PRAISE FOR DEATH WARMED OVER . . .
“A dead detective, a wimpy vampire, and other interesting
characters from the supernatural side of the street make
Death Warmed Over an unpredictable walk on the
weird side. Prepare to be entertained.”
—Charlaine Harris
“A darkly funny, wonderfully original detective tale.”
—Kelley Armstrong
“Master storyteller Kevin J. Anderson’s Death Warmed
Over is wickedly funny, deviously twisted and
enormously satisfying. This is a big juicy bite of
zombie goodness. Two decaying thumbs up!”
—Jonathan Maberry
“The Dan Shamble books are great fun. The dead
detective is an ex-sleuth, but he has not ceased to be,
or ceased to care. In a world full of monsters, an honorable
man is still important, dead or alive or in between.
Dan Shamble: dead fun and deadly serious.”
—Simon R. Green
“Down these mean streets a man must lurch.... With
his Big Sleep interrupted, Chambeaux the zombie private
eye goes back to sleuthing, in Death Warmed Over, Kevin J.
Anderson’s wry and inventive take on the Noir paradigm.
The bad guys are werewolves, the clients are already
deceased, and the readers are in for a funny, action-packed
adventure, following that dead man walking . . .”
—Sharyn McCrumb
. . . AND FOR KEVIN J. ANDERSON
“Kevin J. Anderson has become the literary equivalent of
Quentin Tarantino in the fantasy adventure genre.”
—The Daily Rotation
“Kevin J. Anderson is the hottest writer on
(or off) the planet.”
—Fort Worth Star-Telegram
“Kevin J. Anderson is arguably the most prolific, most
successful author working in the field today.”
—Algis Budrys
“Kevin J. Anderson is the heir apparent to Arthur C. Clarke.”
—Daniel Keys Moran
“I always expect more from a Kevin J. Anderson tale,
and I’m yet to be disappointed.”
—2 A.M. Magazine
Also by Kevin J. Anderson
Clockwork Angels: The Novel (with Neil Peart)
Blood Lite anthology series (editor)
The new Dune novels (with Brian Herbert)
Hellhole series (with Brian Herbert)
The Terra Incognita trilogy
The Saga of Seven Suns series
Captain Nemo
The Martian War
Enemies and Allies
The Last Days of Krypton
Resurrection, Inc.
The Gamearth trilogy
Blindfold
Climbing Olympus
Hopscotch
Ill Wind (with Doug Beason)
Assemblers of Infinity (with Doug Beason)
The Trinity Paradox (with Doug Beason)
The Craig Kreident Mysteries (with Doug Beason)
Numerous Star Wars, X-Files, Star Trek, StarCraft novels,
movie novelizations, and collaborations
DEATH WARMED OVER
Dan Shamble, Zombie P.I.
KEVIN J. ANDERSON
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
PRAISE FOR DEATH WARMED OVER . . .
Also by Kevin J. Anderson
Title Page
Dedication
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
UNNATURAL ACTS
Copyright Page
To MIKE RESNICK,
whose sense of humor is always dead-on
CHAPTER 1
I’m dead, for starters—it happens. But I’m still ambulatory, and I can still think, still be a contributing member of society (such as it is, these days). And still solve crimes.
As the detective half of Chambeaux & Deyer Investigations, I’m responsible for our caseload, despite being shot in the head a month ago. My unexpected murder caused a lot of inconvenience to me and to others, but I’m not the sort of guy to leave his partner in the lurch. The cases don’t solve themselves.
My partner, Robin Deyer, and I had built a decent business for ourselves, sharing office space, with several file cabinets full of pending cases, both legal matters and private investigations. Although catching my own killer is always on my mind, paying clients have to take priority.
Which is why I found myself sneaking into a cemetery at night while trying to elude a werewolf hit man who’d been following me since sunset—in order to retrieve a lost painting for a ghost.
Just another day at work for me.
The wrought-iron cemetery gate stood ajar with a Welcome mat on either side. These days, visiting hours are round-the-clock, and the gate needs to stay open so that newly risen undead can wander out. When the gates were locked, neighbors complained about moaning and banging sounds throughout the night, which made it difficult for them to sleep.
When I pulled, the gate glided open on well-oiled hinges. A small sign on the bars read, MAINTAINED BY FRIENDS OF THE GREENLAWN CEMETERY. There were more than a hundred ostentatious crypts to choose from, interspersed with less prominent tombstones. I wished I had purchased a guide pamphlet ahead of time, but the gift shop was open only on weekends. I had to find the Ricketts crypt on my own—before the werewolf hit man caught up with me.
The world’s a crazy place since the Big Uneasy, the event that changed all the rules and allowed a flood of baffled unnaturals to return—zombies, vampires, werewolves, ghouls, succubi, and the usual associated creatures. In the subsequent ten years, the Unnatural Quarter had settled into a community of sorts—one that offered more work than I could handle.
Now the quarter moon rode high in the sky, giving me enough light to see the rest of the cemetery. The unnatural thug, hired by the heirs of Alvin Ricketts, wasn’t one of the monthly full-moon-only lycanthropes: He was a full-time hairy, surly beast, regardless of the time of month. Those are usually the meanest ones.
I moved from one crypt to the next, scrutinizing the blocky stone letters. The place was quiet, spooky . . . part of the ambience. You might think a zombie—even a well-preserved one like myself—would feel perfectly at ease in a graveyard. After all, what do I have to be afrai
d of? Well, I can still get mangled, for one thing. My body doesn’t heal the way it used to, and we’ve all seen those smelly decomposing shamblers who refuse to take care of themselves, giving zombies everywhere a bad name. And werewolves are experts at mangling.
I wanted to avoid that, if possible.
Even undead, I remain as handsome as ever, with the exception of the holes left by the bullet—the largish exit wound on my forehead and the neat round one at the back of my head, where some bastard came up from behind, pressed the barrel of a .32 caliber pistol against my skull, and popped me before I got a good look at him. Fortunately, a low-slouched fedora covers the big hole. For the most part . . .
In the broader sense, the world hasn’t changed much since the Big Uneasy. Most people go about their daily lives, having families, working jobs. But though a decade has passed, the law—not to mention law enforcement—still hasn’t caught up with the new reality. According to the latest statistics by the DUS, the Department of Unnatural Services, about one out of every seventy-five corpses wakes up as a zombie, with the odds weighted heavily in favor of suicides or murder victims.
Lucky me to be on the interesting side of statistics.
After returning to life, I had shambled back into the office, picked up my caseload, and got to work again. Same as before. . . sort of. Fortunately, my zombie status isn’t a handicap to being a private detective in the Unnatural Quarter. As I said, the cases don’t solve themselves.
Days of investigation had led me to the graveyard. I dug through files, interviewed witnesses and suspects, met with the ghost artist Alvin Ricketts and separately with his indignant still-living family. (Despite Robin’s best mediation efforts in the offices, the ghost and the living family refused to speak to each other.)
Alvin Ricketts was a successful pop-culture painter before his untimely demise, attributable to a month’s worth of sleeping pills washed down with a full bottle of twenty-one-year-old single malt. (No sense letting it go to waste.) The ghost told me he would have taken more pills, but his insurance only authorized a thirty-day supply, and even in the deep gloom of his creative depression, Alvin had (on principle) refused to pay the additional pharmacy charge.
Now, whereas one in seventy-five dead people returns as a zombie, like myself, one in thirty comes back as a ghost (statistics again heavily weighted toward murder victims and suicides). Alvin Ricketts, a pop-art genius, had suffered a long and debilitating creative block, “artistic constipation” he called it. Feeling that he had nothing left to live for, he took his own life.
And then came back.
His ghost, however, found the death experience so inspirational that he found a reawakened and vibrant artistic fervor. Alvin set about painting again, announcing he would soon release his first new work with great fanfare.
His grieving (sic) family was less than enthusiastic about his return to painting, as well as his return from the dead. The artist’s tragic suicide, and the fact that there would never be more Alvin Ricketts paintings, had caused his existing work to skyrocket in value—until the ghost’s announcement of renewed productivity made the bottom fall out of the market. Collectors waited to see what new material Alvin would release, already speculating about how his artistic technique might have changed in his “post-death period.”
The Ricketts family sued him, claiming that since Alvin was dead and they were his heirs, they now owned everything in his estate, including any new or undiscovered works and the profits from subsequent sales.
Alvin contested the claim. He hired Robin Deyer to fight for his rights, and she promptly filed challenges while the ghost happily worked on his new painting. No one had yet seen it, but he claimed the work was his masterpiece.
The Ricketts heirs took the dispute to the next level. “Someone” broke into Alvin’s studio and stole the painting. With the supposed masterpiece gone, the pop artist’s much-anticipated return to the spotlight was put on hold. The family vehemently denied any involvement, of course.
That’s when the ghost hired me, at Robin’s suggestion, to track down and retrieve the painting—by any means necessary. The Ricketts heirs had hired a thug to keep me from succeeding in my investigation.
I heard a faint clang, which I recognized as the wrought-iron cemetery gate banging shut against the frame. The werewolf hit man wasn’t far behind me. On the bright side, the fact that he was breathing down my neck probably meant I was getting close.
The cemetery had plenty of shadows to choose from, and I stayed hidden as I approached another crypt. BENSON. Not the right one. I had to find RICKETTS.
Werewolves are usually good trackers, but the cemetery abounds with odors of dead things, and he must have kept losing my scent. Since I change clothes frequently and maintain high standards of personal hygiene for a zombie, I don’t have much of a smell about me. Unlike most unnaturals, I don’t choose to wear colognes, fancy specialized unnatural deodorants, or perfumes.
I turned the corner in front of another low stone building fronted by stubby Corinthian columns. Much to my delight, I saw the inhabitant’s name: RICKETTS. The flat stone door had been pried open, the caulking seal split apart.
New rules required quick-release latches on the insides of tombs now, so the undead can conveniently get back out. Some people were even buried with their cell phones, though I doubted they’d get good service from inside. Can you hear me now?
Now, if Alvin Ricketts were a zombie, he would have broken the seal when he came back out of the crypt. But since ghosts can pass through solid walls, Alvin would not have needed to break any door seals for his reemergence. So why was the crypt door ajar?
I spotted the silhouette of a large hairy form loping among the graves, sniffing the ground, coming closer. He still hadn’t seen me. I pulled open the stone door just enough to slip through the narrow gap into the crypt, hoping my detective work was right.
During the investigation into the missing masterpiece, the police had obtained search warrants and combed through the homes, properties, and businesses of the Ricketts heirs. Nothing. With my own digging, I discovered a small storage unit that had been rented in the name of Gomez Ricketts, the black sheep of the family—and I was sure they had hidden the painting there.
But when the detectives served their warrant and opened the unit, they found only cases and cases of contraband vampire porn packaged as sick kiddie porn. Because the starlets were actually old-school vampires who had been turned while they were children, they claimed to be well over the legal age—in real years if not in physical maturity. Gomez Ricketts had been arrested for pedophilia/necrophilia, but he was out on bail. Even Robin, in her best legal opinion, couldn’t say which way the verdict might go.
More to the point, we didn’t find the stolen painting in the storage unit.
So I kept working on the case. Not only did I consult with Alvin’s ghost, I also went over the interviews he’d given after his suicide. The ghost had gone into a manic phase, deliriously happy to put death behind him. He talked about awakening to find himself sealed in a crypt, his astral form rising from the cold physical body, his epiphany of throwing those morbid chains behind him. He had vowed never to go back there.
That’s when I figured it out: The last place Alvin would ever think to look for his painting was inside his own crypt, which was property owned by the Ricketts family (though a recent court ruling deemed that a person owned his own grave in perpetuity—a landmark decision that benefitted several vampires who were caught in property-rights disputes).
Tonight, I planned to retrieve the painting from its hiding place.
I slipped into the dank crypt, hoping I could grab Alvin’s masterpiece and slip away before the werewolf figured out what I was doing.
It should have been as quiet as a tomb inside, but it wasn’t. I heard a rustling sound, saw two lamplike yellow eyes blinking at me. A shrill nasal voice called out, “It’s taken—this one’s occupied! Go find your own.”
“Sorry
, didn’t mean to disturb you,” I said.
“You can’t stay here.”
Zombies have good night vision, and as my eyes adjusted, I made out a grayish simian creature with scaly skin. I’d heard that trolls sometimes became squatters inside empty crypts whose original owners had returned to an unnatural life.
The troll inched closer. I carried my .38 revolver loaded with silver-jacketed bullets. I would use it if I had to, but a gunshot would surely bring the werewolf hit man running. I had enough silver bullets to take care of the thug, too, but that would open a can of maggots with the law, and I just plain didn’t want the hassle.
The troll rubbed his gnarled hands together. “If you’re interested in a place to stay, we have many viable options. Pre-owned, gently used postmortem dwellings. If you’re undead and homeless, I can help you with all your real estate needs. Edgar Allan, at your service. Here, let me give you a business card.”
“This crypt doesn’t belong to you,” I pointed out. “I happen to know the actual owner. He hired me to retrieve some of his personal property.”
“Then we have a problem.” The troll looked annoyed. “Burt!”
From the gloom emerged a larger and more threatening creature. Trolls come in various sizes, from small and ugly to huge and ugly. At close to seven feet tall with wide and scabby shoulders, this one belonged in the latter category.
“Burt is our evictions specialist,” Edgar Allan explained.
I held up my hands in surrender. “Now, no need for that! I came here for a painting, that’s all. No intention of interfering with your rental business.”
“Painting? You mean this one?” The little troll flicked on a tiny flashlight. Hanging on the stone wall was a painting, unmistakably in the cute pop-culture style of Alvin Ricketts: two large-eyed puppies . . . gaunt zombie puppies. “Somebody left it here. Looks real nice on the wall, brightens up the place.”
A plan began to form in my mind. “I have a suggestion that would benefit both of us.” I glanced back at the door of the crypt, straining to hear the werewolf outside. I doubted I could slip out of the cemetery carrying the Ricketts “art” without the hairy hit man intercepting me. Werewolves can run much faster than zombies, and inflict severe bodily damage—the kind that’s difficult to repair. If he got his paws on the painting, I would never get a second chance to retrieve it.
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