The Laughing Corpse abvh-2

by Laurell Kaye Hamilton

  I resisted the urge to flip them off. Mustn’t encourage the little tykes.

  They turned right. We went straight. Relief.

  Manny stopped two cars back from a light. Just beyond the light was the turnoff 40 West. We’d take 270 up to Olive and then a short jaunt to my apartment. We had forty-five minutes to an hour of travel time. Not a problem normally. Today I wanted away from Manny. I wanted some time to digest. To decide how to feel.

  “Talk to me, Anita, please.”

  “Honest to God, Manny, I don’t know what to say.” Truth, try to stick to the truth between friends. Yeah.

  “I’ve known you for four years, Manny. You are a good man. You love your wife, your kids. You’ve saved my life. I’ve saved yours. I thought I knew you.”

  “I haven’t changed.”

  “Yes,” I looked at him as I said it, “you have. Manny Rodriguez would never under any circumstance take part in human sacrifice.”

  “It’s been twenty years.”

  “There’s no statute of limitations on murder.”

  “You going to the cops?” His voice was very quiet.

  The light changed. We waited our turn and merged into the morning traffic. It was as heavy as it ever got in St. Louis. It’s not the gridlock of L.A., but stop and jerk is still pretty darn annoying. Especially this morning.

  “I don’t have any proof. Just Dominga Salvador’s word. I wouldn’t exactly call her a reliable witness.”

  “If you had proof?”

  “Don’t push me on this, Manny.” I stared out the window. There was a silver Miata with the top down. The driver was white-haired, male, and wore a jaunty little cap, plus racing gloves. Middle-age crisis.

  “Does Rosita know?” I asked.

  “She suspects, but she doesn’t know for sure.”

  “Doesn’t want to know,” I said.

  “Probably not.” He turned and stared at me then.

  A red Ford truck was nearly in front of us. I yelled, “Manny!”

  He slammed on the brakes, and only the seat belt kept me from kissing the dashboard.

  “Jesus, Manny, watch your driving!”

  He concentrated on traffic for a few seconds, then without looking at me this time, “Are you going to tell Rosita?”

  I thought about that for about a second. I shook my head, realized he couldn’t see it, and said, “I don’t think so. Ignorance is bliss on this one, Manny. I don’t think your wife could deal with it.”

  “She’d leave me and take the kids.”

  I believed she would. Rosita was a very religious person. She took all the commandments very seriously.

  “She already thinks I’m risking my eternal soul by raising the dead,” Manny said.

  “She didn’t have a problem until the pope threatened to excommunicate all animators unless they stopped raising the dead.”

  “The Church is very important to Rosita.”

  “Me, too, but I’m a happy little Episcopalian now. Switch churches.”

  “It’s not that easy,” he said.

  It wasn’t. I knew that. But, hey, you do what you can, or what you have to. “Can you explain why you would do human sacrifice? I mean, something that will make sense to me?”

  “No,” he said. He pulled into the far lane. It seemed to be going a little faster. It slowed down as soon as we pulled in. Murphy’s law of traffic.

  “You won’t even try to explain?”

  “It’s indefensible, Anita. I live with what I did. I can’t do anything else.”

  He had a point. “This has to change the way I think about you, Manny.”

  “In what way?”

  “I don’t know yet.” Honesty. If we were very careful, we could still be honest with each other. “Is there anything else you think I should know? Anything that Dominga might spill later on?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing worse.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Okay,” he said. “That’s it, no interrogation?”

  “Not now, maybe not ever.” I was tired all at once. It was 9:23 in the morning, and I needed a nap. Emotionally drained. “I don’t know how to feel about this, Manny. I don’t know how it changes our friendship, or our working relationship, or even if it does. I think it does. Oh, hell, I don’t know.”

  “Fair enough,” he said. “Let’s move on to something we aren’t confused about.”

  “And what would that be?” I asked.

  “The Seсora will send something bad to your window, just like she said she would.”

  “I figured that.”

  “Why did you threaten her?”

  “I didn’t like her.”

  “Oh, great, just great,” he said. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “I am going to stop her, Manny. I figured she should know.”

  “Never give the bad guys a head start, Anita. I taught you that.”

  “You also taught me that human sacrifice is murder.”

  “That hurt,” he said.

  “Yes,” I said, “it did.”

  “You need to be prepared, Anita. She will send something after you. Just to scare you, I think, not to really harm.”

  “Because you made me ‘fess up to not killing her,” I said.

  “No, because she doesn’t really believe you’ll kill her. She’s intrigued with your powers. I think she’d rather convert you than kill you.”

  “Have me as part of her zombie-making factory.”

  “Yes.”

  “Not in this lifetime.”

  “The Seсora is not used to people saying no, Anita.”

  “Her problem, not mine.”

  He glanced at me, then back to the traffic. “She’ll make it your problem.”

  “I’ll deal with it.”

  “You can’t be that confident.”

  “I’m not, but what do you want me to do, break down and cry? I’ll deal with it when, and if, something noisome drags itself through my window.”

  “You can’t deal with the Seсora, Anita. She is powerful, more powerful than you can ever imagine.”

  “She scared me, Manny. I am suitably impressed. If she sends something I can’t handle, I’ll run. Okay?”

  “Not okay. You don’t know, you just don’t know.”

  “I heard the thing in the hallway. I smelled it. I’m scared, but she’s just human, Manny. All the mumbo jumbo won’t keep her safe from a bullet.”

  “A bullet may take her out, but not down.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “If she were shot, say in the head or heart, and seemed dead, I’d treat her like a vampire. Head and heart taken out. Body burned.” He glanced at me sort of sideways.

  I didn’t say anything. We were talking about killing Dominga Salvador. She was capturing souls and putting them into corpses. It was an abomination. She would probably attack me first. Some supernatural goodie come creeping into my home. She was evil and would attack me first. Would it be murder to ambush her? Yeah. Would I do it anyway? I let the thought take shape in my head. Rolled it over like a piece of candy, tasting the idea. Yeah, I could do it.

  I should have felt bad that I could plan a murder, for any reason, and not flinch. I didn’t feel bad. It was sort of comforting to know if she pushed me, I could push back. Who was I to cast stones at Manny for twenty-year-old crimes? Yeah, who indeed.

  Chapter 8

  It was early afternoon. Manny had dropped me off without a word. He hadn’t asked to come up, and I hadn’t offered. I still didn’t know what to think about him, Dominga Salvador, and non-rotting zombies, complete with souls. I decided not to think. What I needed was good physical activity. As luck would have it, I had judo class this afternoon.

  I have a black belt, which sounds a lot more impressive than it really is. In the dojo with referees and rules, I do okay. Out in the real world where most bad guys outweigh me by a hundred pounds, I trust a gun.

  I was actually reaching for the doorknob when the bell chim
ed. I put the overstuffed gym bag by the door and used the little peephole. I always had to stand on tiptoe to see out of it.

  The distorted image was blond, fair-eyed, and barely familiar. It was Tommy, Harold Gaynor’s muscle-bound bodyguard. This day was just getting better and better.

  I don’t usually take a gun to judo class. It’s in the afternoon. In the summer that means daylight. The really dangerous stuff doesn’t come out until after dark. I untucked the red polo shirt I was wearing and clipped my inter-pants holster back in place. The pocket-size 9mm dug in just a little. If I had known I was going to need it, I would have worn looser jeans.

  The doorbell rang again. I hadn’t called out to let him know I was in here. He didn’t seem discouraged. He rang the doorbell a third time, leaning on it.

  I took a deep breath and opened the door. I looked up into Tommy’s pale blue eyes. They were still empty, dead. A perfect blankness. Were you born with a stare like that, or did you have to practice?

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  His lips twitched. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He shrugged massive shoulders. I could see the straps of his shoulder holster imprinted on his suit jacket. He needed a better tailor.

  A door opened to my left. A woman came out with a toddler in her arms. She locked the door before turning and seeing us. “Oh, hi.” She smiled brightly.

  “Hello,” I said.

  Tommy nodded.

  The woman turned and walked towards the stairs. She was murmuring something nonsensical and high-pitched to the toddler.

  Tommy looked back at me. “You really want to do this in the hallway?”

  “What are we doing?”

  “Business. Money.”

  I looked at his face, and it told me nothing. The only comfort I had was that if Tommy meant to do me harm he probably wouldn’t have come to my apartment to do it. Probably.

  I stepped back, holding the door very wide. I stayed out of arm’s reach as he walked into my apartment. He looked around. “Nice, clean.”

  “Cleaning service,” I said. “Talk to me about business, Tommy. I’ve got an appointment.”

  He glanced at the gym bag by the door. “Work or pleasure?” he asked.

  “None of your business,” I said.

  Again that bare twist of lips. I realized it was his version of a smile. “Down in the car I got a case full of money. A million five, half now, half after you raise the zombie.”

  I shook my head. “I gave Gaynor my answer.”

  “But that was in front of your boss. This is just you and me. No one’ll know if you take it. No one.”

  “I didn’t say no because there were witnesses. I said no because I don’t do human sacrifice.” I could feel myself smiling. This was ridiculous. I thought about Manny then. Alright, maybe it wasn’t ridiculous. But I wasn’t doing it.

  “Everyone has their price, Anita. Name it. We can meet it.”

  He had never once mentioned Gaynor’s name. Only I had. He was being so bloody careful, too careful. “I don’t have a price, Tommy-boy. Go back to Mr. Harold Gaynor and tell him that.”

  His face clouded up then. A wrinkling between his eyes. “I don’t know that name.”

  “Oh, give me a break. I’m not wearing a wire.”

  “Name your price. We can meet it,” he said.

  “There is no price.”

  “Two million, tax-free,” he said.

  “What zombie could be worth two million dollars, Tommy?” I stared at his softly frowning face. “What could Gaynor hope to gain that would allow him to make a profit on that kind of expenditure?”

  Tommy just stared at me. “You don’t need to know that.”

  “I thought you’d say that. Go away, Tommy. I’m not for sale.” I stepped back towards the door, planning to escort him out. He moved forward suddenly, faster than he looked. Muscled arms wide to grab me.

  I pulled the Firestar and pointed it at his chest. He froze. Dead eyes, blinking at me. His large hands balled into fists. A nearly purple flush crept up his neck into his face. Rage.

  “Don’t do it,” I said, my voice sounded soft.

  “Bitch,” he wheezed it at me.

  “Now, now, Tommy, don’t get nasty. Ease down, and we can all live to see another glorious day.”

  His pale eyes flicked from the gun to my face, then back to the gun. “You wouldn’t be so tough without that piece.”

  If he wanted me to offer to arm wrestle him, he was in for a disappointment. “Back off, Tommy, or I’ll drop you here and now. All the muscle in the world won’t help you.”

  I watched something move behind his dead eyes, then his whole body relaxed. He took a deep breath through his nose. “Okay, you got the drop on me today. But if you keep disappointing my boss, I’m gonna find you without that gun.” His lips twitched. “And we’ll see how tough you really are.”

  A little voice in my head said, “Shoot him now.” I knew as surely as I knew anything that dear Tommy would be at my back someday. I didn’t want him there, but...I couldn’t just kill him because I thought he might come after me someday. It wasn’t a good enough reason. And how would I ever have explained it to the police?

  “Get out, Tommy.” I opened the door without taking either my gaze or the gun off the man. “Get out and tell Gaynor that if he keeps annoying me, I’ll start sending his bodyguards home in boxes.”

  Tommy’s nostrils flared just a bit at that, veins straining in his neck. He walked very stiffly past me and out into the hall. I held the gun at my side and watched him, listening to his footsteps retreat down the stairs. When I was as sure as I could be that he was gone, I put my gun back in its holster, grabbed my gym bag, and headed for judo class. Mustn’t let these little interruptions spoil my exercise program. Tomorrow I would miss my workout for sure. I had a funeral to attend. Besides, if Tommy really did challenge me to arm wrestling, I was going to need all the help I could get.

  Chapter 9

  I hate funerals. At least this one wasn’t for anyone I had particularly liked. Cold, but true. Peter Burke had been an unscrupulous SOB when alive. I didn’t see why death should automatically grant him sainthood. Death, especially violent death, will turn the meanest bastard in the world into a nice guy. Why is that?

  I stood there in the bright August sunlight in my little black dress and dark sunglasses, watching the mourners. They had set up a canopy over the coffin, flowers, and chairs for the family. Why was I here, you might ask, if I had not been a friend? Because Peter Burke had been an animator. Not a very good one, but we are a small, exclusive club. If one of us dies, we all come. It’s a rule. There are no exceptions. Maybe your own death, but then again being that we raise the dead, maybe not.

  There are things you can do to a corpse so it won’t rise again as a vampire, but a zombie is a different beast. Short of cremation, an animator can bring you back. Fire was about the only thing a zombie respected or feared.

  We could have raised Peter and asked him who put a gun to his head. But they had put a 357 Magnum with an expanding point just behind his ear. There wasn’t enough left of his head to fill a plastic bag. You could raise him as a zombie, but he couldn’t talk. Even the dead need mouths.

  Manny stood beside me, uncomfortable in his dark suit. Rosita, his wife, stood spine absolutely straight. Thick brown hands gripping her black patent leather purse. She is what my stepmother used to call large-boned. Her black hair was cut just below the ears and loosely permed. The hair needed to be longer. It emphasized how perfectly round her face was.

  Charles Montgomery stood just behind me like a tall dark mountain. Charles looks like he played football somewhere. He has the ability to frown and make people run for cover. He just looks like a hard ass. Truth is, Charles faints at the sight of anything but animal blood. It’s lucky for him he looks like such a big black dude. He has almost no tolerance for pain. He cries at Walt Disney movies, like
when Bambi’s mother dies. It’s endearing as hell.

  His wife, Caroline, was working. She hadn’t been able to switch shifts with anyone. I wondered how hard she had tried. Caroline is okay but she sort of looks down on what we do. Mumbo jumbo she calls it. She’s a registered nurse. I guess after dealing with doctors all day, she has to look down on someone.

  Up near the front of the crowd was Jamison Clarke. He was tall; thin, and the only red-haired, green-eyed black man I’ve ever met. He nodded at me across the grave. I nodded back.

  We were all here; the animators of Animators, Incorporated. Bert and Mary, our daytime secretary, were holding down the fort. I hoped Bert didn’t book us in anything we couldn’t handle. Or would refuse to handle. He did that if you didn’t watch him.

  The sun slapped my back like a hot metal hand. The men kept pulling at their ties and high collars. The smell of chrysanthemums was thick like wax at the back of my throat. No one ever gives you football mums unless you die. Carnations, roses, snapdragons, they all have happier lives, but mums, and glads--they’re the funeral flowers. At least the tall spires of gladiolus had no scent.

  A woman sat in the front line of chairs under the canopy. She was leaning over her knees like a broken doll. Her sobs were loud enough to drown out the words of the priest. Only his quiet, soothing rhythm reached me as I stood near the back.

  Two small children were gripping the hands of an older man. Grampa? The children were pale, hollow-eyed. Fear vied with tears on their faces. They watched their mother break down completely, useless to them. Her grief was more important than theirs. Her loss greater. Bullshit.

  My own mother had died when I was eight. You never really filled in the hole. It was like a piece of you gone missing. An ache that never quite goes away. You deal with it. You go on, but it’s there.

  A man sat beside her, rubbing her back in endless circles. His hair was nearly black, cut short and neat. Broad shouldered. From the back he looked eerily like Peter Burke. Ghosts in sunlight.

  The cemetery was dotted with trees. The shade rustled and flickered pale grey in the sunlight. On the other side of the gravel driveway that twined through the cemetery were two men. They stood quietly, waiting. Grave diggers. Waiting to finish the job.