I could see that Robin was a thunderstorm ready to break. “I will use every possible weapon to fight for your rights, I promise. It’s time to blow this whole matter wide open. No more sitting quietly. We’re not the ones who took this to the next level.”
The Pattersons still sounded shaky as they thanked her and hung up. Robin launched herself out of the office with such fury on her face that she made even Sheyenne flinch. “That’s the last straw! I’ve been drafting a choice little letter for all the bloggers, papers, and TV stations. This is the excuse I’ve been waiting for. I’m going to call a spade a spade. Balfour’s a bigot, and he’s inciting violence—we have evidence of that. He can no longer hide behind his radical stupidity.”
Even though I’m not usually the voice of reason, I cautioned, “Don’t go off half-cocked, Robin. Whenever you write an angry letter, let it sit for a day, so you can cool off, get some objectivity, then reread the letter.”
“Justice can’t wait around for a day,” Robin said. “I’m a lawyer, I know what I’m doing.”
I couldn’t talk her out of it, and I did want Senator Rupert Balfour eviscerated in public, although I suspected his rotten organs were not fit for even a mad scientist’s experiments.
I asked McGoo to pull strings to arrange police protection around the Pattersons’ house, even though it wasn’t his jurisdiction. I was worried that some nutcase extremist with silver bullets or wooden stakes would take matters into his own hands.
Robin spent hours composing her angry press release that exposed Senator Balfour’s despicable activities, then distributed her posting as widely as possible, not only to various media outlets but to popular social-networking sites and bulletin-board discussion groups frequented by unnaturals.
She seemed immensely pleased with what she had sent out—I could tell from her edgy smile and the contained energy with which she moved about the office. Although she wouldn’t let me read the text ahead of time, I found it on our website. I didn’t disagree with a single word she wrote, but I think my eyeballs blistered after reading the flaming invective.
Chapter 42
Knowing that Angela Drake had bought the heart-and-soul combo packs didn’t help me retrieve them, since she had vanished. Missy Goodfellow categorically denied possessing the items, and she certainly wouldn’t give me access to her financial records so I could double-check.
But a dead end wasn’t going to stop a zombie private detective.
That evening I retraced my investigations, which brought me back to the vicinity of the Unnatural Acts adult novelty shop. A frown creased my face. The store was shut down, and yellow tape crisscrossed the door. Senator Balfour’s obnoxious flyers covered the outer wall like leprous growths. I noted that they had now registered their You Are Damned! slogan as a trademark. And they still didn’t know that unnatural had two Ns.
An official notice had been tacked to the center of the novelty shop’s door: CLOSED, PENDING PROSECUTION UNDER THE UNNATURAL ACTS ACT.
When the legendary creatures returned in the Big Uneasy, there had been quite a panic—which was understandable—but as I observed this spread of intolerance toward monsters who just wanted to live and let live (for the most part), I wondered whether the world really was coming to an end....
I entered the pawnshop alley to see that the Timeworn Treasures sign had been taken down, the windows painted over, and a large Commercial Property For Rent sign placed in each one, complete with the smiling face of Edgar Allan. Cheerful service—alive or dead!
Alice had wasted no time washing her hands of her brother’s shop, sweeping everything under the rug, and heading off on her Mediterranean cruise. I imagined her lounging in a deck chair in the warm salty air, tanning her fur as she cruised around the Greek isles . . . or maybe hiding from the sunlight and spending all hours hunched over a slot machine on the casino deck.
The cruise sounded like something I’d like to do with Sheyenne someday, a chance to spend more time alone with her. I hated for her to think I was no longer interested just because she was a ghost. You have to make some concessions in order for a relationship to work.
Standing in the gloomy alley in front of the closed pawnshop, I was so preoccupied with my personal problems that I didn’t notice the two demon goons closing in until it was too late. A private detective is supposed to be observant, picking up tiny details missed by the police or evil criminal masterminds. Even so, I did not see the hulking things before they were right up on me. For all their scales, horns, and poisonous fumes leaking from their nostrils and mouths, demons somehow manage to tiptoe quite well.
“Dan Chambeaux,” gargled the larger demon as purplish brown vapors curled out of his fanged mouth. “We need a word with you.”
The slightly smaller demon next to him chuckled with a huffing sound like a badly tuned engine. His breath looked like diesel fumes. “Yeah. Strong words.”
They blocked the alley, and I faced them. “How can I help you boys?”
The two demons were of the “hired thug” variety, certainly not management material. Large and imposing, with faces and bodies covered with scaly plates and sharp protrusions, they looked like the result of an unintended pregnancy between a porcupine and a crocodile—and that was not a porno clip I wanted to see under any circumstances.
The foremost demon had blazing scarlet eyes, and his partner’s were orange, denoting lesser intelligence (or lesser meanness, I hoped). I was sure I would find out soon enough. “If you’re looking to rent the storefront here, I can put you in touch with the real estate agent.”
The red-eyed demon grabbed me by the front of my shirt, wrinkling my jacket as he shoved me against the alley wall. His clawed hand was the size of my head. My fedora fell off onto the ground.
“Careful with the hat!” I said.
The orange-eyed demon stomped the fedora flat.
“Stop sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, Chambeaux.” The purplish brown fumes wafting out of his mouth stung my eyes like acid—maybe it was acid—and I couldn’t keep myself from coughing. Not exactly the most dignified response I could have made.
“Could you be more specific?” I managed. “I’m a detective—it’s my job to stick my nose in things.”
The big demon lifted me into the air, letting my legs dangle beneath me, then swung me around and slammed me against the opposite wall of the alley. He chuffed, “Ooh, that’s going to leave a mark.”
“I’ve been told it adds character.” Actually, because I have embalming fluid rather than blood, bruises don’t show, and I can withstand a lot of battering, not that I enjoy it. Even if the bruises weren’t visible, however, lumps and broken bones could still be very unsightly.