Death Warmed Over - By Kevin J. Anderson Page 0,94

once.”

But Brondon knew a ghost couldn’t touch him. “Go ahead and say boo all you want. I killed you, too, when you got to be a pain in the ass. And you’re both still annoying.”

Sheyenne’s expression was outraged. Brondon looked at her and laughed. “You didn’t know? After you had such a strong allergic reaction to the Compound X in the sample you stole, I tried to do damage control, but you just had to send the sample out for chemical analysis, didn’t you? Then I found out you were Chambeaux’s girlfriend, and I caught him digging into JLPN business, saw him surreptitiously following Harvey. I could put two and two together. I had to get rid of you both.”

“Sheyenne had nothing to do with it!” I said.

“I poisoned Sheyenne’s drink at Basilisk—toadstool toxin. Tasteless, effective, nearly always fatal in a high enough dose. And I had plenty of it here in my chemical labs for research. Toadstools do wonders for certain skin conditions in unnaturals. After I killed you both, that should have been the end of it. Imagine my surprise when you both came back!”

I lurched up three more steps until I was almost at the top—but I was still unarmed. Brondon pushed Robin closer to the edge of the foul-smelling chemical vat. As she struggled to keep her balance, I yelled, “The Compound Z in that vat isn’t going to hurt Robin. She’s human.”

Brondon looked exasperated. “She can still drown!” He cocked the gun. “And that stuff’s caustic in high concentrations. We’ve done hundreds of animal trials on bunnies and puppies just to make sure. All part of JLPN’s dedication to quality control and safety before we go to market.”

He pointed the barrel directly into Robin’s face again. “Now, you’re going in, one way or the other.” He tightened his finger on the trigger.

The gunshot took me completely by surprise.

CHAPTER 42

I experienced a brief disorienting moment, like in a movie—I thought Brondon Morris had actually shot Robin. Instead, he spun around, grabbed his shoulder, and dropped his pistol on the catwalk.

Huffing and sweaty, McGoo stalked across the factory floor, his service revolver out. He was always a good shot.

Before I’d been killed, the two of us would often spend Saturday afternoons at the gun range, recreationally blowing holes in targets shaped like muggers, terrorists, werewolves, or hunchbacks. He always hit the bull’s-eye—center of chest, center of head. My shots were all over the place—not much finesse, but good enough to take down an opponent, regardless.

Brondon’s eyes bulged as he caught his balance and saw the cop. “You shot me!”

“Just winged you,” McGoo said, marching closer, keeping his revolver pointed up at the green plaid sport jacket. “Got your attention, though, didn’t I?”

Brondon opened and closed his mouth. “But . . . but you’re human!”

“And you’re an asshole.”

Even if McGoo hadn’t heard all the details of the nefarious JLPN plan, he had enough information to conclude that Brondon Morris was, indeed, an asshole.

Despite his bleeding shoulder, Brondon bent over and grabbed for the .38 he had dropped on the catwalk. Robin’s hands were tied, and she couldn’t get the gun herself, but just as his fingers touched the pistol, she pushed him with her hip hard enough to knock him off balance.

He tumbled into the chemical vat.

I wanted to cheer for her. I lurched up the last step and ran across the catwalk as Robin swayed to keep her balance. She teetered on the edge herself, but I grabbed her just in time and pulled her back from the precipice, holding her safe.

Sheyenne flitted close. “Officer McGoohan was handcuffed in Harvey Jekyll’s office in the admin building. I found him and unlocked his handcuffs, but since I can pass directly through walls, I got here faster than he could run.”

In the murky liquid, Brondon squawked and flailed, trying to stay afloat. Robin was appalled at what she had done. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—”

“Yes, you did—and you did a good job,” I said as I worked to untie her hands.

Even though Brondon was human, the caustic chemicals began eating away at the fabric of his green plaid jacket. He sank under, then resurfaced, thrashing and flopping. His hair curled and fell off in clumps, and his skin steamed and bubbled; huge blisters covered his cheeks and forehead.

I should have thought to keep watch on Sheyenne. Although the ghost couldn’t touch people, she floated to the main controls and flicked on the powerful stirring unit. With a loud