Dean Koontz's Frankenstein 4-Book Bundle (54 page)

CHAPTER 69

VICKY'S SISTER, LIANE
, whom Carson had spared from prison on a false murder charge, lived in an apartment in Faubourg Marigny, not far outside the Quarter.

She answered the door with a cat in a hat. She held the cat, and the cat wore the hat. The cat was black, and the hat was a knitted blue beret with a red pompom.

Liane looked lovely, and the cat looked embarrassed, and Michael said, “This explains the mouse we just saw laughing itself to death.”

Having regained consciousness in the car, Vicky could stand on her own, but she didn't look good. To her sister, as she patted the cat and stepped inside, she said, “Hi, sweetie. I think I'm gonna puke.”

“Carson doesn't allow that sort of thing at her house,” Michael said, “so here we are. As soon as Vicky pukes, we'll take her home.”

“He never changes,” Liane said to Carson.

“Never. He's a rock.”

Vicky decided she needed a beer to settle her stomach, and she led everyone to the kitchen.

When Liane put down the cat, it shook off the beret in disgust and ran out of the room to call the ACLU.

She offered drinks all around, and Carson said, “Something with enough caffeine to induce a heart attack.”

When Michael seconded that suggestion, Liane fetched two Red Bulls from the refrigerator.

“We'll drink from the can,” Michael said. “We're not girly men.”

Having already chugged half a bottle of beer, Vicky said, “What happened back there? Who was Randal? Who were those two that switched off my lights? You said Arnie's safe, but where is he?”

“It's a long story,” Carson said.

“They were such a cute couple,” Vicky said. “You don't expect such a cute couple to squirt you with chloroform.”

Sensing that Carson's
It's a long story
, though containing a wealth of information, wasn't going to satisfy Vicky, Michael said, “One thing those two were is professional killers.”

No longer in danger of puking, Vicky acquired that red-bronze hue of Asian anger. “What were professional killers doing in our kitchen?”

“They came to kill us professionally,” Michael explained.

“Which is why you've got to get out of New Orleans for a few days,” Carson said.

“Leave New Orleans? But they must have come to kill you, not me. I never antagonize people.”

“She never does,” Liane agreed. “She's the nicest person.”

“But you saw their faces,” Carson reminded Vicky. “Now you're on their list.”

“Can't you just get me police protection?”

Michael said, “You'd think we could, wouldn't you?”

“We don't trust anyone in the PD,” Carson revealed. “There's police corruption involved. Liane, can you take Vicky out of town somewhere, for a few days?”

Addressing her sister, Liane said, “We could go stay with Aunt Leelee. She's been wanting us to come.”

“I like Aunt Leelee,” Vicky said, “except when she goes off about the planetary pole shift.”

“Aunt Leelee believes,” Liane explained, “that because of the uneven distribution of population, the weight imbalance is going to cause a shift in the earth's magnetic pole, destroying civilization.”

Vicky said, “She can go on for hours about the urgent need to move ten million people from India to Kansas. But otherwise, she's fun.”

“Where does Leelee live?” Carson asked.

“Shreveport.”

“You think that's far enough, Michael?”

“Well, it's not Tibet, but it'll do. Vicky, we need to borrow your car.”

Vicky frowned. “Who's going to drive it?”

“I will,” Michael said.

“Okay, sure.”

“It'll be a hoot spending a few days with Aunt Leelee,” Liane said. “We'll drive up there first thing in the morning.”

“You've got to leave now,” Carson said. “Within the hour.”

“It's really that serious?” Vicky asked.

“It really is.”

When Carson and Michael left, the four of them did the hugs-all-around thing, but the humiliated cat remained in seclusion.

In the street, on the way to the car, Carson tossed the keys to Michael, and he said, “What's this?” and tossed them back to her.

“You promised Vicky that you'd drive,” she said, and lobbed the keys to him.

“I didn't promise, I just said ‘I will.'”

“I don't want to drive anyway. I'm sick about Arnie.”

He tossed the keys to her again. “He's safe, he's fine.”

“He's
Arnie
. He's scared, he's overwhelmed by too much newness, and he thinks I've abandoned him.”

“He doesn't think you've abandoned him. Deucalion has some kind of connection to Arnie. You saw that. Deucalion will be able to make him understand.”

Lobbing the keys to him, she said, “Tibet. I don't even know how to get to Tibet.”

“Go to Baton Rouge and turn left.” He stepped in front of her, blocking access to the Honda's passenger door.

“Michael, you always moan about me driving, so here's your chance. Take your chance.”

Her surrender of the keys suggested despondency. He had never seen her despondent. He liked her scrappy.

“Carson, listen, if Arnie was here, in the middle of the New Race meltdown—if that's what's happening—you'd be ten times crazier with worry.”

“So what?”

“So don't get yourself worked up about Tibet. Don't go female on me.”

“Oh,” she said, “that was ugly.”

“Well, it seems to be what's happening.”

“It's not what's happening. That was way ugly.”

“I call 'em as I see 'em. You seem to be going female on me.”

“This is a new low for you, mister.”

“What's true is true. Some people are too soft and vulnerable to handle the truth.”

“You manipulative bastard.”

“Sticks and stones.”

“I may get around to sticks and stones,” she said. “Gimme the damn keys.”

She snatched them out of his hand and went to the driver's door.

When they were belted in, as Carson put the key in the ignition, Michael said, “I had to punch hard. You wanting me to drive—that scared me.”

“Scared me, too,” she said, starting the engine. “You'd draw way too much attention to us—all those people behind us blowing their horns, trying to make you get up to speed limit.”

CHAPTER 70

DEUCALION STEPPED
into Father Patrick Duchaine's kitchen from the Rombuk Monastery, prepared to release the priest from this vale of tears, as he had promised, even though he had already learned of the Hands of Mercy from Pastor Laffite.

The priest had left lights on. The two coffee mugs and the two bottles of brandy stood on the table as they had been when Deucalion had left almost two hours ago, except that one of the bottles was now empty and a quarter of the other had been consumed.

Having been more affected by assisting Laffite out of this world than he had expected to be, prepared to be even more deeply stirred by the act of giving Duchaine that same grace, he poured a generous portion of brandy into the mug that previously he had drained of coffee.

He had brought the mug to his lips but had not yet sipped when his maker entered the kitchen from the hallway.

Although Victor seemed to be surprised, he didn't appear to be amazed, as he should have been if he believed that his first creation had perished two centuries ago. “So you call yourself Deucalion, the son of Prometheus. Is that presumption…or mockery of your maker?”

Deucalion might not have expected to feel fear when coming face-to-face with this megalomaniac, but he did.

More than fear, however, anger swelled in him, anger of that particular kind that he knew would feed upon itself until it reached critical mass and became a rage that would sustain a chain reaction of extreme violence.

Such fury had once made him a danger to the innocent until he had learned to control his temper. Now, in the presence of his maker, no one but he himself would be endangered by his unbridled rage, for it might rob him of self-control, make him reckless, and leave him vulnerable.

Glancing at the back door, Victor said, “How did you get past the sentinels?”

Deucalion put down the mug so hard that the untasted brandy slopped out of it, onto the table.

“What a sight you are, with a tattoo for a mask. Do you really believe that it makes you less of an abomination?”

Victor took another step into the kitchen.

To his chagrin, Deucalion found himself retreating one step.

“And dressed all in black, an odd look for the bayou,” Victor said. “Are you in mourning for someone? Is it for the mate I almost made for you back then—but instead destroyed?”

Deucalion's huge hands had hardened into fists. He longed to strike out, could not.

“What a brute you are,” said Victor. “I'm almost embarrassed to admit I made you. My creations are so much more elegant these days. Well, we all have to begin somewhere, don't we?”

Deucalion said, “You're insane and always were.”

“It talks!” Victor exclaimed with mock delight.

“The monster-maker has become the monster.”

“Ah, and it believes itself to be witty, as well,” said Victor. “But no one can blame your conversational skills on me. I only gave you life, not a book of one-liners, though I must say I seem to have given you rather more life than I realized at the time. Two hundred years and more. I've worked so hard on myself to hang on this long, but for you I would have expected a mortal span.”

“The only gift you gave me was misery. Longevity was a gift of the lightning that night.”

“Yes, Father Duchaine said that's what you believe. Well, if you're right, perhaps everyone should stand out in a field during a thunderstorm and hope to be struck, and live forever.”

Deucalion's vision had darkened steadily with the escalation of his rage, and the memory of lightning that sometimes pulsed in his eyes throbbed now as never before. The rush of his blood sang in his ears, and he heard himself breathing like a well-run horse.

Amused, Victor said, “Your hands are so tightly fisted, you'll draw blood from your palms with your own fingernails. Such hatred is unhealthy. Relax. Isn't this the moment you've been living for? Enjoy it, why don't you?”

Deucalion spread his fists into fans of fingers.

“Father Duchaine says the lightning also brought you a destiny. My destruction. Well…here I am.”

Although loath to concede his impotence, Deucalion looked away from his maker's piercing gaze before he realized what he'd done.

“If you can't finish me,” Victor said, “then I should wrap up the business I failed to complete so long ago.”

When Deucalion looked up again, he saw that Victor had drawn a revolver.

“A .357 Magnum,” Victor said. “Loaded with 158-grain jacketed hollow points. And I know exactly where to aim.”

“That night,” Deucalion said, “in the storm, when I received my destiny, I was also given an understanding of the quantum nature of the universe.”

Victor smiled again. “Ah. An early version of direct-to-brain data downloading.”

Deucalion raised a hand in which a quarter had appeared between thumb and forefinger. He flipped it into the air, and the quarter vanished during its ascent.

His maker's smile grew stiff.

Deucalion produced and flipped another coin, which winked up, up, and did not disappear, but fell, and when it rang against the kitchen table, Deucalion departed on the
ping
!

CHAPTER 71

CARSON DRIVING
, Michael riding shotgun: At least this one thing was still right with the world.

He had called the cell number for Deucalion and had, of course, gotten voice mail for Jelly Biggs. He left a message, asking for a meeting at the Luxe Theater, at midnight.

“What do we do till then?” Carson asked.

“You think we could risk a stop at my apartment? I've got some cash there. And I could throw a few things in a suitcase.”

“Let's drive by, see what we think.”

“Just slow down below supersonic.”

Accelerating, Carson said, “How do you think Deucalion does that Houdini stuff?”

“Don't ask me. I'm a prestidigitation disaster. You know that trick with little kids where you pretend to take their nose off, and you show it poking out of your fist, except it's really just your thumb?”

“Yeah.”

“They always look at me like I'm a moron, and say, ‘That's just your stupid thumb.'”

“I've never seen you goofing around with kids.”

“I've got a couple friends, they did the kid thing,” he said. “I've played babysitter in a pinch.”

“I'll bet you're good with kids.”

“I'm no Barney the Dinosaur, but I can hold my own.”

“He must sweat like a pig in that suit.”

“You couldn't pay me enough to be Barney,” he said.

“I used to hate Big Bird when I was a kid.”

“Why?”

She said, “He was such a self-righteous bore.”

“You know who used to scare me when I was a little kid? Snuggle the Bear.”

“Do I know Snuggle?”

“In those TV ads for that fabric softener. Somebody would say how
soft
their robe was or their towels, and Snuggle the teddy bear would be hiding behind a pillow or creeping around under a chair, giggling.”

“He was just happy that people were pleased.”

“No, it was a maniacal little giggle. And his eyes were glazed. And how did he get in all those houses to hide and giggle?”

“You're saying Snuggle should've been charged with B and E?”

“Absolutely. Most of the time when he giggled, he covered his mouth with one paw. I always thought he didn't want you to see his teeth.”

“Snuggle had bad teeth?” she asked.

“I figured they were rows of tiny vicious fangs he was hiding. When I was maybe four or five, I used to have nightmares where I'd be in bed with a teddy bear, and it was Snuggle, and he was trying to chew open my jugular and suck the lifeblood out of me.”

She said, “So much about you suddenly makes more sense than it ever did before.”

“Maybe if we aren't cops someday, we can open a toy shop.”

“Can we run a toy shop and have guns?”

“I don't see why not,” he said.