smashed our windows.”
Mr. Patterson picked up the story. “They threw bunches of garlic and wolfsbane through the picture window in our living room! How can we live in the house now? We’ll need to replace the carpeting, fumigate every room. I’ll have to rent a new coffin. My favorite one is ruined.”
“And they scattered garlic all around the house, as well as a circle of salt—as if that’s going to prevent us from leaving!”
“We’re not leaving,” Mr. Patterson said, defiant.
I could see that Robin was a thunderstorm ready to break. “I will use every possible weapon to fight for your rights, I promise. It’s time to blow this whole matter wide open. No more sitting quietly. We’re not the ones who took this to the next level.”
The Pattersons still sounded shaky as they thanked her and hung up. Robin launched herself out of the office with such fury on her face that she made even Sheyenne flinch. “That’s the last straw! I’ve been drafting a choice little letter for all the bloggers, papers, and TV stations. This is the excuse I’ve been waiting for. I’m going to call a spade a spade. Balfour’s a bigot, and he’s inciting violence—we have evidence of that. He can no longer hide behind his radical stupidity.”
Even though I’m not usually the voice of reason, I cautioned, “Don’t go off half-cocked, Robin. Whenever you write an angry letter, let it sit for a day, so you can cool off, get some objectivity, then reread the letter.”
“Justice can’t wait around for a day,” Robin said. “I’m a lawyer, I know what I’m doing.”
I couldn’t talk her out of it, and I did want Senator Rupert Balfour eviscerated in public, although I suspected his rotten organs were not fit for even a mad scientist’s experiments.
I asked McGoo to pull strings to arrange police protection around the Pattersons’ house, even though it wasn’t his jurisdiction. I was worried that some nutcase extremist with silver bullets or wooden stakes would take matters into his own hands.
Robin spent hours composing her angry press release that exposed Senator Balfour’s despicable activities, then distributed her posting as widely as possible, not only to various media outlets but to popular social-networking sites and bulletin-board discussion groups frequented by unnaturals.
She seemed immensely pleased with what she had sent out—I could tell from her edgy smile and the contained energy with which she moved about the office. Although she wouldn’t let me read the text ahead of time, I found it on our website. I didn’t disagree with a single word she wrote, but I think my eyeballs blistered after reading the flaming invective.
CHAPTER 42
Knowing that Angela Drake had bought the heart-and-soul combo packs didn’t help me retrieve them, since she had vanished. Missy Goodfellow categorically denied possessing the items, and she certainly wouldn’t give me access to her financial records so I could double-check.
But a dead end wasn’t going to stop a zombie private detective.
That evening I retraced my investigations, which brought me back to the vicinity of the Unnatural Acts adult novelty shop. A frown creased my face. The store was shut down, and yellow tape crisscrossed the door. Senator Balfour’s obnoxious flyers covered the outer wall like leprous growths. I noted that they had now registered their You Are Damned! slogan as a trademark. And they still didn’t know that unnatural had two Ns.
An official notice had been tacked to the center of the novelty shop’s door: CLOSED, PENDING PROSECUTION UNDER THE UNNATURAL ACTS ACT.
When the legendary creatures returned in the Big Uneasy, there had been quite a panic—which was understandable—but as I observed this spread of intolerance toward monsters who just wanted to live and let live (for the most part), I wondered whether the world really was coming to an end....
I entered the pawnshop alley to see that the Timeworn Treasures sign had been taken down, the windows painted over, and a large Commercial Property For Rent sign placed in each one, complete with the smiling face of Edgar Allan. Cheerful service—alive or dead!
Alice had wasted no time washing her hands of her brother’s shop, sweeping everything under the rug, and heading off on her Mediterranean cruise. I imagined her lounging in a deck chair in the warm salty air, tanning her fur as she cruised around the Greek isles . . . or maybe hiding from the sunlight and spending all hours hunched over a slot machine on the casino deck.
The cruise sounded like something I’d like to do