Dean Koontz's Frankenstein 4-Book Bundle (79 page)

“Totally changed us,” Gunny agreed, nodding enthusiastically.

“It made us understand,” Nick said.

“Heaps, harps, holes, hoops, hens, hawks, hooks, hoses, hearts, hands, heads.
Heads!
The mother of all gone-wrongs talked inside our heads.”

“It made us free,” Nick said. “We don't have to do anything we used to have to do.”

“We don't hate your kind anymore,” Gunny said. “It's like—why did we ever.”

“That's nice,” said Carson.

“We used to hate you so bad,” Gunny revealed. “When Old Race dead were sent to the dump, we stomped their faces. Stomped them head to foot, over and over, till they were nothing but bone splinters and smashed meat.”

“In fact,” Nick added, “we just did that earlier tonight with some like you.”

“That was before we went down the big hole and met the mother of all gone-wrongs and learned better,” Gunny clarified. “Man, oh, man, life is different now, for sure.”

Carson shifted her grip on the Urban Sniper, holding it with both hands, the muzzle aimed at the sky instead of toward the ground.

Casually, Michael did the same with his Sniper as he said, “So where is Deucalion?”

“We'll take you to him,” Nick said. “He's really the first, isn't he, the first man-made man?”

“Yes, he really is,” Carson said.

“Listen,” Michael said, “we've got a dog in the car. Is he going to be safe if we leave him here?”

“Bring him along,” Nick said. “Dogs—they love a dump. They call me dog-nose Nick 'cause to help me in my job, I have some canine genes that give me a sense of smell half what a dog's is but ten thousand times what you smell.”

When Michael opened the back door of the Honda, Duke bounded out and raised his nose to the rich night air. He regarded Nick and Gunny warily, cocked his head left, then right.

“He smells New Race,” Nick said. “And that worries him. But he smells something different about us, too.”

“Because we've been down the big hole,” Gunny said, “and had our heads talked in by the mother of all gone-wrongs.”

“That's right,” Nick said. “The dog, he knows.”

The Duke of Orleans tentatively wagged his tail.

“He smells like a good dog,” Nick said. “He smells the way I'd want to smell if I didn't have just some canine genes but was all the way a dog. He smells perfect for a dog. You're lucky to have him.”

Carson gave Michael a look that asked,
Are we crazy to go with them into this dark and lonely place?

He read her clearly, because he said, “Well, it's dark and it's lonely, but we've been through crazy for three days, and I think we're coming out the other side tonight. I say trust Deucalion and the Duke.”

ERIKA CARRIED JOCKO
from the windowless Victorian drawing room, along the secret passageway.

When the troll passed out, he passed
way
out. He fell so deep into unconsciousness that during this short vacation from awareness, he must have had a room with a view of death.

As limp as rags, his body draped over her cradling arms. Head lolling, mouth open, flaps flopping, he held an iridescent bubble between his teeth, and it didn't pop until she settled him in an armchair in the library.

Jocko remained the antithesis of beauty If any child were to come upon him accidentally, the unfortunate tyke might need years to regain control of his bladder and would be traumatized for life.

Yet Jocko's vulnerability, his effervescence, and his touching perseverance endeared him to Erika. Somewhat
to her surprise, her affection for the troll grew by the hour.

If this mansion were a cottage in the woods, if Jocko frequently broke into song, and if there were six more of him, Erika would have been a real-life Snow White.

She returned to the windowless drawing room. From the threshold, she stared for a moment at the shapeless shadow nesting within the radiant reddish-gold substance.

The care taken with the decor suggested that Victor came here regularly to sit at length with the creature in the glass casket. If he spent little time in this room, he would not have furnished it so cozily.

She closed the steel door and engaged the five deadbolts. At the end of the hall that bristled with rods, she closed the next door and bolted it, as well.

When she returned to the library, where the pivoting section of bookshelves rotated into place, concealing all beyond it, Erika found that Jocko had regained consciousness. Feet dangling well short of the floor, arms on the arms of the chair, he was sitting up straight, clutching the upholstery with both hands, as if he were on a roller coaster, nervously anticipating the next plunge.

“How do you feel, Jocko?”

He said, “Pecked.”

“What does that mean?”

“Like, say, ten birds want to peck your head, you try to protect yourself, their wings flutter against your
hands and arms, flutter-flutter-flutter against your face. Jocko feels fluttery all over.”

“Have you ever been attacked by birds?”

“Only when they see me.”

“That sounds horrible.”

“Well, it just happens when Jocko's in open air. And mostly in daylight, only once at night. Well, twice if bats count as birds.”

“There's a bar here in the library. Maybe a drink will settle your nerves.”

“Do you have storm-drain water with interesting sediment?”

“I'm afraid we only have bottled water or from the tap.”

“Oh. Then I'll have Scotch.”

“You want that on the rocks?”

“No. Just some ice, please.”

Moments later, as Erika gave Jocko his drink, her cell phone rang. “Only Victor has this number.”

She thought that Jocko's voice had a note of bitterness in it when he muttered, “He who made he who I was,” but she may have been imagining it.

She fished the phone from a pocket of her slacks. “Hello?”

“We're leaving New Orleans for a while,” Victor said. “We're leaving immediately.”

Because her husband sometimes found questions impertinent, Erika didn't ask why they were leaving, but said simply, “All right.”

“I'm already on my way to the tank farm. You'll go there in the bigger Mercedes SUV, the GL550.”

“Yes, Victor. Tomorrow?”

“Don't be stupid. I said ‘immediately.' Tonight. Within the hour. Pack two weeks' clothes for yourself. Get the staff to help. You've got to move fast.”

“And should I bring clothes for you?”

“I have a wardrobe at the farm. Just shut up and listen.”

Victor told her where to find the mansion's walk-in safe and explained what she should bring from it.

Then he said, “When you go outside, look to the northwest, the sky is burning,” and he terminated the call.

Erika closed her phone and stood in thought for a moment.

In the armchair, Jocko said, “Is he mean to you?”

“He … is who he is,” she replied. “Wait here. I'll be back in a minute.”

French doors opened from the library to a covered terrace. As Erika stepped outside, she heard sirens in the distance.

To the northwest, a strange luminosity played through the low storm clouds: throbbing, wildly flailing forms of light, as radiant and fiercely white as spirits might be, if you were one who believed in such things as spirits.

The burning sky was a reflection of an unimaginably hot and hungry blaze below. The place where she was conceived and born, the Hands of Mercy, must be on fire.

The rain driving through the trees and spending itself on the soaked lawn made a sizzle something like
fire, but here the night had no scent of smoke. The washed air smelled clean and fresh, and the fragrance of jasmine came to her, and in this moment, for the first time in her brief but event-packed existence, she felt fully
alive
.

She returned to the library and sat on the footstool in front of Jocko's armchair. “Little friend, you have followed the secret passageway to the hidden room and seen all those lock bolts on the two steel doors.”

“Jocko isn't going there again. Jocko's been in enough scary places. He wants just nice places from now on.”

“You have seen the hidden room and the glass casket, and the shapeless shadow alive within.”

Jocko shuddered and drank some Scotch.

“You have heard it speak from the casket.”

Unsuccessfully trying to make his voice deeper and rougher and menacing, the troll quoted, “‘You are Erika Five, and you are mine.'”

In his natural voice, he said, “There's something in the glass box that's at least fourteen hundred times too scary for Jocko. If Jocko had genitals, they would've shriveled up and fallen off. But Jocko could only faint.”

“Remember, I took you there so I could ask your opinion about something. Before I ask, I must emphasize that I want to know what you
truly
feel. Truly, truly.”

Clearly somewhat embarrassed but nevertheless meeting Erika's stare forthrightly, the troll said, “Truly, truly. No more Jocko-needs-to-pee-Jocko-is-gonna-vomit. That's the old me. Good-bye to that Jocko.”

“All right, then. I want your honest opinion about two things. We don't know what that shapeless shadow is. But based on what you've heard and seen, is the thing in that glass casket just another thing—or is it malevolent?”

“Malevolent!” the troll said at once. “Malevolent, malignant, venomous, and potentially very troublesome.”

“Thank you for your honesty.”

“You're welcome.”

“Now my second question.” She leaned toward Jocko, riveting his gaze with hers. “If the thing in the glass case was made by some man, conceived and designed and brought to life by some man, do you think that man is good … or evil?”

“Evil,” Jocko said. “Evil, depraved, wicked, corrupt, vile, vicious, rotten, hateful, totally unpleasant.”

Erika held his gaze for half a minute. Then she rose from the footstool. “We've got to leave New Orleans and go to the tank farm farther upstate. You'll need clothes.”

Plucking at the picnic tablecloth that he had fashioned into a sarong, Jocko said, “This is the only clothes Jocko ever had. It works okay.”

“You'll be out in public, at least in the Mercedes.”

“Put Jocko in the trunk.”

“It's an SUV. It doesn't have a trunk. I've got to find you clothes that make you look more like a normal little boy.”

Amazement made yet another fright mask of the troll's face. “What genius would make such clothes?”

“I don't know,” Erika admitted. “But I've got an idea who might. Glenda. The estate provisioner. She shops for everything needed here. Food, paper goods, linens, staff uniforms, holiday decorations….”

“Does she shop for soap?” Jocko asked.

“Yes, everything, she shops for everything.”

He put aside his empty Scotch glass and clapped his hands. “Jocko would like to meet the lady who shops for soap.”

“That's not a good idea,” Erika said. “You stay here, out of sight. I'll talk to Glenda and see what she can do.”

Getting up from the armchair, the troll said, “Jocko is feeling like he better twirl or cartwheel, or walk on his hands. Whatever.”

“You know what you could do?” Erika asked. “You could browse the shelves in here, choose some books to take along.”

“I'm going to read to you,” he remembered.

“That's right. Choose some good stories. Maybe twenty.”

As the troll moved toward the nearest shelves, Erika hurried to find Glenda.

At the door to the hall, she paused and looked back at Jocko. “You know what … ? Also choose four or five books that seem a little dangerous. And maybe … one that seems really, really dangerous.”

THE POWERFUL ENGINE
transmits vibrations through the frame of the car.

The tires on the blacktop raise vibrations that are likewise transmitted through the vehicle.

Even in the plush upholstery of the backseat, these vibrations can be felt faintly, especially by one made sensitive to vibrations by the tedium of semisuspended animation, in which there was, for so long, little other sensory input.

Like the freezer-motor vibrations in the liquid-filled sack, these are neither pleasant nor unpleasant to Chameleon.

It is no longer tormented by extreme cold.

Nor is it any longer tormented by its powerless condition, for it is no longer powerless. It is free, free at last, and it is free to kill.

Currently, Chameleon is tormented only by its
inability to locate a
TARGET.
It has detected the scents of numerous
EXEMPTS
, and even most of them were dead.

The sole
TARGET
located in the laboratory suddenly became an
EXEMPT
just seconds before Chameleon would have killed it.

Frustrated, Chameleon cannot account for this transformation. Its program does not allow for such a possibility.

Chameleon is adaptable. When its program and real experience do not comport, it will reason its way toward an understanding of why the program is inadequate.

Chameleon is capable of suspicion. In the lab, it continued to maintain surveillance on the one who transformed. It knew the man's face from the past and from the film, but because of the transformation, it thought of him as the
PUZZLE
.

The
PUZZLE
had gotten busy, busy in the lab, rushing this way and that. Something about the
PUZZLE
's frantic activity made Chameleon more suspicious.

In the hallway, the
PUZZLE
encountered a thing unlike any creature in the extensive species-ID file in Chameleon's program. This thing, large and moving erratically, looked not at all like an
EXEMPT
, but it smelled like one.