Damn Him to Hell (35 page)

“You can’t dream a winning lottery ticket?” I grumbled.

“Not deliberately, but if I did, it might be one from last year. Time has no meaning in the dreamworld.” Andre watched me warily for a reaction.

If there really was a hell, why not another dimension? I just needed to expand my mind far enough to encompass the enormity. Could I believe Bergdorff’s infernal contraption drew on another dimension besides hell? Probably not. Only hell would turn Gloria into a demon. But hell apparently had several layers. Circles. Whatever. Maybe the zombies were in some outer level—
like Max had been
?

Out the window, I saw Paddy hurrying in our direction. I’d have liked to take another whack at Andre but I figured we’d end up rolling around on the floor in frustration. Not a wise idea.

I opened the front door before Paddy had a chance
to knock. Julius and Tim arrived bearing trays of sandwiches and soft drinks. My tree-hugging mother had taught me to dislike chemically enhanced lunch meats, but since I didn’t have to prepare the food, I accepted it without complaint as we settled into Andre’s front room. Andre was still frowning blackly, so I ignored him.

“Are we all under suspicion yet?” I asked Paddy, bringing the discussion straight to the point.

“No, they still think Ferguson did it, but they’re searching for the guards who were supposed to be on duty, too. Their families fear the worst.” Paddy tapped his fingers against the pedestal recliner he’d taken and glared at me from under his bushy eyebrows. “I gathered up all the frogs I could find and said they were part of an experiment.”

“They like to eat pink glitter,” I bluffed with a grin. I was relieved that he’d captured them, though.

“You have no idea how valuable those particles are,” he griped.

Pink glitter was valuable in what way? He didn’t give me time to interrogate him.

“But that’s not the problem.” Paddy produced a packet of papers from inside his old blue work shirt and handed them to me.

I wanted gloves before accepting them, but I hated to insult the potential new owner of Acme. I took the papers by a corner and scanned them quickly. Not original documents but copies. The legal language of the first paragraph was explanatory enough. Forgetting my distaste, I started flipping through the pages. “Where are the originals?” I demanded.

“Police have them. They’ve called Dane.”

Julius swept the papers out of my hand, skimmed them, and gave them to Andre as he finished each one.

Tim simply helped himself to another sandwich and swigged his Dr Pepper, oblivious to the momentous revelation in our hands.

“She completely bypassed you,” I said in sympathy, rereading Gloria’s will as Andre returned the pages to me. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not, not entirely,” Paddy admitted. “It’s tainted wealth. I just want continued access to the plant. I’ll need to hire you to fight the will if they deny me that.”

A phone rang. I recognized the national anthem. Remembering I’d given Paddy my cell, I held out my hand. Should I ever make any money—and it obviously wouldn’t be from Paddy if this will was accepted—I was buying a new phone, one untainted by Zone humor.

Paddy seemed momentarily confused, patted his pockets, then rescued my El Cheapo pay-as-you-go from his pants.

I couldn’t greet Max with my usual sauciness, not with everyone listening. “Good afternoon, Senator,” I said in greeting, alerting him that I wasn’t alone.

“Snodgrass’s office just called,” he said without preamble. “What the hell will I do with Hell’s Mansion? The bitch didn’t even trust her own son to control Acme. She gave a ten percent share to Glenys instead, which means I have no control and can’t burn the place down. Can we run away to the South Pacific now that I’m a gazillionaire?”

“We were just discussing possibilities, Senator,” I said politely. “I’m sure the mansion can be donated to a worthy cause or sold to developers. Your lawyers will be happy to advise you. You really need to talk to your father about the other. Closing Acme is not advisable under the circumstances.” Not if pink particles might cure cancer or whatever Paddy was implying.

“Who’s there, Justy?” Dane/Max demanded.

“Witnesses,” I said snidely, aware that I had a riveted audience. Andre gripped his chair arms and looked as if he’d rocket into orbit any minute.

“You need to come over here and talk in private?” he asked. Brilliant man, my Max. I liked having him back, as long as I didn’t have to see him in Dane’s disguise.

“Not when the news breaks. Acme and I don’t have a good rapport, and you don’t want their goons suspicious of you. I seriously suggest that you not allow the MacNeills to have control of the plant. Do you understand?”

Michael MacNeill, Max’s ethically challenged father, was also Glenys’s father. Now that Glenys had a share, they’d probably control Acme, unless Grandma Ida bothered to resume her authority. Dane really needed to keep his paws out of that mess if he wanted to keep his senate seat.

Max was silent for a moment. He had been investigating Acme before he died, so he had to know his father had supported whatever went on over there.

“Snodgrass says I need to put the shares into the trust,” he said cautiously. “He’s one of the executors.”

“There should be more than one executor. Don’t let MacNeill be another.”

“You want me to make
Paddy
an executor?” he asked in disbelief, extrapolating nicely.

“Other than the wonderful scene that creates in my head as he consults with Snodgrass, yeah, that guarantees a better balance,” I agreed, trying not to reveal too much to my audience in case Max didn’t heed my advice. “You really need Zone input.”

“You’re crazy,” he said after a moment’s silence. “You’ve gone around the bend. You want Nutzoid Paddy and the Zone to stand up against my . . . MacNeill?”

“Or make Grandmother Ida smack his hands,” I agreed, not arguing with the crazy bit. I figured we were all a bit crazy.

“It has a warped sort of justice. I’ll take it under consideration. I want to see you again, Justy.”

“Blackmail, Senator, very bad business. You know where to find me.”

I carefully closed the phone and met the gazes of my friends. “I did what I could, boys.” I turned to Paddy. “Get your hair cut, put on a suit, and go see Snodgrass if you really want to keep Acme out of MacNeill’s hands.”

I
collapsed in my own bed that night, knowing Andre was back to reality and do-gooder Dane/Max had inherited part of the Bane of Our Existence. That ought to put Gloria in her place—or the world had better stay away from gas lines.

I let Milo snore on the pillow next to mine to make up for not having a man beside me. I was starting to think that sane, safe Leo the Lieutenant was my best bet. He would never own mansions that opened on hell or chemical companies that gassed the helpless. He wouldn’t turn gray and pass out and dream about soldiers storming the house. Or take drugs that caused those nightmares.

I tossed and turned, disturbing Milo until he stalked
off to the foot of the bed. One of the burrs under my collar was my first murder case. I was nervous about the court date next week. I’d never stood before a judge except when I’d been sentenced to jail. Not a reassuring memory. It had taken years to expunge my record and overcome the obstacles that minor conviction had created. I hated for Andre to suffer through worse.

Just before bed, I’d checked my tablet, but there hadn’t been any pertinent messages waiting. I’d left a note on Fat Chick’s page saying
Knowledge is power
and
Plan ahead
, but I didn’t know if those counted as rules or maxims to live by.

I couldn’t sleep. If I counted midnight as the beginning of the day, I’d damned Bergdorff to hell in the wee hours of the morning. It had been nearly twenty hours since then, and I hadn’t seen any sign of reward or punishment. If my theory was correct about midnight being the witching hour when rewards were handed out, I wanted to be awake to argue with whoever did the handing out.

I was deathly afraid I’d be punished for damning Bergdorff, and that I’d be crippled for life or sent to the outer rings of hell instead of rewarded. Worse yet, I was stupidly hoping that if I deserved a reward, I could ask for the zombies to come back to life.

That was plenty enough to keep me awake despite my exhaustion. I heard church chimes in the distance and checked my clock. Midnight. Nothing happened. I waited. No mysterious entities appeared. I was afraid to look in a mirror. I patted my hair. It was still there. My leg was still whole. I felt normal.

Nothing. Maybe I was only entitled to so many rewards and after that, I was expected to know the routine? But how could I know if I’d judged Bergdorff correctly?

I couldn’t. No judge could. I’d have to live with his execution for the rest of my life. Wincing over that realization, I turned over and collapsed in complete exhaustion.

The next morning, I got up, gulped coffee and a Nutribar, and went in to shower and brush my teeth. I hated facing the mirror and waited until it was good and foggy before I’d stand in front of it.

I opened my mouth to insert the toothbrush . . . and froze.

The crooked gap between my two front teeth was gone.

Shit. I didn’t want any more physical rewards to remind me that I’d sent a man to hell. Every time I looked in the mirror, I could count the number of souls I’d sent to Satan, wittingly or not. And now I knew I’d sent another. Satan was probably smirking.

Dammit, I’d wanted to argue with the tooth fairy, ask that s/he free the zombies instead of rewarding me. I’d wished for it at the time Bergdorff went out the window. What more could I do?

The devil worked in mysterious ways. Or Saturn. Whatever.

Cursing, wondering why I didn’t at least get something useful like a bigger brain for sending souls to their just reward, I got dressed in reasonably professional attire and headed across the street to my office.

My office
, an earthly reward I’d earned with intelligence and hard work. I liked that much better than my pretty gleaming new smile. Stupid, useless Saturn.

I started to use my new brass key to open the door but realized it was unlocked. Frowning, I glanced through the glass but didn’t see anything except my empty desk and scattered furniture. I needed to set up a file room and move the file drawers out of sight.

And get new locks, evidently. Bracing myself, I entered.

One of the black suits sat on a desk chair in a far dark corner. I contemplated hurriedly backing out, but this was
my
turf. He was the intruder.

“Who let you in?” I demanded rudely.

He rose, and, to my utter amazement, I saw he wore a red rosebud in his lapel buttonhole. A red
rosebud
. And a pink silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. In my experience, goons wore shoulder holsters, not roses and pink silk.

He was relatively young, maybe even younger than me, but male-model handsome, complete with cleft chin and thick head of styled hair. Not my type. I’m not into pretty. I think I would have recognized the rose or the handkerchief if I’d seen them before, but the square face and broad shoulders? Nah, all the goons had them. Why did I have an ugly feeling that he was one of Acme’s security guards? Weren’t they all frogs just yesterday?

“Mr. Vanderventer said I might wait here,” the intruder said politely. “I wished to make my apologies
to Mr. Legrande, but I didn’t know where to find him.”

Mr. Vanderventer? Paddy? Or Max?

I immediately donned my suspicious face. Very few strangers knew Andre by any name other than Legrande. Even though the lawyers at the courthouse knew his father, the murder charges had been filed under Legrande. I had no idea if Andre had officially changed his name, but I assumed he had identification. No way was I telling a stranger where to find Andre, since it would also involve his parents.

“I’ve advised my client to stay out of the public eye,” I lied. “Who are you and for what are you apologizing?”

Before he could answer, a frog hopped from under my desk. Well, that answered the question as to which Vanderventer had keys to my door. Uneasily, I snapped on the overhead to brighten the gray morning light. Another frog was chomping down on a spider in the corner. I supposed that was a good green way of cutting down on the pest-control bills. Why had Paddy let the frogs loose in my office?

Was it my imagination, or did my visitor just lick his lips while watching the spider disappear? My stomach did a backflip.

Pink particles were valuable
—as a frog-healing agent? One frog had been eating them. . . . Paddy had some explaining to do. Again.

The male model returned his attention to me, although a puzzled frown now marred his wide brow after watching his spider-nibbling brethren. “I apologize.
I’m Ned McNamara. I used to work for Mrs. Gloria Vanderventer. I’m one of the witnesses against Mr. Legrande.”

Whoo, boy
. I studied him with interest. This was one of the goons who’d been fighting off the old lady when she’d gone over the railing? He didn’t look too dangerous.