Death Warmed Over - By Kevin J. Anderson Page 0,105
toward me as we turned toward the observation window that framed the medieval-looking electric chair. “Lighten up, Shamble. He’s the bad guy, dead to rights.”
“Dead to rights,” I agreed.
Then he told another one of his stupid jokes. “You know why witches fly on brooms? Because vacuum cleaner cords aren’t long enough.”
We fell into a hush as the prison guards led Harvey Jekyll into the death chamber, where he got to see Sparky, Jr. The little man didn’t resist or beg for mercy as they adjusted the seat to raise him, then secured the leather straps around his thin wrists and ankles. All the while, his owlish eyes looked at me through the observation window.
“I should have put the guy in prison back when he sold that garlic-laced vampire shampoo,” I said.
Robin agreed. “If we’d shut down the company then, he never would have had a chance to plan this whole scheme.”
“Brondon Morris still would have done it,” McGoo said.
“After today, we can all rest easy.” Sheyenne turned to me, suddenly concerned. “Do you think that’s what’ll happen? Is that why I came back as a ghost? Am I supposed to move on after I see justice done to my killers?”
“Do you want to leave?” My heart ached already, just looking at her.
“I’d rather stay with you.”
“I’d like that, Spooky. Death wouldn’t be the same without you.”
Sheyenne looked touched, then gave me a wink. “Besides, you and Robin couldn’t run the agency without me. You’re not going away, are you?”
“Don’t plan to.”
The prison guards washed Harvey’s bald scalp, added conductive cream, put damp sponges inside the metal cap, then tightened it onto his skull.
“Does that feel all right?” one of the guards asked. “Comfortable?”
“It’s just fine.” Jekyll did not take his eyes off me.
Unlike most traditional megalomaniacs, he didn’t deliver a long, eloquent speech, or curse us with his dying breath, or proclaim his innocence. He just waited as the clock ticked.
Because so many unnaturals wanted to see (and preferably participate in) the execution of this toiletries version of Adolf Hitler, the judge had chosen a guest executioner by lottery, rather than using the regular one. One lucky unnatural was allowed into the control room to do the honors. The winner was a simpering, bug-eyed lab assistant with a small hunchback.
When the second hand had swept around the clock to the appointed hour, the warden nodded to him. “Igor, throw the switch!”
I won’t dwell on the gruesome smoking and jittering blast that surged through Harvey Jekyll’s body. It wasn’t any more horrific than what he had done to his victims. The little bastard smoked, but at least he didn’t dissolve.
When it was over, Jekyll sagged into a lifeless mass in the chair. His eyes were screwed shut, his lips pulled back to expose his teeth in a death grimace. After the physician pronounced him dead, guards unstrapped him from Sparky, Jr., lifted him onto a gurney, and covered his body with a sheet.
Igor came out, grinning with delight and full of manic energy. He pulled out a phone camera and asked to have his picture taken with each of us. We obliged, and Sheyenne requested a copy of the photo so we could hang it on the wall of Chambeaux & Deyer Investigations.
The warden shook our hands. “A job well done. Justice isn’t always easy. Well worth the added cost in this month’s electric bill.”
McGoo clapped me on the shoulder, my damaged one, then apologized, thinking he’d hurt me. I let him believe that. I stood with Robin and Sheyenne, relieved, feeling the tension drain away. We had about five minutes of peace, in which we imagined a silly, happily-ever-after future.
Until Harvey Jekyll’s body rose from the gurney. He sat up from beneath the sheet and pulled it away from his burned head. His eyes were bright and focused. “Well, that was unpleasant.”
We all gaped at him. Statistics can really bite you in the ass. One in seventy-five return as zombies, with the odds favoring suicide or murder victims. Harvey Jekyll had been lucky. We hadn’t.
The warden let out an annoyed sigh.
Robin looked frightened. “We’re arguing the precedents, but the law currently states that even the most heinous criminal can be executed only once.”
“That law needs to be updated,” I growled.
The warden stood in front of Harvey Jekyll, extended his finger in a stern warning. “You’re free to go, Mr. Jekyll. But I never want to see you in here again. I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”