Unnatural Acts

by Kevin J. Anderson

  McGoo regarded the half-filled duffel bag, the remaining jars on the shelves. “We’ll have to confiscate these hearts and souls, log them into evidence.” Mrs. Saldana and Jerry were both crestfallen, but McGoo plucked the rescued jar out of my hands and said, “Unfortunately, in all the commotion, maybe I didn’t notice this one.” He handed Jerry back his heart and soul.

  Even though shamblers tend to have very bad teeth, it was good to see Jerry smile.

  CHAPTER 51

  Even with Robin’s numerous challenges to the Unnatural Acts Act pending with the courts, and with Sheyenne’s overwhelming workload just wrapping up the various cases we had finished, I made them follow me out of the Chambeaux & Deyer offices. I wanted us all outside of Smile HQ at the right time and place.

  “I promise, this will warm your hearts,” I said. “Makes all our work worthwhile.” Maybe that was an exaggeration, but it did get them interested.

  We waited on the sidewalk across the street from the corporate headquarters, pretending to be mere pedestrians. I glanced at my watch.

  The Smile Syndicate was a mammoth business with tentacles extending throughout the Unnatural Quarter and the normal world. In order to defeat such an organization, I needed something even more powerful and more dangerous than they were—which meant I had to make a deal with the devil (metaphorically speaking, honest).

  With a squeal of tires, five black unmarked cars pulled up in front of Smile HQ. Each had tinted windows, nondescript license plates, and all the glaring indicators that government agencies include on a “discreet unmarked vehicle.” Men in black suits, white shirts, thin black ties, and black sunglasses emerged. They carried briefcases instead of weapons, but in this instance the briefcases could cause far more damage than a bazooka.

  “Who are they, Dan?” Robin asked.

  “Internal Revenue Service,” I said, then added with grinning finality, “Auditors.”

  More vehicles surrounded the corporate headquarters, and auditors swooped in like vultures onto a bloated corpse.

  “How did they know to come here?” Sheyenne asked. “And how did you know it was going to happen?”

  I smiled again, feeling good inside. “Could be someone made a phone call.”

  After I had obtained Snazz’s hidden ledger and confronted Missy Goodfellow with the second set of books, she had all but admitted to me that the Smile Syndicate used the same shady accounting practices. Normally, that wouldn’t have been any of my business, but once Missy’s demon goons had roughed me up and played Pass the Zombie, and then threatened to twist Robin’s head off like unscrewing a lid from a jar, she had crossed a line.

  Being a criminal is one thing, but playing dirty is another, so I felt justified in playing dirty as well.

  The two demon thugs had also planted a bomb at the Full Moon (and probably smashed the windows and ruined two of Neffi’s mummified pet cats). And Irwyn Goodfellow had used Angela’s services and Smile Syndicate funds to purchase his stash of pawned hearts and souls. But that was all just icing on the cake.

  I knew the inherent dangers of contacting the tax authorities, and it was action I did not take lightly. You’ve heard stories about ill-advised amateur wizards who invoke supernatural entities that invariably turn on them, and my phone call tip was like summoning a powerful and uncontrollable demon. But the IRS was the only thing I knew that was scary enough to take down the Smile Syndicate.

  The men in suits locked down the entire building and held a perimeter. No one was allowed in or out. A larger crowd began to gather, watching the commotion. I bought coffee for us from a cart on the corner.

  I assumed that the auditors would find some way to track down Angela Drake in Tasmania—if indeed that was where she’d gone . . . if she was even still alive. They would take her statement, get her to turn state’s evidence on Missy Goodfellow. She would also be a helpful witness in Irwyn’s trial.

  The three of us watched as a group of clerical golems marched out of Smile HQ dressed in business suits, white shirts, and black ties. They had been hired as office workers from Irwyn Goodfellow’s own Adopt-a-Golem program, and now the ten clay figures walked in perfect single file, each carrying a banker’s box full of confiscated financial records.

  “The Smile Syndicate is finished,” I said. “I don’t know what’ll happen to all those souvenir shops. And I hope Stu ends up running the Goblin Tavern on his own. We’ll have to wait and see what happens.”

  Sheyenne asked, “If Angela purchased those hearts and souls from the pawnshop using Smile Syndicate funds, then won’t all the Mason jars be considered company assets during the tax proceedings?”

  “If this turns out as I suspect, they’ll have to liquidate the company in order to pay back taxes,” Robin said. “I’ll file an immediate claim on behalf of the original owners of the hearts and souls. We’ll arrange to buy them all back.”

  “And what about his charity work?” I asked.

  “Even though his reasons might have been corrupt, Irwyn knew what he was doing in the philanthropy department. Fortunately, all of his finances were locked into the nonprofit, shielded from Smile Syndicate operations. They should be immune from confiscation, no matter what the IRS finds in the audit.” Robin had been looking into the matter since Irwyn’s arrest. She had decided to join MLDW as a full member and legal advisor; Mrs. Saldana was the head of the board of directors and would be taking over the charities.

  We stood there for hours, watching the proceedings and never growing bored. Yes, it was turning out to be a good day.

  Now, when I take on a case, the job is all about getting the client what he or she wants, to solve a mystery or wrap up a crime. Gloating isn’t supposed to enter into it, but I did feel a warm glow of satisfaction as we watched the squad of agents herding goldenrod-haired Missy, her hands cuffed behind her back, forcing her to do the perp walk to one of their unmarked vehicles. I took a few photos for my scrapbook.

  As the men in suits pushed her toward the car, Missy’s eyes met mine, and a flash of understanding crossed her face. Her lip curled down in vengeful fury—not at all like the smile the company sported on their logo. She tried to shout something at me, but one of the agents pushed her head down and strongly encouraged her into the backseat of the car.

  Even though Missy couldn’t hear me, I said, “We hope your day is a sunny one.”

  CHAPTER 52

  The ghost of Alphonse Wheeler escaped from prison, to no one’s surprise.

  Instead of simply drifting between the bars or walking through the solid walls, the ghost bank robber went the extra mile and arranged a daring escape, as his reputation required. He had obtained a jeweler’s file from somewhere (rumor had it that he slipped out one night and stole it from a hardware store, then sneaked it back into the prison) and patiently cut through the bars of a high window. He tied sheets together so he could drop down, even though he could just as easily float, then threw one of the sheets over a guard and tied him up so he could have enough time to slip away.

  My suspicion was that Wheeler just wanted the attention, and he played by the rules to maintain his cachet of notoriety. During his bank-robbing career, Wheeler had been quite a showman, so his escape from prison couldn’t be as simple as floating away after he got bored with unlife behind bars.

  Unfortunately, the uproar caused by his escape reignited the issue of effective punishment against ghosts, even after what had happened during the Shakespeare in the Dark performance. Not surprisingly, Senator Balfour’s supporters demanded widespread use of the ectoplasmic defibrillator in even the mildest cases.

  Not one to miss an opportunity to speak out against unnaturals, Balfour called a press conference after Wheeler’s escape. In the crowd, his determined minions carried scrawled signs rife with misspellings. Sheyenne insisted that we attend the press conference; she was still angry with Travis, but even more upset at how the senator had used him as a patsy.

  Robin, who was still battling the defamatio
n and libel suit Balfour had brought against her, came along with us, determined to show that she intended to go down fighting. (Of course, her preference was not to go down at all, but to be victorious.)

  Balfour stood at the podium like a stick-in-the-mud with lips. Surrounded by so many followers who expressed innate hatred toward anything that was different from them, we felt distinctly out of place. After all, we were certainly different.

  The senator fixed his gaze on Sheyenne as he said, “The violent escape of the convicted bank robber Alphonse Wheeler only demonstrates the inadequacy of our means to protect ourselves against these unnaturals. That poor prison guard whom Wheeler assaulted in his escape will suffer severe psychological problems from his traumatic experience. We are all at risk! The only way to ensure that good normal people remain safe is to give them access to ectoplasmic protection! Any unnatural—whether it be a ghost, vampire, zombie, werewolf, or any other thing that breaks the law—must know it will meet the ultimate punishment.”

  Balfour’s minions cheered and hooted. I noticed that the media cameras and reporters paid more attention to the antics of his knuckle-dragging supporters than to the senator.

  From the other side of the crowd, counter-protesters shouted, “Ectoplasmic defibrillators are dangerous! They should be banned!” They had been rallied by MLDW in support of equal rights for the unnaturals.

  “Conflict of interest! Senator Balfour is an investor with the defib manufacturer,” another MLDW supporter yelled. “He’s in this for the money.”

  Balfour looked mortally offended. “Anyone who makes such an accusation had better show proof, or I’ll sue you for slander—just as I’m suing Ms. Deyer there.” He pointed directly at us.

  Robin lifted her chin and put on a brave face. “The truth is the truth.”

  The senator’s slack face finally showed a small smile. “At last I agree with you, Ms. Deyer: The truth is what shields us all.”

  There was a stir in the crowd, and Balfour turned as a small man made his way to the stage, accompanied by a werewolf who cleared a path through the crowd. It was Harvey Jekyll. His pale and patchy skin suggested that he hadn’t yet invested in a better embalming job, even though I’d recommended Bruno and Heinrich’s parlor to him.

  The senator looked uncomfortable to see the unexpected guest. “Ah, my . . . associate, Harvey Jekyll.” He didn’t want to say “friend.” Since Jekyll was the inventor and sole manufacturer of ectoplasmic defibrillators, however, Balfour could not deny his connection to the man.

  The crowd muttered and grumbled. Both unnaturals and unnatural-haters found common ground in reviling Harvey Jekyll.

  Though he was a small man, Jekyll shouldered Senator Balfour aside, took the microphone at the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for such a warm welcome.” Jekyll must have heard something I hadn’t. “I don’t like to think of myself as a vindictive man, but . . .” He gave a small, helpless smile. “I am what I am. This man, however, is not what he seems.” He jabbed his finger toward the senator. “Senator Rupert Balfour is a fraud, a complete and utter fraud.”

  The crowd exploded. “Security!” Balfour shouted.

  While guards rushed the stage, Larry the werewolf bounded up next to the podium and protected his boss, muscles bulging, fur bristling, fangs bared. Jekyll needed only a moment to say what he had come to say. His voice carried over the crowd.

  “Senator Balfour claims he hates unnaturals, but he is, himself. . . a zombie! And I am sick and tired of keeping his secret.”

  A simultaneous gasp of indrawn breath from the audience sucked all the oxygen from the immediate vicinity. Robin, Sheyenne, and I stared at the stage. Senator Balfour was a gaunt and cadaverous man, humorless, loveless. “I should have seen the signs before,” I said.

  “If it’s true,” Robin added, “he gives zombies a bad name.”

  In the immediate uproar, Larry managed to push past the guards and angry crowd members and whisk his boss to safety. Most of the howling masses, though, were charging the stage to demand answers from the senator.

  Over the course of the afternoon, the rest of the story came out. The senator holed up and refused to answer questions, but soon enough his wife turned on him. Two of Balfour’s personal doctors, as well as his illicit mortician, gave interviews with their sides of the story. They also hinted that they were currently shopping tell-all books to various publishers.

  Senator Rupert Balfour, whom Robin had so aptly labeled an “ambulatory wad of phlegm,” was a bitter, grim man who had died one night of a heart attack, alone in bed. He came back to life, thanks to the aftereffects of the Big Uneasy.

  And nobody noticed the difference. Even his wife, an equally bitter and grim woman, had not remarked on the change for two weeks.

  Since he was a man of considerable power and means, Balfour covered up his death and resurrection. No wonder his wife looked perpetually sour, although it was clear to most observers that she hadn’t been satisfied—in any sense of the term—for some time, before or after her husband’s death.

  Upon hearing the news, Senator Balfour’s minions, once so vehement and supportive, turned on him like a pack of rabid lemmings. All efforts to enforce the Unnatural Acts Act were “halted, pending review,” and an emergency session was scheduled to repeal the Act, based on the highly unusual circumstances.

  For a man once so outspoken against his philosophical rivals, Balfour limited himself to statements comprising only two words: “No comment.”

  CHAPTER 53

  It isn’t easy to tell when a mummy is nervous, but I knew Ramen Ho-Tep well enough that I could detect subtle indications of anxiety. He talked too quickly, fidgeted, and avoided what was obviously the point.

  He shuffled into our offices on the pretext of “just stopping in to say hello”—which is never the real reason for a visit.

  “You look spruced up,” I said, remembering the first time he had dragged himself in to see Robin. His bandages had been brown, frayed, and loose, and he dribbled dust and moths everywhere. Now he had taken extra care to make himself presentable, with a few golden scarab baubles and one of those rubber support-the-cause bracelets for some charity or other. “What’s the occasion?”

  “Oh, nothing special, Mr. Chambeaux. I just like to look nice in case . . . well, you never know whom you might bump into,” he said in his erudite British accent. “I am the Pharaoh of all Egypt. You might say I’m a trendsetter of mummy fashion everywhere. By the way, I wonder if you might be a good chap? Do me a favor?”

  As I said, stopping by just to say hello is never the real reason. “Always happy to help our friends and former clients, Mr. Ho-Tep. What can I do for you?”

  “I am in possession of a certain VIP ticket to my presentation at the museum tomorrow, and I’d like to hand it to you.”

  “We’ve got other plans on Saturday, Mr. Ho-Tep. Sorry.” We were committed to going to Tiffany’s comedy routine.

  “Oh, you have already seen the show, Mr. Chambeaux. The ticket is not intended for you. I hoped you might consider delivering the invitation to Madam Neffi over at the Full Moon brothel?”

  Now it made sense. “You could just deliver it yourself. Neffi would be happy to see you.”

  “I hope so.” He shuffled his bandaged feet. “But I’m a tad nervous.”

  I was surprised. “The Pharaoh of all Egypt, who commanded great armies, who built gigantic pyramids, who ruled countless slaves . . . is nervous?”

  He swallowed in a very, very dry throat. “This is Neffi we’re talking about.”

  “I see what you mean.” I reached out my hand. “I’ll be heading over there to wrap up some matters on a case, and I’ll deliver it to her in person.” I had to bring our final bill, close out the account, and maintain goodwill; I had no doubt that Full Moon would need the services of Chambeaux & Deyer at some time in the future.

  “Thank you very much. I hope . . . I do hope she’s willing to see me again.”

  That af
ternoon, when I presented the special invitation to the mummy madam, a look of delight crossed the shriveled old face. “Why, Ramen Ho-Tep, that rascal! He sends you to do his dirty work? That man doesn’t know how to perform the simplest actions without his minions.”

  “He’d be very grateful if you’d attend his presentation,” I said. “He’s proud of the work he does, and I think it’s interesting.”

  “Oh, I’ll go and see him, although I think it might rattle the poor man.” She giggled. “It’s funny when a great pharaoh stammers too much to complete a sentence. If nothing else, I’ll be there to correct any misperceptions he gives the audience. As a pharaoh, Ramen never knew how real Egyptians lived. He had his brain removed with a silver spoon up his nose.”

  She drew a deep breath and heaved a long, dusty sigh. “Oh, it’ll be good to see him again.” She took the invitation and tucked it into her bodice, where I knew for certain that it would be safe.

  It was a night for celebration on many levels, and Robin, Sheyenne, McGoo, and I got together for a drink and a laugh. Yes, we had promised to see Tiffany’s routine at the comedy club, but this was no mere duty dance. I was actually pleased to be at the Laughing Skull.

  Tiffany made sure we had seats at one of the front tables near the stage. While there was no ticket charge for the open-mic night, the Laughing Skull did institute a two-drink minimum for all clientele, natural or unnatural. Since Sheyenne could nurse a drink but not actually enjoy it, McGoo and I manfully helped to meet her beverage obligations as well as our own.

  Bill was already seated at the table, the big clay guy facing the still-empty stage with a broad grin on his face. He had been moistened and smoothed over for the evening, and he looked freshly molded. He did not wear his security watchman uniform; rather, he had donned a bright Hawaiian shirt.