out to the storage unit. Maximilian Grubb was already intimidated, but I wanted her along in case we needed to do a little legal bluffing so Jerry could be restored. She agreed. “As long as it’s legal bluffing.”
When the solution to a case is humming along and building momentum, I always get optimistic, but I should know better by now. We arrived at the Final Repose, hoping that Max had locked the storage unit and kept the hearts and souls safe—only to find the former necromancer murdered in the front office.
Very murdered.
He had been shot multiple times with silver bullets, including one through the third eye painted in the middle of his forehead. A wooden stake had been pounded through his heart, and a scribbled deanimation spell had been safety-pinned to his shirt.
I had seen this sort of thing before. As Robin stood there aghast, I said, “The murderer looked up how to kill a necromancer online and got conflicting information.”
McGoo drove up in his patrol car and whistled a cheerful tune as he pulled open the office door and stepped inside, said hello to Robin and me, then stared at the body of the thoroughly murdered necromancer. He looked at me and said, “Damn, Shamble, why is it always complicated with you?”
Then the astonishment wore off enough that another piece clicked into place for me. “We’d better get to the storage unit! Mrs. Saldana might be in trouble.”
That old woman had devoted her life to helping down-and-out unnaturals. She had been tireless in her dedication, saving brain-addict zombies like Jerry, handing out charity blood packs to starving vampires, giving monsters a second chance when they needed it, despite all of her difficulties in keeping the mission open. As her benefactor, Irwyn Goodfellow had seemed a godsend, providing new hope for all lower-class unnaturals. Now, though, I feared we would find her dead, just like Maximilian Grubb.
We bolted out of the office, ran between the rows of storage units. I drew my .38 as we approached, and McGoo pulled his service piece—the one loaded with normal bullets, not the silver-jacketed ones. Irwyn Goodfellow was not a monster in the traditional sense, just a very, very bad man.
The roll-up door to the hearts-and-souls storage unit was open, and I heard rustling sounds inside, clinking jars. We knew what Goodfellow was capable of. I couldn’t forget his demonic expression in the crystal ball as he strangled Snazz, and the numerous wounds on the former former necromancer’s body made the point more clearly than words. “Robin, you’d better stay back where it’s safe,” I whispered.
Her eyes flared. “Are you kidding me?”
“Okay, silly suggestion.”
McGoo and I walked up to the open storage unit, guns drawn.
Under the light of the single naked bulb, Irwyn Goodfellow was grabbing Mason jars from the shelves, stuffing them into a black duffel bag, and packing dirty socks around the jars so the glass wouldn’t break. He picked up one jar that contained a brown and sluggishly beating heart surrounded by the aura of a contained soul.
When we yelled “Freeze!” it was like a moment in a cop show.
Goodfellow froze, as he was told. His face looked haggard; his big once-understanding eyes had more of an edge now. His thick flattop haircut looked like a bristly doormat used for scrubbing mud from the bottom of your shoes. He showed no sign of the smile he had worn during his many benevolent speeches.
Mrs. Saldana and Jerry lay on the floor inside the unit, both of them tied up with the bungee cords Goodfellow had detached from the shelves. Both had also been gagged with dirty socks stuffed into their mouths—which was disgusting in its own way.
Goodfellow held the jar in his hand, dangling it above the hard cement floor in a clear threat.
Jerry mumbled something through the wadded sock in his mouth. Even when his articulation was unimpeded, Jerry’s words were often incomprehensible, and I couldn’t understand a single syllable now. But the conclusion was obvious—Goodfellow was holding Jerry’s heart and soul hostage.
“Put the soul down, Goodfellow,” McGoo said. “Gently. No sudden moves.”
“I don’t think so. I’m very sorry, but I have to think of the benefit of the whole Unnatural Quarter. And since I’m doing so much good work here, it’s important that I stay out of jail.” Now the sincere, warm smile returned to his face. “You understand.”
He glanced at the old woman, who struggled against her stretchy bungee cords but made little progress. “Even Mrs. Saldana knows what