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 defamation 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.