I experienced a brief disorienting moment, like in a movie—I thought Brondon Morris had actually shot Robin. Instead, he spun around, grabbed his shoulder, and dropped his pistol on the catwalk.
Huffing and sweaty, McGoo stalked across the factory floor, his service revolver out. He was always a good shot.
Before I’d been killed, the two of us would often spend Saturday afternoons at the gun range, recreationally blowing holes in targets shaped like muggers, terrorists, werewolves, or hunchbacks. He always hit the bull’s-eye—center of chest, center of head. My shots were all over the place—not much finesse, but good enough to take down an opponent, regardless.
Brondon’s eyes bulged as he caught his balance and saw the cop. “You shot me!”
“Just winged you,” McGoo said, marching closer, keeping his revolver pointed up at the green plaid sport jacket. “Got your attention, though, didn’t I?”
Brondon opened and closed his mouth. “But … but you’re human!”
“And you’re an asshole.”
Even if McGoo hadn’t heard all the details of the nefarious JLPN plan, he had enough information to conclude that Brondon Morris was, indeed, an asshole.
Despite his bleeding shoulder, Brondon bent over and grabbed for the .38 he had dropped on the catwalk. Robin’s hands were tied, and she couldn’t get the gun herself, but just as his fingers touched the pistol, she pushed him with her hip hard enough to knock him off balance.
He tumbled into the chemical vat.
I wanted to cheer for her. I lurched up the last step and ran across the catwalk as Robin swayed to keep her balance. She teetered on the edge herself, but I grabbed her just in time and pulled her back from the precipice, holding her safe.
Sheyenne flitted close. “Officer McGoohan was handcuffed in Harvey Jekyll’s office in the admin building. I found him and unlocked his handcuffs, but since I can pass directly through walls, I got here faster than he could run.”
In the murky liquid, Brondon squawked and flailed, trying to stay afloat. Robin was appalled at what she had done. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—”
“Yes, you did—and you did a good job,” I said as I worked to untie her hands.
Even though Brondon was human, the caustic chemicals began eating away at the fabric of his green plaid jacket. He sank under, then resurfaced, thrashing and flopping. His hair curled and fell off in clumps, and his skin steamed and bubbled; huge blisters covered his cheeks and forehead.
I should have thought to keep watch on Sheyenne. Although the ghost couldn’t touch people, she floated to the main controls and flicked on the powerful stirring unit. With a loud hum like a jet engine firing up, the beaters began to churn and chop the contents of the vat, creating a whirlpool.
Brondon reached out with swollen, steaming hands—and was sucked under. The beater made a loud thump as the motors strained to break the large chunk into more manageable bits. Then the stirrer continued to spin more smoothly.
Robin was shuddering and sobbing. “What a horrible way to die!”
“Don’t feel too sorry for him,” I said. “He meant to do that to you.”
Sheyenne had a disturbingly calm expression on her face as she returned to us. I said, “I didn’t know you were so ruthless.”
She didn’t look guilty at all; instead, she was indignant. “That man killed me. He put toadstool toxin in my drink! I suffered for days as the poison destroyed my body, one organ at a time. Brondon Morris did that to me—and he shot you too. More than once, in fact.” She sniffed. “Believe me, that might have looked messy, but he got off easy.”
Self-consciously, I touched the bullet hole in the back of my head and the putty-filled one in the front. I couldn’t argue with her logic.
McGoo bounded up the metal stairs to join us all on the catwalk, looking around with wide eyes. “We’re all right, McGoo,” I said.
Still self-righteous, Sheyenne presented herself to him and extended her forearms, wrists together. “Are you going to cuff me, Officer? You saw what I did.”
He peered into the churning, frothing vat as the beater kept working. A large rectangular swatch of green plaid floated to the top of the liquid, then was sucked under again.
After a long pause, McGoo said, “I didn’t see anything. He must have slipped on the catwalk.” He indicated a sign on the cinderblock wall next to a pile of pipes from a dismantled scaffold. Warning: Hazardous Chemicals. “Must be an internal problem at JLPN, insufficient safety precautions for the employees.” He looked over at Robin. “Someone should file a workers’ compensation suit.”
We descended the stairs, glad to be down from the vat. I retrieved my .38 from where I had tossed it. Robin rubbed her wrists, flexed her fingers. She smiled at me. “Thanks, I knew you’d come.”
On the side of the huge tank, a laminated sheet announced, Safety First! This Facility Has Had ___ Days Without An Accident. The number 121 had been written with a grease pencil that hung by a piece of twine next to the sign. With the side of my hand, I smeared out the 121, picked up the grease pencil, and wrote 0.
McGoo was still red-faced and panting as he looked around the process floor. He touched the back of his head and winced. “Jekyll’s around here somewhere. He’s the one who knocked me out.”
“We’ll have to send an emergency recall notice to all the stores and facilities that were about to release the new JLPN product line,” Robin said. “Get word out on the radio, have the mayor make a speech and warn all unnaturals. They can’t be allowed to use any necroceuticals that contain Compound Z.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” said a nasal voice. “That would destroy all our hopes and dreams.”
Harvey Jekyll walked onto the factory floor. A small bookish man with shrunken shoulders and large eyes, he looked more qualified to be a dungeon librarian than a corporate executive. “I’m afraid I can’t let any of you leave here—even the humans.” Jekyll’s nostrils flared, and the wrinkles on his brow furrowed together. “I’m very sorry that Brondon didn’t live to see our ultimate triumph. Do you know how hard it is to find a good, imaginative chemist who isn’t profit-motivated?”
“You can find him right there in the vat,” I said. “But you’ll have to strain out the pieces.”
Jekyll stepped forward, and I noticed how very small his shoes were; perhaps he bought them in the boys’ department. He had small, feminine hands, too. If clichés about endowment were accurate, that might have been another reason why Miranda was so eager for a divorce.
“Brondon was a crusader for humankind,” Jekyll said. “Under my auspices, he created products to make real human beings safe, to make us stand strong against the unnaturals.” Then, as if a thought had occurred to him, he raised his chin and smiled. “However, his death does now make me the official Grand Wizard of Straight Edge. That’s a silver lining, at least.”
We all just stared at him. Two villain soliloquies in one night?
“Harvey Jekyll, you’re under arrest for murder,” McGoo said. “Turn around and put your hands behind your back. I’m taking you in.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Officer. Murder of unnaturals? No one will care, and once I eliminate you all, I can pin everything on poor Brondon. That way he can serve a final purpose.” The mousy man strutted forward.
I laughed in disbelief. “You’re delusional, Mr. Jekyll. It’s three of us against you.”
Sheyenne flitted up to the catwalk and drifted down to join us, holding the gun that Brondon had dropped. “Four of us,” she said.
“Oh, that won’t be nearly enough,” Jekyll sneered. “One of Brondon’s greatest achievements was creating a concoction that makes a normal human strong enough to fight even an army of unnaturals.” He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a capped test tube filled with emerald-green liquid. He yanked off the cork and downed the contents. From the grimace on Jekyll’s face, I assumed the potion was as vile as its creator had been.
Jekyll’s scrawny figure began to change.