Unnatural Acts

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Robin kept shouting. “You’ll all be disintegrated! What are you waiting for?”

  We could never get the entire ghostly audience to safety fast enough if Travis was ready to activate the defibs. I fired twice more into the air. Some ghosts began wafting away, alarmed; others stopped at the ticket booth to ask for a refund. I had no idea what sort of range an industrial-strength ectoplasmic defibrillator had. I heard the yowling sirens of squad cars as McGoo brought backup to the cemetery, and the noise added to the panic.

  Shakespeare came out onto the stage to calm the crowd, but I ran forward, waving my hands. “Get out, everyone out—especially the ghosts!”

  He saw me, decided to take me at my word; if you can’t trust your private detective, who can you trust? He spoke into the amplification system. “Everyone, please remain calm—and run like hell!”

  The crowd ran like hell.

  Sheyenne pulled herself up in front of her brother, outraged. “You’ve done stupid things in your life, Travis, but what do you think you’re doing?”

  “A good deed—and you weren’t supposed to be here!” He backed toward the sound-system bank, holding a remote control pad that I guessed would activate the pulsing generators built into the speakers.

  “You want to disintegrate the ghosts in the audience?” Sheyenne placed herself directly in front of him, drifting just out of his reach. “Well, I’m here—go on, do it if you hate unnaturals so much. I’m one of them.”

  “Just leave, sis!” His voice trembled. “This is something I’ve gotta do. The senator saved me when I needed it most.”

  “You wouldn’t need to be saved if you didn’t keep screwing up! Go ahead, throw the switch, if that’s what you really want. You’ve always resented me for being practical and successful. You can’t stand it, can you? Do you think your life will be better by disintegrating all these innocent ghosts? Will your conscience be clear?”

  Travis wrestled with himself; his lower lip trembled. It wasn’t exactly the approach I would have used, but Sheyenne knew her brother better than I did. She stayed right there, glaring at him.

  “I can’t disintegrate my own sister,” he finally said, dropping the trigger remote.

  I took matters into my own hands, just in case Sheyenne’s little pep talk backfired. While they faced off, I got to the speaker and, using my zombie strength (which is actually overrated), tore out the electrical cables connected to the sound system. A yelp of feedback spilled out of the speakers before they went silent.

  Squad cars pulled up by the Greenlawn gates. McGoo led a charge of blue-uniformed policemen into the cemetery where they careened into the mob of fleeing vampires and zombies. In the swirl of evacuating unnaturals, I caught a glimpse of Edgar Allan trying to hand out business cards; he nearly got trampled underfoot.

  When he saw the approaching cops, Travis’s eyes widened, then he broke down. “I don’t want to go to jail. Senator Balfour told me he’d set me up with a new life and a new job far from here, if only I’d do this one thing! But I . . . I couldn’t throw the switch, even before I saw you, sis. I swear, I wouldn’t have done it!”

  I didn’t believe that part, but Sheyenne looked torn. “You’re part of a plot that would have destroyed hundreds of ghosts. We can’t just ignore that.”

  “Yes, you can,” he insisted. “It’s the last thing I’ll ever ask of you, I promise. Just give me five minutes. Let me slip out of here, and you’ll never see me again.” He looked pleadingly at me, but found no help there, so he turned back to his sister.

  The sirens were still wailing from the police units. McGoo and the others pushed toward the stage, fighting their way through a tangle of mummies and witches as they shouted for the ghosts to evacuate.

  I glanced at Sheyenne. “If it were up to me, I’d strangle him. But it’s your call. He’s your brother.”

  Her expression softened. “Get the hell out of here, Travis—and do it before I change my mind.”

  Her brother bolted behind the Globe Theatre stage and fled; he was gone by the time the police reached us. Robin finally came up to the stage, her voice hoarse from yelling so much. “We did it! Everyone’s safe.”

  McGoo was panting. “You sure know how to throw a party, Shamble—and don’t you dare tell me it was a false alarm.”

  “If you check these speakers, you’ll find two high-powered ectoplasmic defibrillators. One of Balfour’s creeps intended to vaporize all the ghosts in the audience, but we stopped him in time. I tore out the wires.”

  “Did you catch the senator’s man?” McGoo asked. “We can wrap this whole thing up if we get a confession!”

  “He got away,” Sheyenne said.

  As McGoo’s expression fell, I added, “We might have enough evidence here to nail Balfour anyway. Harvey Jekyll built and sold the defibrillators, and if we can tie these to him, find a purchase order, compare the serial numbers, you can bring charges.”

  “It’s enough to cause a scandal, even if we don’t get the senator in jail,” McGoo said.

  “Maybe we can still connect him with the bomb at the brothel,” Sheyenne said.

  “And I have dozens more suits and injunctions to file,” Robin said.

  “You keep filing your legal challenges. I’ll take a more direct approach.” I looked at Sheyenne. “Will you forgive me for going back to the Full Moon one more time?”

  “Only if you promise me it’s business.”

  “You know the answer to that.”

  CHAPTER 47

  Nobody was surprised when gaunt and shadow-faced Senator Balfour gave an emergency press conference early the next morning. In his ponderous voice he denied any knowledge of the unfortunate plot during the Shakespeare in the Dark performance. His frumpy wife, looking equally lifeless and unenthused, stood at his side, supportive in the most minimal way possible.

  I had no interest in listening to the speech. I didn’t care about the man’s excuses, nor did I believe him, although I did find it ironic that he somehow managed to label the accusations against him as “unnatural harassment.”

  I hoped I would get what I needed at the Full Moon and wrap up this whole mess.

  Without a warrant, McGoo would never be able to see Madam Neffi’s client records—and getting such a warrant would be problematic, since his own watch commander was one of her customers, as I knew from my previous glimpse of the files. I, however, had a close connection with the mummy madam, and I hoped she would cut me a break. Given Neffi’s vendetta against Senator Balfour, maybe she would let me look through her surveillance images and client files from the night of the bomb threat on the chance that I’d recognize one of Balfour’s minions. Perhaps the guy-in-tie or one of the demonstrators who had marched on the adult novelty shop.

  The withered madam was distraught when I arrived; her long, clawlike fingers fluttered about, showing her nervousness. “It’s been one nightmare after another! Considering this is the world’s oldest profession, you’d think we’d have the kinks worked out by now.”

  “Don’t some customers want the kinks?” I said.

  She turned her ember eyes toward me. “This isn’t a time for jokes, Mr. Chambeaux. Both of my zombie girls quit this morning, said they couldn’t take the pressure. Necrophilia’s big business here in the Quarter—now what am I supposed to offer my customers?”

  Yes, I thought she’d be inclined to help. “You heard what happened during the Shakespeare performance? I’m gathering evidence against Senator Balfour. One more solid nail in his coffin could take him down for good. If you let me look through your client files, I might find the clue we need.”

  She led me into her office. “So long as you do it in an unofficial capacity. I can’t let these files go public. The Full Moon is very discreet, and my client list is confidential.”

  “Then why keep such detailed records in the first place?”

  “Plenty of reasons: for protection, for possible blackmail use, and for occasional special coupon offers. Good busine
ss practices.” She pulled out a thick stack of manila file folders from the metal cabinet. “These are the customers from two nights ago.”

  I took them out into the parlor and spread them on one of the red velvet sofas. “Looks like business was good.”

  Neffi followed me. “We had so many customers we could barely log them in. Fortunately, we got good images from our lobby security cameras. In another week, I would have had a lot more footage. I’m setting up secret cameras for our subscription-only video service, Monsters Gone Wild.”

  I was surprised. “You film your customers and your girls?” Good thing I was not, nor did I intend to be, a Full Moon customer.

  “They sign a waiver,” Neffi said. “It’s not illegal.”

  “Do the clients understand what they’re signing?”

  The old mummy shrugged. “Probably not. It’s written in hieroglyphics.”

  Robin would have something to say about that, but I had a different purpose right now. The two vampire princesses and Cinnamon offered to help me go through the file. They used their sultry seductive voices; I doubted they knew how to talk in a normal manner.

  “Please, ladies—I don’t need the distraction right now.”

  “When you do need a distraction, be sure to call,” said Cinnamon. “And ask for me.”

  “Or me,” Nightshade and Hemlock chimed in.

  Neffi leaned over the sofa, all business. “I’ve been through the photos myself, but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. No customers stood out more than usual.”

  “I’d think everything’s out of the ordinary in a brothel in the Unnatural Quarter.”

  “Clients are clients.”

  I began to flip through the photos, a handful of humans and a wide assortment of monsters. “You didn’t notice anyone . . . nervous?”

  Neffi’s chuckle was a dry sound like wind rattling through reeds. “A lot of our customers are nervous. It doesn’t mean they planted a bomb.”

  Balfour’s minions would be human, so I started there, hoping to connect a face with someone I had seen holding a GOD HATES UNATURALS sign or tacking up posters or marching in the demonstrations. But none of the faces looked familiar.

  Quite a few customers were visiting the Quarter for a sporting-goods convention (judging by the name tags they had forgotten to remove). More tourism. I went through the entire file and began to lose hope that I’d find any clue connecting Senator Balfour with the bomb. Travis had insisted the senator was not responsible, but Sheyenne’s brother wasn’t the most reliable judge of character.

  I flipped through the other files, monster after monster. Most didn’t look familiar; I recognized some unnaturals I had met on the street. I was shocked by a few I did readily identify, but I won’t mention their identities here; that’s their private business, and it has nothing to do with this case.

  When I opened the next two folders, though, I recognized the culprit immediately—and I knew for certain that Balfour wasn’t involved after all.

  Two of the brothel’s customers on the night of the bomb were the fiery-eyed demons who had roughed me up only a few hours earlier. Big scaly thugs, hired by Missy Goodfellow for intimidation and muscle. I tapped the photos. “These two.”

  Neffi leaned over. “They like it rough. Don’t tip,” she said, as if that were enough of an accusation.

  “They work for Missy Goodfellow and the Smile Syndicate.”

  The mummy madam recoiled. “The Smile Syndicate? Those bastards!”

  If I’d been able to bottle the venom in her voice, I could have sold it to the Defense Department.

  She continued, “I told you the mob has been trying to drive me out of business. I guess threats weren’t enough. They wanted to blow up my brothel!”

  “When you talked about organized crime moving into the Quarter, I should have realized the Smile Syndicate was involved,” I said. “I’ve already got a beef with those two demons. They owe me a new hat and jacket—and the price of a restorative spell.” That reminded me I had to see Mavis Wannovich soon; she was becoming increasingly anxious to talk with me—she had called again that afternoon.

  The phone in my pocket rang, and I answered it. Sheyenne said, “Hi, Beaux. Not having fun at the brothel, I hope?”

  “You might call it fun. We just discovered who planted the bomb.”

  She sounded hopeful. “The senator?”

  “No—looks like Missy Goodfellow.”

  “Hmm,” Sheyenne said without any apparent surprise. “Speaking of which, Robin and I have been digging through municipal records. We located all those hearts and souls that Angela Drake bought from the pawnshop. Go collect them if you want to make Mrs. Saldana and Jerry happy.”

  I brightened. “Where are they?”

  “At the Final Repose Storage Complex.”

  I grinned. “This has been a much better day than yesterday. I’ll head right over there.”

  CHAPTER 48

  Seeing me enter the front office, Maximilian Grubb rocked backward in his swivel chair behind the little desk. The former necromancer and former golem sweatshop operator immediately expected the worst—which is not an inappropriate reaction from a man with a guilty conscience and a very long rap sheet.

  “Now what have I done? I already made it up to that escaped golem. I’ve got good karma now, but I swear you people won’t rest in peace until you’ve destroyed my livelihood.”

  “I’m not going to rest in peace anytime soon, Mr. Grubb.” I egged him on. “I’m puzzled by your reaction—worried about something?”

  “No, no, I’ve walked the straight and narrow, I swear! I made amends wherever I could, and I sleep better at night, or during the day, or whenever it’s convenient. I took the second chance to heart. I listened to what you and Officer McGoohan said. I’m a changed man.”

  His gaze shifted from side to side, but the eyeliner-painted third eye in the middle of his forehead stared directly at me. “Just like you said—I filled out every form, crossed every t, dotted every i, applied for every conceivable permit, paid fees that even the clerk didn’t know existed! I ransacked every single storage unit and spent hours with my clipboard, taking a complete inventory—and some of our customers were definitely not pleased. Kicked out a few homeless zombies, found a colony of feral black cats—talking ones, who were plotting to take over the world! Now, that was interesting. . . .”

  I already knew that Max had filed his meticulous inventory of the storage units with the city clerk; Robin had obtained it through some legal somersault or other, and Sheyenne had pored over the listings until she spotted exactly what we were looking for.

  He continued to ramble. “I properly disposed of any improperly stored items. I ensured legally mandated safety interlocks on all dangerous supernatural objects.” The former necromancer finally ran out of steam. “I’ve done nothing wrong.” He sniffled. “Honest.”

  I decided not to reassure him; better to keep him nervous. “I’m investigating a storage unit that contains a large number of packaged hearts and souls. I need you to take me there.”

  His eyes were bright and terrified, and even the painted eye on his forehead seemed to widen in fear. “I just knew those were going to be a problem! The clerk’s office didn’t know what to do with them. I think she wanted me to pay her a bribe to forget about the matter—but not me, no! Everything aboveboard from now on. That’s my promise.” Max sat up straight. “I spent hours with her looking through the books of regulations, and finally I got a permit for Dubious Sentimental Items. But I told her—I swear I told her—I said, ‘If this is the wrong category, call me back, and I’ll fill out the proper paperwork.’ I did think those combo packs were highly unusual. Why would somebody store them here?”

  “I want to see these hearts and souls, Mr. Grubb.” From the pocket of my sport coat, I withdrew a thick folded document, an imposing and frighteningly legal-looking brief. “One of them belongs to a client of mine, and he will sue to get his soul back.” I looked
around at the squalid offices. “Since you own the storage unit where the items in question have been hidden—perhaps illegally—you’ll be named as one of the parties in the lawsuit.”

  Max held up his hands to ward off the document, like a vampire faced with a crucifix. That was fine with me, since I didn’t want him to read the papers anyway. The document was just Robin’s application for us to install a neon Chambeaux & Deyer sign outside our building, which had to be approved by the city council. The document had nothing whatsoever to do with retrieving the hearts and souls, but the former necromancer didn’t know that.

  “No need! I’ll give you my full cooperation, but I’m not authorized to let you take any of the items away without a court order.”

  “Right now, Mr. Grubb, my first duty is to make certain my client’s heart and soul are intact and undamaged.”

  Max pecked away with two frantic, shaking fingers on his old, dusty PC, calling up the records. “Yes, yes, there’s the unit. It was rented by a Ms. Angela Drake, paid two years in advance.” He looked up with a small forced smile. “She got a free month that way.”

  “I already know who rented it. Now please, take me out there so I can verify that my client’s heart and soul haven’t been harmed through any negligence of the Final Repose Storage Complex.”

  Max yanked open a drawer and rattled a copious number of keys until he selected the correct one. He led me out the door, his purple necromancer robe swishing from side to side as he took me between rows of low buildings, along gravel and mud driving paths, until he stopped at the third row. He unlocked the padlock and rolled up the segmented garage door. Tugging on a string inside, he switched on the single naked lightbulb, which illuminated an empty vault.

  The unit contained only a single rack of metal shelves, on which rested a dozen Mason jars with rusty screw-top lids; the jars were held in place with stretched bungee cords. Each jar contained a hardened, twisted lump—the shriveled heart of some creature desperate enough to have pawned it at Timeworn Treasures. Each heart was surrounded by the faint blue aura of a barely visible soul. The preserved hearts beat slowly, restlessly, like a nightmare-plagued person twitching in his sleep.