Death Warmed Over - By Kevin J. Anderson Page 0,99
can I do to help?” Robin asked. “Does it hurt?”
“Doesn’t hurt . . . much. We’re back in business.” I held up my hand in a high-five gesture. Robin smiled and slapped my palm. Sheyenne did the same, although her spectral hand passed through mine. “I have good people to take care of me.”
Wendy the Patchwork Princess tottered into the sitting room, carrying my old jacket, which was amazingly clean and patched up again. It still looked tattered with the bullet holes sewn up in clumsy stitches, but it smelled fresh, and there was no sign of mud or blue fizziness.
“Sorry it’s not better,” she said.
“It’s just great, Wendy.” I ran my fingers over the black stitches that held the bullet holes together. “It has character, and I plan to wear it every day. From now on, this is my lucky jacket.”
“Lucky?” Robin said. “What kind of luck are you talking about?”
With her help, I shrugged my arms into the sleeves, straightened the collar, smoothed the lapels, and assessed my appearance in Miss Eccles’s parlor mirror. “I may look like I came off the discount rack in the used-body store, but this is who I am.”
“That’s the way we like you, Beaux,” Sheyenne said.
Maybe some flesh-colored upholstery tape would mask the stitches holding my arm back on, and makeup could cover the neatly sutured bullet holes across my torso. I resolved to remain well preserved, keep my regular appointments at Bruno & Heinrich’s Embalming Parlor for a touch-up, and spend more time at the All-Day/All-Nite Fitness Center.
Lujean Eccles placed her hands on her ample hips, pleased with her work. “Don’t feel bad about it, Mr. Chambeaux. Our scars tell stories of who we are and what we did. A person without marks hasn’t done anything.”
It was a good sentiment. “I’ll remember that.” I brushed off the front of my jacket and placed the fedora back on my head.
After Jekyll’s crimes were exposed, the uproar among unnaturals was so great that all hell was about to break loose. The warning against JLPN’s new line of Compound Z–saturated necroceuticals went out wide. All product stockpiles were impounded, every bottle taken from the shelves; every tube of toothpaste, jar of hair cream, pack of emBalm, or bottle of skin softener was recalled and incinerated, just in case.
Even so, because of accidental glitches or just plain obstinate stupidity, seventeen more unnaturals dissolved into puddles of goo. But it could have been much worse....
The Dorset family returned to our offices, more desperate than ever. The medium, Millicent Sanchez, looked frazzled, her hair in disarray, her eyes bloodshot. The family looked defeated, the children so skittish they could barely concentrate on their video games.
“Breakfast, lunch, and dinner—it’s constant aggravation,” Jackie Dorset said. “Uncle Stan wakes us up at all hours of the night. He heckles the children while they’re doing homework. He chases away any guests we have over. There’s got to be a law against spectral stalking!”
“And law enforcement to go along with it,” Brad said. “Nobody will do anything to remove the nuisance.”
“Changes in the legal system take forever to implement,” Robin said with genuine sympathy.
“I’m just here as a courtesy,” Millicent Sanchez announced, sounding miffed. “This is the first time I have ever abandoned a client, but I can’t take any more.” She handed her notes and records to Robin. “I’ve never endured such persistent harassment from a ghost. It’s completely unprofessional. I have my other clients to worry about.”
Brad Dorset gave a resigned sigh. “Uncle Stan’s been vindictively haunting all of Millicent’s customers, trying to ruin her business.”
The medium pushed herself away from the conference room table. “Best of luck to you. No charge—just don’t ever call me again.”
As she reached the door, the needy ghost of inebriated Uncle Stan appeared with a gush of cold wind that blew the medium’s skirt up past her waist in a very unsatisfactory Marilyn Monroe steam-grate parody. Millicent Sanchez squealed, swatted at the air. Even though the ghost couldn’t touch her, she tripped and fell face-first to the floor in the reception area, much to Uncle Stan’s glee. She scrambled out of our offices on hands and knees.
Robin lurched to her feet and barked like a drill sergeant. “I will not stand for this! There will be standards of decorum in these offices!”
Uncle Stan’s puffy cheeks swelled out so he could let rip a very loud raspberry.
Just then Sheyenne appeared in front of the drunken ghost, cocked back her balled right fist, and punched Uncle