The Laughing Corpse - Laurell K. Hamilton [0]
The Laughing Corpse
An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1994 by Laurell K. Hamilton
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ISBN: 1-101-14656-7
An ACE BOOK®
Ace Books first published by The Ace Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ACE and the “A” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.
Electronic edition: February, 2004
Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter books by Laurell K. Hamilton
GUILTY PLEASURES
THE LAUGHING CORPSE
CIRCUS OF THE DAMNED
THE LUNATIC CAFE
BLOODY BONES
THE KILLING DANCE
BURNT OFFERINGS
BLUE MOON
OBSIDIAN BUTTERFLY
NARCISSUS IN CHAINS
To everyone who bought this book years ago, because if you had not, all those who recently found it would never have had the chance
Contents
Acknowledgments
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
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19
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AFTERWORD by Laurell K. Hamilton
Acknowledgments
To J, who became my friend with this book, years before it would ever occur to us to date. Ginjer Buchanan, our editor, who believed in Anita and me from the start. Marcia Woolsey, who read the first Anita short story and pronounced it “good.” (Marcia, please contact my publisher—I would love to talk to you!) Janni Lee Simner, Marella Sands, and Robert K. Sheaf, who made sure this book stood alone. Deborah Millitello, for holding my hand when I needed it. M. C. Sumner, for being a friend. Alternate Historians forever. Thanks to everyone who attended my readings at Windycon and Capricorn.
1
HAROLD 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 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