The early Anita Blake novels find new life in trade paperback-as perfect collectibles for long-time fans or as great ways for new readers to sink their teeth into the series.
In The Laughing Corpse, a creature from beyond the grave is tearing a swath of murder through St. Louis. And Anita will learn that there are some secrets better left buried-and some people better off dead...
1HAROLD 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 damn if he doesn’t know
how to make money. It’s a good trait for a business manager.
Bert was six-four, a broad-shouldered, ex–college football player with
the beginnings of a beer gut. The dark blue suit he wore was tailored
2 LAURELL K. HAMILTON
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 checking 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 bastard,” 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 damn 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 LAUGHING CORPSE 3
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 check 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 Volvo. 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
4 LAURELL K. HAMILTON
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.
THE LAUGHING CORPSE 5
“Mr. Vaughn and Ms. Blake, how nice of you to drive out.” His voice
went with his face, pleasant, damn near amiable.
A slender black man sat in one of the leather chairs. He was over six
feet tall, exactly how much over was hard to tell. He was slumped down,
long legs stretched out in front of him with the ankles crossed. His legs
were taller than I was. His brown eyes watched me as if he were trying
to memorize me and would be graded later.
The blond bodyguard went to lean against the bookcases. He couldn’t
quite cross his arms, jacket too tight, muscles too big. You really
shouldn’t lean against a wall and try to look tough unless you can cross
your arms. Ruins the effect.
Mr. Gaynor said, “You’ve met Tommy.” He motioned towards the
sitting bodyguard. “That’s Bruno.”
“Is that your real name or just a nickname?” I asked, looking straight
into Bruno’s eyes.
He shifted just a little in his chair. “Real name.”
I smiled.
“Why?” he asked.
“I’ve just never met a bodyguard who was really named Bruno.”
“Is that supposed to be funny?” he asked.
I shook my head. Bruno. He never had a chance. It was like naming
a girl Venus. All Brunos had to be bodyguards. It was a rule. Maybe a
cop? Naw, it was a bad guy’s name. I smiled.
Bruno sat up in his chair, one smooth, muscular motion. He wasn’t
wearing a gun that I could see, but there was a presence to him. Dangerous,
it said, watch out.
Guess I shouldn’t have smiled.
Bert interrupted, “Anita, please. I do apologize, Mr. Gaynor . . . Mr.
Bruno. Ms. Blake has a rather peculiar sense of humor.”
“Don’t apologize for me, Bert. I don’t like it.” I don’t know what he
was so sore about anyway. I hadn’t said the really insulting stuff out
loud.
“Now, now,” Mr. Gaynor said. “No hard feelings. Right, Bruno?”
Bruno shook his head and frowned at me, not angry, sort of perplexed.
6 LAURELL K. HAMILTON
Bert flashed me an angry look, then turned smiling to the man in the
wheelchair. “Now, Mr. Gaynor, I know you must be a busy man. So,
exactly how old is the zombie you want raised?”
“A man who gets right down to business. I like that.” Gaynor hesitated,
staring at the door. A woman entered.
She was tall, leggy, blond, with cornflower-blue eyes. The dress, if it
was a dress, was rose-colored and silky. It clung to her body the way it
was supposed to, hiding what decency demanded, but leaving very little
to the imagination. Long pale legs were stuffed into pink spike heels,
no hose. She stalked across the carpet, and every man in the room
watched her. And she knew it.
She threw back her head and laughed, but no sound came out. Her
face brightened, her lips moved, eyes sparkled, but in absolute silence,
like someone had turned the sound off. She leaned one hip against Harold
Gaynor, one hand on his shoulder. He encircled her waist, and the
movement raised the already short dress another inch.
Could she sit down in the dress without flashing the room? Naw.
“This is Cicely,” he said. She smiled brilliantly at Bert, that little
soundless laugh making her eyes sparkle. She looked at me and her eyes
faltered, the smile slipped. For a second uncertainty filled her eyes. Gaynor
patted her hip. The smile flamed back into place. She nodded graciously
to both of us.
“I want you to raise a two-hundred-and-eighty-three-year-old
corpse.”
I just stared at him and wondered if he understood what he was asking.
“Well,” Bert said, “that is nearly three hundred years old. Very old
to raise as a zombie. Most animators couldn’t do it at all.”
“I am aware of that,” Gaynor said. “That is why I asked for Ms. Blake.
She can do it.”
Bert glanced at me. I had never raised anything that old. “Anita?”
“I could do it,” I said.
He smiled back at Gaynor, pleased.
“But I won’t do it.”
Bert turned slowly back to me, smile gone.
THE LAUGHING CORPSE 7
Gaynor was still smiling. The bodyguards were immobile. Cicely
looked pleasantly at me, eyes blank of any meaning.
“A million dollars, Ms. Blake,” Gaynor said in his soft pleasant voice.
I saw Bert swallow. His hands convulsed on the chair arms. Bert’s
idea of sex was money. He probably had the biggest hard-on of his life.
“Do you understand what you’re asking, Mr. Gaynor?” I asked.
He nodded. “I will supply the white goat.” His voice was still pleasant
as he said it, still smiling. Only his eyes had gone dark; eager, anticipatory.
I stood up. “Come on, Bert, it’s time to leave.”
Bert grabbed my arm. “Anita, sit down, please.”
I stared at his hand until he let go of me. His charming mask slipped,
showing me the anger underneath, then he was all pleasant business
again. “Anita. It is a generous payment.”
“The white goat is a euphemism, Bert. It means a human sacrifice.”
My boss glanced at Gaynor, then back to me. He knew me well
enough to believe me, but he didn’t want to. “I don’t understand,” he
said.
“The older the zombie the bigger the death needed to raise it. After
a few centuries the only death ‘big enough’ is a human sacrifice,” I said.
Gaynor wasn’t smiling anymore. He was watching me out of dark
eyes. Cicely was still looking pleasant, almost smiling. Was there anyone
home behind those so blue eyes? “Do you really want to talk about
murder in front of Cicely?” I asked.
Gaynor beamed at me, always a bad sign. “She can’t understand a
word we say. Cicely’s deaf.”
I stared at him, and he nodded. She looked at me with pleasant eyes.
We were talking of human sacrifice and she didn’t even know it. If she
could read lips, she was hiding it very well. I guess even the handicapped,
um, physically challenged, can fall into bad company, but it seemed
wrong.
“I hate a woman who talks constantly,” Gaynor said.
I shook my head. “All the money in the world wouldn’t be enough
to get me to work for you.”
“Couldn’t you just kill lots of animals, instead of just one?” Bert
8 LAURELL K. HAMILTON
asked. Bert is a very good business manager. He knows shit about raising
the dead.
I stared down at him. “No.”
Bert sat very still in his chair. The prospect of losing a million dollars
must have been real physical pain for him, but he hid it. Mr. Corporate
Negotiator. “There has to be a way to work this out,” he said. His voice
was calm. A professional smile curled his lips. He was still trying to do
business. My boss did not understand what was happening.
“Do you know of another animator that could raise a zombie this
old?” Gaynor asked.
Bert glanced up at me, then down at the floor, then at Gaynor. The
professional smile had faded. He understood now that it was murder we
were talking about. Would that make a difference?
I had always wondered where Bert drew the line. I was about to find
out. The fact that I didn’t know whether he would refuse the contract
told you a lot about my boss. “No,” Bert said softly, “no, I guess I can’t
help you either, Mr. Gaynor.”
“If it’s the money, Ms. Blake, I can raise the offer.”
A tremor ran through Bert’s shoulders. Poor Bert, but he hid it well.
Brownie point for him.
“I’m not an assassin, Gaynor,” I said.
“That ain’t what I heard,” Tommy of the blond hair said.
I glanced at him. His eyes were still as empty as a doll’s. “I don’t kill
people for money.”
“You kill vampires for money,” he said.
“Legal execution, and I don’t do it for the money,” I said.
Tommy shook his head and moved away from the wall. “I hear you
like staking vampires. And you aren’t too careful about who you have
to kill to get to ’em.”
“My informants tell me you have killed humans before, Ms. Blake,”
Gaynor said.
“Only in self-defense, Gaynor. I don’t do murder.”
Bert was standing now. “I think it is time to leave.”
Bruno stood in one fluid movement, big dark hands loose and halfcupped
at his sides. I was betting on some kind of martial arts.
Tommy was standing away from the wall. His sport jacket was pushed
THE LAUGHING CORPSE 9
back to expose his gun, like an old-time gunfighter. It was a .357 Magnum.
It would make a very big hole.
I just stood there, staring at them. What else could I do? I might be
able to do something with Bruno, but Tommy had a gun. I didn’t. It
sort of ended the argument.
They were treating me like I was a very dangerous person. At fivethree
I am not imposing. Raise the dead, kill a few vampires, and people
start considering you one of the monsters. Sometimes it hurt. But
now . . . it had possibilities. “Do you really think I came in here unarmed?”
I asked. My voice sounded very matter-of-fact.
Bruno looked at Tommy. He sort of shrugged. “I didn’t pat her
down.”
Bruno snorted.
“She ain’t wearing a gun, though,” Tommy said.
“Want to bet your life on it?” I said. I smiled when I said it, and slid
my hand, very slowly, towards my back. Make them think I had a hip
holster at the small of my back. Tommy shifted, flexing his hand near
his gun. If he went for it, we were going to die. I was going to come
back and haunt Bert.
Gaynor said, “No. No need for anyone to die here today, Ms. Blake.”
“No,” I said, “no need at all.” I swallowed my pulse back into my
throat and eased my hand away from my imaginary gun. Tommy eased
away from his real one. Goody for us.
Gaynor smiled again, like a pleasant beardless Santa. “You of course
understand that telling the police would be useless.”
I nodded. “We have no proof. You didn’t even tell us who you wanted
raised from the dead, or why.”
“It would be your word against mine,” he said.
“And I’m sure you have friends in high places.” I smiled when I said
it.
His smile widened, dimpling his fat little cheeks. “Of course.”
I turned my back on Tommy and his gun. Bert followed. We walked
outside into the blistering summer heat. Bert looked a little shaken. I
felt almost friendly towards him. It was nice to know that Bert had
limits, something he wouldn’t do, even for a million dollars.
“Would they really have shot us?” he asked. His voice sounded
10 LAURELL K. HAMILTON
matter-of-fact, firmer than the slightly glassy look in his eyes. Tough
Bert. He unlocked the trunk without being asked.
“With Harold Gaynor’s name in our appointment book and in the
computer?” I got my gun out and slipped on the holster rig. “Not knowing
who we’d mentioned this trip to?” I shook my head. “Too risky.”
“Then why did you pretend to have a gun?” He looked me straight
in the eyes as he asked, and for the first time I saw uncertainty in his
face. Ol’ money bags needed a comforting word, but I was fresh out.
“Because, Bert, I could have been wrong.”
