Harold Gaynor's house sat in the middle of
an intense green lawn, and graceful sweep of trees. The house
gleamed in the hot August sunshine. Bert Vaughn, my boss,
parked the car on the crushed gravel of the driveway. The
gravel was so white, it looked like hand picked rock salt.
Somewhere out of sight, the soft whir of sprinklers pattered.
The grass was absolutely perfect in the middle of one of the
worst droughts Missouri has had in over twenty years. Oh
well, I wasn't here to talk with Mr. Gaynor about water
management. I was here to talk about raising the dead.
Not resurrection. I am not that good. I mean
zombies. The shambling dead. Rotting corpses. Night of the
living dead. That kind of zombie. Though less dramatic than
Hollywood would ever put up on the screen. I am an animator.
it's a job, like selling.
Animating has only been a licensed business
for about five years. Before that it was just an embarrassing
curse, a religious experience or a tourist attraction. It
still is in parts of New Orleans, but here in St. Louis
it's a business. A profitable one, thanks in large part
to my boss. He's a rascal, a a scalawag, a rouge, but
damn if he doesn't know how to make money. It's a
good trait for a business manager.
Bert was six three, broad
shouldered,ex-college football player, with the beginnings of
a beer gut. The dark blue suit he wore was tailored so the
gut didn't show. For eight hundred dollars the suit
should have hid a herd of elephants. His white blond hair was
trimmed in a crew cut, back in style after all these years. A
boater's tan made his pale hair and eyes dramatic with
contrast.
Bert, adjusted his blue and red striped tie,
mopping a bead of sweat off his tan forehead. "I heard
on the news there's a movement to use zombies in
pesticide-contaminated fields. It would save lives."
Zombies rot, Bert, there is no way to prevent
that and they don't stay smart enough long enough to be
used as field labor."
"It was just a thought. The dead have no
rights under the law Anita."
"Not yet."
It was wrong to raise the dead so they could
slave for us. It was just wrong, but no one listens to me.
The government finally had to get into the act. There was a
nationwide committee being formed of animators and other
experts. We were suppose to look into the working conditions
of local zombies.
Working conditions. They didn't
understand. You can't give a corpse nice working
conditions. They don't appreciate it anyway. Zombies may
walk, even talk, but they are very very dead.
Bert smiled indulgently at me. I fought the
urge to pop him one in his smug face. "I know you and
Charles are working on that committee." Bert said.
"Going around to all the businesses and checking up on
the zombies. It makes great press for Animators,
Inc."
"I don't do it for the good
press." I said.
"I know. You believe in your little
cause."
"You're a condescending
bastard." I said, smiling sweetly up at him.
He grinned at me. "I know."
I just shook my head; with Bert you can't
really win an insult match. He doesn't give a damn what I
think of him, as long as I work for him.
My navy blue suit jacket was suppose to be
summer weight but it was a lie. Sweat trickled down my spine
as soon as I stepped out of the car.
Bert turned to me, small eyes narrowing. His
eyes lend themselves to suspicious squints. "You're
still wearing your gun." he said.
"The jacket hides it Bert. Mr. Gaynor
will never know." Sweat started collecting under the
straps of my shoulder holster. I could feel the silk blouse
beginning to melt. I try not to wear silk and the shoulder
rig at the same time. The silk starts to look indented,
wrinkling where the straps cross. The gun was Browning
Hi-Power 9mm, and I liked having it close at hand.
"Come on Anita. I don't think
you'll need a gun in the middle of the afternoon, while
visiting a client." Bert's voice held that
patronizing tone that people use on children. Now, little
girl, you know this is for your own good.
Bert didn't care about my well being. He
just didn't want to spook Gaynor. The man had already
given us a check for five thousand dollars. And that was just
to drive out and talk to him. The implication was that there
was more money if we agreed to take his case. A lot of money.
Bert was all excited about that part. After all, Bert
didn't have to raise the corpse. I did.
The trouble was, Bert was probably right. I
wouldn't need the gun in broad daylight. Probably.
"All right. Open the trunk."
Bert opened the trunk of his nearly brand new
Volvo. I was already taking off the jacket. He stood in front
of me, hiding me from the house. God forbid they should see
me hiding a gun in the trunk. What would they do, lock the
doors and scream for help?
I folded the shoulder holster around the gun
and laid it in the clean trunk. It smelled like a new car,
plastic and faintly unreal. Bert shut the trunk, and I stared
at it as if I could still see the gun.
"Are you coming?" he asked.
"Yeah." I said. I didn't like
leaving my gun behind for any reason. Was that a bad sign?
Bert motioned for me to come on.
I did, walking carefully over the gravel in my
high heeled black pumps. Women may get to wear lots of pretty
colors, but men get the comfortable shoes.
Bert was staring at the door, smile already
set on his face. It was his best professional smile, dripping
with sincerity. His pale grey eyes sparkled with good cheer.
It was a mask. He could put it on and off like a light
switch. He'd wear the same smile if you confessed to
killing your own mother. As long as you wanted to pay to have
her raised from the dead.
The door opened, and I knew Bert was wrong
about me not needing the gun. The man was maybe five eight,
but the orange polo shirt he wore strained over his chest.
The black sports jacket seemed too small, as if when he moved
the seams would split, like an insect's skin that has
been outgrown. Black, acid- washed jeans showed off a small
waist, so he looked like someone had pinched him in the
middle while the clay was still wet. His hair was very blond.
He looked at us silently. His eyes were empty, dead as a
doll's. I caught a glimpse of the shoulder holster under
the sports jacket and resisted the urge to kick Bert in the
shins.
Either my boss didn't notice the gun or he
ignored it. "Hello, I'm Bert Vaughn, and this is my
associate, Anita Blake. I believe Mr. Gaynor is expecting
us." Bert smiled at him charmingly.
The bodyguard - what else could he be - moved
away from the door. Bert took that as an invitation and
walked inside. I followed, not at all sure I wanted to.
Harold Gaynor was a very rich man. Maybe he needed a
bodyguard. Maybe people had threatened him. Or maybe he was
one of those men that had enough money to keep muscle around
whether he needed it or not.
Or maybe something else was going on.
Something that needed guns and muscle, and men with dead,
emotionless eyes. Not a cheery thought.
The air-conditioning was on high and the sweat
gelled instantly. We followed the bodyguard down a long
central hall that was paneled in dark, expensive looking
wood. The hall runner looked oriental and was probably
handmade.
Heavy wooden doors were set in the right-hand
wall. The bodyguard opened the doors, and again stood to one
side as we walked through. The room was a library, but I was
betting no one ever read any of the books. The place was
ceiling to floor with dark wood bookcases. There was even a
second level of books and shelves reached by an elegant sweep
of narrow staircase. All the books were hardcover, all the
same size, colors muted and collected together like a
collage. The furniture,was of course, red leather with brass
buttons worked into it.
A man sat near the fall wall. He smiled when
we came in. He was a large man, with a pleasant round face,
double-chinned. He was sitting in an electric wheelchair, a
small plaid blanket over his lap, hiding his legs.
"Mr. Vaughn and Ms. Blake, how nice of
you to drive out." His voice went with his face,
pleasant, damn near amiable.
A slender black man sat in one of the leather
chairs. He was over six feet tall, exactly how much was hard
to tell. He was slumped down, long legs stretched out in
front of him, with the ankles crossed. His legs were taller
than I was. His brown eyes watched me as if trying to
memorize me and would be graded later.
The blond bodyguard went to lean against the
bookcases. He couldn't quite cross his arms, jacket too
tight, muscles too big. You really shouldn't lean against
a wall and try to look tough unless you can cross your arms.
Ruins the effect.
Mr. Gaynor said,"You've met
Tommy." He motioned towards the smiling bodyguard.
"That's Bruno."
"Is that your real name or just a
nickname?" I asked looking straight into Bruno's
eyes.
He shifted just a little in his chair.
"Real name."
I smiled.
"Why?" he asked.
"I've just never met a bodyguard
whose real name was Bruno."
"Is that suppose to be funny?" he
asked.
I shook my head. Bruno. He never had a chance.
It was like naming a girl Venus. All Bruno's had to be
bodyguards. It was a rule. Maybe a cop? Naw, it was a bad
guy's name. I smiled.
Bruno sat up in his chair, one smooth,
muscular motion. He wasn't wearing a gun that I could
see, but there was a presence to him. Dangerous, it said,
watch out.
Guess I shouldn't have smiled.
Bert interrupted."Anita, please. I do
apologize, Mr. Gaynor.... Mr. Bruno. Ms. Blake has a rather
peculiar sense of humor.
"Don't apologize for me Bert. I
don't like it." I don't know what he was so sore
about anyway. I hadn't said the really insulting stuff
out loud.
"Now, now," Mr. Gaynor said,"No
hard feelings. Right, Bruno?"
Bruno frowned and shook his head at me, not
angry, sort of perplexed.
Bert flashed me an angry look, then turned
smiling to the man in the wheelchair. "Now, Mr. Gaynor,
I know you must be a busy man. So exactly how old is the
zombie you want raised?"
"A man who gets right down to business. I
like that." Gaynor hesitated, staring at the door.
Return to homepage
Return to graveyard