Damn Him to Hell (36 page)

Where was my ethics book when I needed it? Should I call Julius? I staggered to the enormous office chair behind my immense desk, collapsed into it, and stared at Ned the security guard incredulously. “What are you doing in here?”

“You’re kind of small for that desk,” he pointed out ungraciously. “If you want to impress your clients, your décor needs better proportions.” He glanced around. “You could use a decorator.”

“Yeah, and fewer frogs. I repeat,
what are you doing in here?
”

“Oh, sorry. Now that I’m unemployed, I’m hoping for a more congenial occupation, but that’s not your problem. I was working at Acme the other night when Mr. Bergdorff committed suicide. It was a very odd night. It made me aware that I was starting down a road I was no longer willing to follow.” He toyed absently with his pink handkerchief.

“The road requiring taking orders from insane villains?” I asked sarcastically.

“I was paid to guard a wealthy woman and her assets,” he corrected. “But I was not paid to lie in court. And since my fellow witnesses have all mysteriously disappeared, leaving me holding the bag, so to speak,
I intend to inform the prosecutor this morning of the truth, and take my punishment like a man, after I apologize to Mr. Legrande.”

Villains could apologize and make amends?

Shouts and cries echoed from down the street, and I twitched uneasily. This was all wrong. I couldn’t process it. And shouts from the direction of the Zone weren’t to be taken lightly. I wanted to get up and investigate, but Andre was my very first case. I couldn’t blow this.

The other witnesses had disappeared? Had Gloria’s other guards also worked at the plant, where McNamara said he’d been working? Gut instinct was damned painful—I’d turned the guards at the plant into frogs. Of course they’d disappeared.

The witnesses against Andre were hopping around under my desk—where their pink-particle-swilling colleague probably had been before he poofed back to himself. Right? Did I want to believe this?

Think like a lawyer, Tina
. “Very well,” I told him carefully, trying to think fast, “I will call Mr. Legrande and apprise him of this latest situation. Would you like me to represent you when you speak with the prosecutor?”

His eyes widened in surprise. “You can do that?”

“If you’re no longer testifying against Mr. Legrande. I believe you were both placed in a difficult situation for which self-defense was the only remedy, am I correct?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said in awe.

Ma’am
. I was too young and hip to be a “ma’am.” I
had the urge to smack him, except I liked that ring of authority. I’m such a slut for a little respect.

The shouting in the street grew louder, and I couldn’t stand it any longer. I pushed away from the desk. “Excuse me.” I hurried to look out the door. A frog followed me, but I pushed him back with my heel. I’d feed him pink particles or find a princess to kiss him after we closed Andre’s case. I didn’t want any lying bastard toads on the witness stand.

Lesson learned: Turn lying witnesses into amphibians. I should study up on toads, too. My jubilation at unintentionally winning Andre’s case threatened to spill into hysterical laughter.

My joy knew no bounds as I stared down the street at the astounding sight of Bill and Leibowitz parading together in my direction. A few of the homeless, wearing new jeans and work shirts and appearing confused, ambled along with them. The mob of Zonies celebrating the return of the no-longer-zombies cheered and sang a rowdy verse of “We Shall Overcome.” The melody was questionable and the verse inappropriate, but the emotion was spot-on. In a wave of sheer relief, I cheered from my office door, even though I despised Leibowitz.

Had my wish brought them back to life? I’d like to think killing a mad scientist had paid off and that I was being rewarded for my good judgment with something besides pretty teeth.

Ned peered over my bouncing shoulder. “Is it a parade?”

He smelled like Old Spice. Good grief. Paddy must
have taken him home to change and shower before returning him here. Rather than gag on the scent, I hurried outside, wishing I had a flag to wave while I jumped up and down and hollered happily.

The French doors on the third-floor balcony of Andre’s place flew open, and Julius appeared, carrying a body. For a fleeting moment, I thought he was about to fling his wife into the street.

His wife
. That flowing black hair had to be Katerina. What on earth . . . ?

She waved. She actually waved. Tears stung my eyes. I slapped my hands over my mouth to keep from shouting like a maniac. She was alive!
Andre’s mother was alive!

She was back from dreamland. As were Bill and Leibowitz.

Realizing I was still jumping up and down and screaming, I stopped to preserve what was left of my dignity, but tears of joy streamed down my face. The Zone—or Saturn—had done something right.

“They all woke up last night,” a familiar amused baritone informed me.

I swung around to see Andre leaning against the burned brick wall of his warehouse, admiring the early-morning parade. He beamed proudly, if with a slight air of bewilderment.

Did I thank Saturn for this blessed turn of events? Was the zombie recovery because my invisible DNA factor had answered my prayers? I might start believing in capricious gods yet, although then I’d have to start thinking of Sarah as a sister.

“Who’s Pretty Boy?” Andre nodded at Ned, who was watching the parade through the window.

“The last thread of the prosecutor’s case against you,” I replied insouciantly, happier with this topic than with that of gods. “I don’t think the state will want to press charges against you once they learn all the other witnesses are hiding in a bog.”

“A bog?”

“That’s your mother up there.” I changed the subject, enjoying my secrets. “Why aren’t you up there with her?”

“We hugged earlier. Right now, I wanted to thank you for whatever in hell you did to bring her back.”

He took my hand and held it as if he meant it. He believed in me.

His trust was overwhelming. I didn’t dare glance down to where his strong brown fingers clasped mine. I didn’t get enough human touches, and a wave of emotion threatened to smash through the floodgates. I let my hormones steer me down a safer path.

I liked Andre’s touch entirely too well. Not as much as kissing, but he was still my client. Not for much longer, though, I bet. Did Andre go comatose after sex?

“I don’t think what I did had anything to do with hell,” I said thoughtfully. I might blame Satan for giving me sexy hair and straight teeth, but I couldn’t believe imps from hell would return the comatose. So maybe there really was an all-powerful Saturn. “Do you think Bill and your mother saw
things like you did? Maybe they can warn us of events to come?”

“We can ask when it quiets down,” he agreed, studying me. “Do you think they’ll answer our questions any better than you do mine?”

“Probably not, because it doesn’t make sense. Yet.” I smiled at another sight coming up the street. “Tim has Nancy Rose back. I guess I won’t be making him my secretary.”

Remembering Ned, I turned around. He was catching a fly against the window. I might have to rethink adding frogs to my punishment repertoire.
Although . . .
I regarded him thoughtfully.

He seemed more the type who’d be interested in pink than his lockjawed buddies.

I leaned in the door and called to him. “Ned, you can apologize to Mr. Legrande now, but I’d appreciate it more if you’d teach a friend of mine how to dress appropriately.”

He came out to join us, and I nodded down the street at Tim, attired today in hot pink flip-flops, purple capris, and a black skull-and-bones T-shirt I think he’d filched from my closet.

Ned held out his hand to Andre. “Sorry, old man. I was wrong to lie.” He cast a glance at Tim. “Will a dozen lessons be sufficient to cover my legal fees?” he asked. “I’m still unemployed.”

Apparently picking up on the newcomer’s oddity, Andre snickered. “Hire him, Clancy. We have a new Zonie.”

Why not? In jubilation, I released Andre so I could
rush down the street and throw myself into Bill the Bartender’s arms. “Glad to have you back, soldier,” I whispered in his ear.

Before the big man could react, I jumped down, caught Lieutenant Leo’s arm, and, to the tune of “We Shall Overcome,” danced a jig in the sunlight.

Tomorrow, I’d worry about pink particles and bullfrogs and the gas can in my purse. Today, I celebrated life.

A
s some of you may already suspect, I am not a gushy person. But even Tina cannot make a book happen by magic. A lot of people put a lot of hard work and brain waves into creating a book, and I’d like to thank them all. Most especially, I would like to thank my agent and her assistant, Robin Rue and Beth Miller; my editor, Adam Wilson; and Pocket’s marvelously talented art department. Without them, this book would never have happened. And the real icing on my cake is the Cauldron, who didn’t laugh me out of the room when I said I wanted to write a book about a heroine who could unwittingly damn people to hell. You all are my rocks!

And my ever-patient husband gets hugs and kisses for understanding that sometimes I just need pizza.

Also by Jamie Quaid

Boyfriend from Hell

Available from Pocket Books