Unnatural Acts
Page 29
“How many cats do you have?”
“Seven,” she answered quickly. “At least, I think it’s seven. It’s difficult to tell them apart.”
I had first met Linda Bullwer when she volunteered for the Welcome Back Wagon, catering to the newly undead. More importantly, she had been commissioned as a ghostwriter by Howard Phillips Publishing to create a series of zombie detective adventures loosely based on my own exploits.
She gave a sweet smile to McGoo, and her demeanor was entirely changed now. “And thank you for your assistance, Officer—I’m sure you did your best, especially with Mr. Chambeaux’s help.” She cocked her head, lowered her voice. “Was it another case? Something I should write about in a future volume?”
“I doubt anyone would find it interesting,” I said.
“That’s what you said about the tainted Jekyll necroceuticals, and about the mummy emancipation case, and the Straight Edge hate group, and the attempted massacre of hundreds of ghosts with ectoplasmic defibrillators, and the burning of the Globe Theatre stage in the cemetery, and the golem sweatshop, and . . .”
I knew she could rattle off cases for hours because I had spent hours telling her about them. She had listened carefully, taking dutiful notes.
“It’s nothing,” I reassured her. “And we don’t even know if your first book is going to sell well enough that the publisher will want to do a second one.”
“They’ve already contracted with me for five, Mr. Chambeaux. The first one is just being released—have you gotten your advance copy yet?”
“I’ll check the mail when I get back to the office.” I have to admit, I was uncomfortable about the whole thing. Vampires shun sunlight, and I tended to avoid limelight.
McGoo regarded me with amusement. “I believe we’re done here, ma’am. Enjoy the rest of your quiet night.”
“Thank you, Officer. And thank you, Mr. Chambeaux, for your help.” She drew a deep breath. “Ah, blessed silence. At last I can write!”
A loud and anguished howl split the air, bestial shouts barely recognizable as words. “Help! Help me! Help!”
McGoo was already bounding down the stairs, and I did my best to keep up with him. We tracked the cries to a dark alley adjacent to the warehouse. A gangly werewolf leaned over a sprawled figure on the ground, letting out a keening howl. Beside him, two squirming cloth sacks contained the captured cockatrices; fortunately, the ties were secure.
As we ran up, Furguson turned to us, his eyes opened wide, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. “It’s Uncle Rusty!”
I recognized the bib overalls and reddish fur. The big werewolf lay motionless, sprawled muzzle-down in the alley.
“Is he dead?” McGoo asked.
Bending over, I could see that Rusty’s chest still rose and fell, but he had been stunned. The top of his head was all bloody, and it looked wrong.
Furguson let out another wail.
Then I realized that someone, using a very sharp knife, had scalped him.
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