored liquids, differentiation tubes, glass and metal coils. I actually felt my hair stand on end from the static electricity in the air: A Jacob’s ladder buzzed and snapped with a rising electrical arc; a plasma ball flickered with tentacles of contained lighting. Since it was a sunny day with no thunderstorms in the forecast, the lab’s skylight was closed, the lightning rods withdrawn.

  The coroner, a small-statured and frenetic man with skin the color of spoiled milk, was completely hairless, except for the obvious and out-of-place toupee in the middle of his scalp; I fought down the urge to stare at it. He was working with flasks of chemicals, hunched over bubbling test tubes. He gave me a quick nod of greeting. “My name is Victor.”

  “Of course it is.” Weren’t all mad scientists named Victor?

  “Dr. Archibald Victor,” he added.

  McGoo leaned close to me. “Emphasis on the bald.”

  The coroner went back to mixing his concoction, poured a blue liquid into a flask, whereupon it foamed and turned red; he added another chemical, which made greenish brown smoke erupt. After the roiling bubbles subsided, Dr. Victor poured the mixture into a coffee mug and took a long gulp, letting out a sigh of satisfaction. Remembering his manners, the coroner turned to us. “Would either of you like an energy drink?”

  “Not me, thanks,” I said.

  McGoo lifted his cinnamon latte. “I’m fine—let’s just get on with it.”

  Dr. Victor rattled a metal tray close to the gremlin’s cadaver on the slab. With building anticipation, he gloated over his selection of scalpels, bone saws, icepick-like temperature probes, spreaders, and silver pans; he showed so much enthusiasm for the shiny objects that I was sure Snazz would have approved. The coroner also had a pad of paper that looked like a game score sheet. He hummed as he got to work, pulling out empty bottles, test tubes, and jars.

  “Specimens, specimens, specimens,” he said as he trimmed some of the gremlin’s fur and put it into a plastic bag. He ran a metal implement around Snazz’s rubbery gray lips, inspecting the teeth. He poked a cotton swab into the gremlin’s ear. He counted fingers and toes, wrote down the numbers. With obvious glee, he picked up a scalpel and a bone saw to expose the skull. “And now for the cranium and the brai
n.”

  I looked at McGoo. “Do you think his brain had anything to do with it?”

  “Not at all.”

  We had spoken in hushed whispers, but now I raised my voice. “Excuse me, Dr. Victor, but my best guess is that the victim was strangled.”

  The coroner was startled by the interruption. “And have you spent any time with the body?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  Dr. Victor took up his magnifying glass again and bent over the crushed fur and disjointed larynx at the gremlin’s throat. “Why yes, yes, it appears so—definitely, I would say. The victim was definitely strangled to death. Definitely.” He sniffed. “And now for the cranium and the brain.” With deft movements, he sliced the skin in a neat circle all around the top of the gremlin’s head, peeled off the scalp, then set to work on the skull.

  McGoo sipped his latte again. “There’s no rushing these things.”

  By the end of the autopsy, I had learned more—much more—about gremlin anatomy and internal organs than I’d ever wanted to know. Heart, lungs, kidneys, spleen, stomach contents—Snazz’s last meal had been corn flakes—bladder and its urine for additional testing, toenails snipped off and placed in separate vials. I knew there was a black market in unnatural bodily organs that certain sorcerers used when casting obscure spells. Any number of mad scientists—or just unorthodox collectors—had standing orders for particular body parts, especially brains, though I wasn’t convinced that gremlin brains were in particularly high demand.

  Most importantly, the coroner thrust the long, sharp temperature probe into the center of Snazz’s liver, took readings of the body core, made his calculations. “There we have it. Time of death between seven ten and seven fifteen last night.”

  “Sounds awfully accurate,” McGoo said.

  “Yes, yes. Gremlin livers are like stopwatches. Very easy.”

  I looked at McGoo. “I was with you in the Goblin Tavern last night. We didn’t leave until nine.”

  “Looks like you’ve got an alibi, Shamble.” McGoo sounded as relieved as I felt.

  “That’s proof that I didn’t kill the gremlin.”

  Dr. Victor blinked up at me; his eyes were extremely large, as if frozen in a permanent look of startlement. “Of course you didn’t kill the gremlin. You’re a zombie. He was strangled. Therefore, you would have left flakes of dead skin all over his throat. No sign of that.”

  “You could have told us that from the outset,” I said.

  The coroner sounded indignant. “I didn’t know it was a question.” He turned back to poking and prodding around the numerous organ specimens he had just collected. The perspiration on his scalp had caused his toupee to slither halfway down his forehead.

  I said to McGoo, “I’m off the hook.”

  “Off the hook for the murder, Shamble. I’m still pissed off about the breaking and entering.”

  “Are you going to arrest me for that?” That would put a damper on my day.

  He sighed. “I have too much pain-in-the-ass paperwork to do already. No need to add more to it.”

  “So, does that mean I can have a look at that ledger now?” I knew I was probably pushing him too far.

  “Evidence techs are still testing it, nothing released yet. But what exactly are you looking for? I might be able to sneak a peek.”

  “Sales of several heart-and-soul bundle packs, particularly the one belonging to Jerry, Mrs. Saldana’s zombie helper. Snazz wouldn’t tell me the name of the purchaser. We’re trying to buy it back so he can be his old self again, as a favor to her.”

  He groaned. “For Mrs. Saldana? All right, I’ll see what I can find.”

  CHAPTER 26

  After the autopsy, and being cleared of murder, I returned to the office just in time for Harvey Jekyll to come in and try to hire our services.

  Robin was at her desk, having worked all night long. At dawn, she had filed a housing discrimination action on behalf of the Pattersons, sent out a barrage of press releases, made contact with the housing authorities. She was already drawing a lot of attention, and she was just getting warmed up.

  Back at my desk reviewing case files, I kept kicking myself for not getting a look at the pawnshop ledger before I reported the gremlin’s murder. That would have saved me a lot of trouble. What had my hurry been? Snazz wasn’t going anywhere, and a few extra minutes wouldn’t have made any difference in scheduling his autopsy.

  I also needed to contact faux-Shakespeare about the theater props that I had found in Timeworn Treasures. Even though that was good news for the actors, the pawnshop crime scene was locked up tight, and the ghostly troupe couldn’t get their property back until it was released from evidence. Nothing I could do before that.

  Our door swung open, and the bristle-furred Larry the werewolf stepped inside, scanned our offices with slitted eyes as if assessing threat potential, then gestured with a clawed hand. “Clear, Mr. Jekyll. You can come inside.”

  Harvey Jekyll sauntered in, a gnomish man that no gnome would ever claim as a relative. He had a wrinkly scalp, large owlish eyes, fidgety fingers, and black burn spots around the back of his head and across his brow, permanent reminders of his ride on Sparky, Jr.

  It’s not an exaggeration to say that Harvard Stanford Jekyll was one of the men I loathed most in the entire world.

  The moment he set foot through the door, Jekyll acted as if he owned our offices, but since his financial ruin and subsequent death sentence, he wasn’t in a position to buy much of anything. Nevertheless, it took a while for ingrained attitudes to change.

  “Unimpressive.” Jekyll frowned in disapproval. “I expected Chambeaux and Deyer to have more elaborate offices.”

  Robin stood next to me, coiled and furious. “We don’t have extravagant tastes.”

  I put a hand on her arm, and she jumped. “Breathe, Robin,” I said quietly, then raised my voice. “What do you want here, Jekyll? I hoped we’d never have the displeasure of your company again.”

  Larry prowled our offices, circling the perimeter with his biceps bunched, fangs bared, claws exposed, trying to look like a tough guy. That was what he got paid for, I suppose.

  “I’d prefer not to be here myself, Chambeaux. How’s the arm, by the way?”

  “Reattached and perfectly functional.” I made a fist. “Care to see for yourself?”

  Jekyll ignored this. “Good, because we might need your services, although my current problem falls more under Ms. Deyer’s purview.”

  “I’m not interested in taking your case,” Robin said.

  “Really? That’s ironic. Now who’s practicing discrimination?” The comment startled her, and Jekyll talked quickly. “I saw your recent filing on behalf of the Pattersons, and I wish to file an identical one for my own circumstances.”

  “What could you possibly have in common with that nice couple?” I said.

  “I have encountered exactly the same problem. I wish to move away from the Unnatural Quarter to a pleasant residence out of town. I don’t feel welcome here anymore.”

  “That’s an understatement,” Larry growled under his breath.

  “I, too, applied for a mortgage to buy a small home in the suburbs, and I, too, was turned down. I’ve been shunned.”

  “Not used to that, are you?” I smirked. “How are you going to make the down payment or afford our fees? I thought Miranda took every cent in your divorce.”

  “She did,” Jekyll said. “But I’ve made other investments since. Now, from a legal perspective, wouldn’t you say I have as much right to a home in any neighborhood I choose as the Pattersons do?”

  Robin said in a flat, emotionless voice, “All of my efforts are taken up with the Pattersons. I really have no interest in your case, and since I represented Miranda in her divorce, it would be a conflict of interest.”

  Jekyll snorted. “So the law only applies to people you like? For shame! There are few enough lawyers willing to represent monsters in the Quarter that you have to bend a few rules i
n the name of justice. I’ve heard your crusades and passionate speeches about equality—I guess as an attorney you’re as believable as a politician when you make promises. And I’ve had problems with politicians letting me down as well.”

  “I hope that was your peculiar way of saying goodbye,” I said to Jekyll. Robin was more furious and confused than I’d ever seen her.

  “Very well. I’ve presented my case. Think about it, Ms. Deyer—and think about who you are. It wouldn’t look good for your cause in the press if I were to point out that you practice discrimination yourself, despite all your talk. Come on, Larry. I’d like to stop for a coffee on the way back home.”

  The werewolf bodyguard bristled. “A to-go coffee, boss. It’s the only way I can keep you safe.”

  Jekyll sighed. “Very well, it’s probably best. I’ll wait in the car.”

  Larry followed him out the door, but the werewolf turned back to me and spoke in a quick, low voice. “That private security job you talked to me about, Shamble—is it still open?”

  “Sorry,” I said, “it’s already been filled by a few rent-a-golems.”

  “Damn! Missed my chance.” Larry loped down the hall after his boss.

  CHAPTER 27

  The five new golems working security at the Full Moon loved their new jobs. One pair stood in front of the porch steps; two others patrolled the perimeter, walking like windup clay soldiers to prevent Senator Balfour’s minions from tacking up derogatory flyers; I didn’t see the last one.

  The golems wore smiles on their crudely fashioned faces and recognized me as I approached. “Mr. Chambeaux, good to see you!”

  “We can’t thank you enough,” said another.

  One got carried away in his excitement and disarmingly, but ill-advisedly, clapped me on the shoulder. I felt as if I’d been hit by a linebacker, but I managed to keep my feet. Golems are strong.

  “Any more trouble since last night, boys?” I asked.