Laurell K. Hamilton - 02 The Laughing Corpse - Anita Blake Series.pdf

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The Laughing Corpse
Book 2 of the Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter
1
Harold Gaynor's house sat in the middle of intense green lawn and the 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 handpicked 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'm not that good. I mean zombies. The shambling dead. Rotting corpses. Night of the
living dead. That kind of zombie. Though certainly less dramatic than Hollywood would ever put up on
the screen. I am an animator. It's a job, that's all, like selling.
Animating had only been a licensed business for about five years. Before that it had just been 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
scalawag, a rogue, but darn if he doesn't know how to make money. It's a good trait for a business
manager.
Bert was six-three, a broad-shouldered, ex-college football player with the beginnings of a beer gut. The
dark blue suit he wore was tailored so that the gut didn't show. For eight hundred dollars the suit should
have hidden 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 tanned forehead. "I heard on
the news there's a movement there to use zombies in pesticide-contaminated fields. It would save lives."
"Zombies rot, Bert, there's 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 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 supposed 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 an urge to pop him one right in his smug face, "I know you and
Charles are working on that committee," Bert said. "Going around to all the businesses and chelling up on
the zombies. It makes great press for Animators, Inc."
"I don't do it for good press," I said.
"I know. You believe in your little cause."
"You're a condescending mean spirited," 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 darn what I think of
him, as long as I work for him.
My navy blue suit jacket was supposed 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 a shoulder rig at
the same time. The silk starts to look indented, wrinkling where the straps cross. The gun was a Browning
Hi-Power 9mm, and I liked having it near 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 chell 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. I
was skeptical. 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 V
olvo. I was already taking off the jacket. He stood in front
of me, hiding me from the house. God forbid that they should see me hiding a gun in the trunk. What would
they do, lock the doors and scream for help?
I folded the holster straps around the gun and laid it in the clean trunk. It smelled like 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 had been wrong about me not needing a gun. The man was maybe five-
eight, but the orange polo shirt he wore strained over his chest. The black sport jacket seemed too small,
as if when he moved the seams would split, like an insect's skin that had 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 shoulder holster under the sport jacket and resisted an 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 for 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 who have
enough money to keep hired muscle around whether they need 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 too 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 while 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 in 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 far 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, with a small plaid blanket over his lap, hiding
his legs.

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