Dean Koontz's Frankenstein 4-Book Bundle (93 page)

“What the blazing hell did he mean, we're livestock?” Mr. Lyss demanded.

Nummy said, “I don't know that there word.”

“What word?
Livestock
? You live in Montana and you don't know livestock? Why're you jerking my chain?”

Nummy said what was only true: “You don't have no chain, sir.”

Looming over Nummy, bony fists clenched, Mr. Lyss said, “You being smart with me, boy?”

“No, sir. I'm not smart, I'm blessed.”

Mr. Lyss stared hard at him. After a while, Nummy looked down at the floor. When he raised his eyes again, the old man was still staring at him.

At last, Mr. Lyss said, “You're some kind of dummy.”

“Is there more kinds than one?”

“There's a million kinds. There's the kind who're dumb about money. There's others dumb about women. Some are so dumb they spend their whole lives with their heads up their butt.”

“Up whose butt, sir?”

“Up their own butt, whose butt do you think?”

“Can't be done,” said Nummy. “Not your own head up your own.”

“It's possible,” Mr. Lyss insisted.

“Even it could be possible, why would they?”

“Because they're morons,” Mr. Lyss said. “It's what they
do
.”

Still doubtful, Nummy said, “They must be way dumber than me.”

“Lots of people are dumber than you because they don't realize they're dumb. You realize it. That's something, anyways.”

“I know my limits,” Nummy said.

“You're a lucky man.”

“Yes, sir. That's why they say what they say.”

Mr. Lyss scowled. “What do you mean, what do they say?”

“Dumb luck. They call it that 'cause it happens to dumb people. But it's never luck, it's God. God looks out for folks like me.”

“He does, huh? How do you know?”

“Grandmama told me, and Grandmama she never lied.”

“Everybody lies, boy.”

“I don't,” said Nummy.

“Only because you're too dumb to lie.”

“You said lots of people is dumber than me, so then lots of people don't lie.”

Mr. Lyss spat on the floor. “I don't like you, boy.”

“I'm sorry, sir. I like you—a little.”

“Right there's a lie. You don't like me at all.”

“No. I do. I really do. The littlest bit.”

Mr. Lyss's right eye became larger than his left, as it would have if he put a magnifying glass to it, and he leaned forward as if studying a strange bug. “What's to like about me?”

“You're not boring, sir. You're dangerous excitable, and that's not good. But you're what Grandmama called colorful. With no colorful people, the world would be dull as vanilla pudding.”

The instant the cold muzzle of the pistol pressed against the warm nape of her neck, Carson froze. Through clenched teeth, she called Chang a name that, back in the day, would have gotten her thrown off the New Orleans PD for gender, racial, and cultural insensitivity.

He called her a name that was a female anatomical term no doctor ever used, at least not in his professional capacity, and whispered, “Who
are
you?”

Before she could reply, the killer gasped in shock, as if a cold steel muzzle had been pressed to the warm nape of
his
neck, and from behind him, Michael said, “We're cops. Drop the gun.”

Chang was silent, perhaps contemplating the mysteries and the synchronicities of a universe that suddenly seemed less random and more morally ordered than he had thought.

Then he said, “You're not cops.” To Carson, he said, “You move a muscle, bitch, I'll blow your brains out.”

The dark bay lapped gently at the hull of the boat, and Carson
blinked beads of condensed fog from her eyelashes as she tried without success to blink images of Scout from her mind's eye.

“Who are you?
” Chang demanded again.

“Private investigators,” Michael said. “Plus I'm her husband. I've got more at stake here than you do. Think about it.”

“Husband,” Chang said, “you drop
your
gun.”

“Get real,” Michael said.

“You won't shoot me,” Chang said.

“What else can I do?”

“You shoot me, I'll shoot her.”

“Maybe you'll be dead too fast to shoot.”

“Even dead, I'll squeeze the trigger reflexively.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Michael said.

“Or your shot will pass through me, kill her, too.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Michael said.

“There could be another way,” Carson said.

Michael said, “I don't see one, honey.”

“Let's not be hasty, sweetheart.”

“At least there's all that life insurance,” Michael said.

“They won't pay it, dear.”

Chang said, “Don't talk to each other. You talk to me.”

“All right,” Carson said. “Chang, explain to Michael that the insurance company won't pay off with you and me dead—and only him alive. It's just too suspicious.”

“Chang,” said Michael, “tell her that if you shoot her first and then I shoot you, the ballistic evidence will
require
the insurance company to pay off.”

“Shut up, shut up!
” Chang commanded. “You're making me very nervous.”

“Chang, you're not a calming influence yourself,” Carson said.

Chang slid the muzzle of his pistol up from the nape of her neck to the back of her skull and dug it into her scalp. “With Beckmann dead, I have nothing to lose.”

Because she was at the front of the death line, Carson had no one to whose skull she could hold the muzzle of
her
pistol.

“We could make a deal,” Michael said.

“You have a gun to my head!
” Chang complained bitterly.

It seemed to Carson that the killer was so obsessed with the weapon pressed to
his
head that he had all but forgotten that, like Michael, she was armed.

“Yes, I do,” said Michael, “I have a gun to your head, so I've got a negotiating advantage, but you've got some cards to play, too.”

Carson's right arm hung at her side. She turned her hand and directed her pistol toward the deck immediately behind her.

“You have no reason to trust me, and I have no reason to trust you,” said Chang with what sounded like a perilous degree of despair.

“You have every reason to trust us,” said Michael. “We're nice people.”

As Carson squeezed off a shot, she dropped toward her knees, intending to fling herself flat on the deck.

Chang screamed in pain and fired a round the instant he was hit.

Maybe Carson didn't really feel the bullet sizzle across her scalp, but there was muzzle flash, the smell of burnt hair.

She sprawled facedown, rolled on her back, sat up with the pistol in a two-hand grip, saw Chang flat and Michael on top of him with a knee in his back.

“My foot, my foot,
” Chang screamed, and Carson said urgently, “Michael, is my hair on fire?” and Michael said, “No, his piece is on the deck,
find it!
”

Carson found the weapon—“Got it”—and Michael said he needed to vomit, which he had never done in his years as a cop, so Carson knelt beside Chang and put her pistol to his head, which she greatly enjoyed. Chang kept screaming about his wounded foot, and Michael leaned over the railing and spewed into the bay. In the distance a siren rose, and when Michael had purged his stomach, he announced that he had called 911 from the quay, and then he asked Carson if she needed to vomit, and she said she didn't, but she was wrong, and she vomited on Chang.

Mr. Lyss pointed a finger at Nummy. His fingers were long. They were more bone than flesh. The nails were the color of chicken fat.

Squinting down his arm, along his finger, right into Nummy's eyes, Mr. Lyss said, “You're sitting on my bunk.”

“I figured this must be my bunk.”

“You figured wrong. You've got the top one.”

“Sorry, sir,” Nummy said, and he got to his feet.

They were eye to eye.

Mr. Lyss's eyes were like the gas flames on the kitchen cooktop. Not just blue, because lots of nice things were blue, but blue and hot and dangerous.

“What're you in here for?” Mr. Lyss asked.

“For just a little time.”

“Moron. I mean what'd you do to land here?”

“Mrs. Trudy LaPierre—she hired a man to break in her place and steal the best she's got.”

“She hired her own damn burglar?” Mr. Lyss chewed his pale, peeling lips with his dead-charcoal teeth. “So it's an insurance scam, huh?”

“Insurance what?”

“You're not that dumb, boy, and the jury will know it. You knew why she hired you.”

Mr. Lyss's breath smelled like tomatoes when you forget to pick them because you don't like tomatoes, and then they rot on the vine.

Nummy moved away from Mr. Lyss and stood by the cell door. “No, she never done hired me. Who she hired is Mr. Bob Pine. She wanted Mr. Bob Pine to steal her best, then beat Poor Fred to death.”

“Who's Fred?”

“Poor Fred. Grandmama always called him Poor Fred. He's Mrs. Trudy LaPierre's husband.”

“Why's he Poor Fred?”

“He got a brain stroke years ago. Poor Fred can't talk no more, and he gets around in his walker. They live next door.”

“So this Trudy wanted him killed, made to look like it happened during a burglary.”

“Mr. Bob Pine he was going to put stolen stuff in my house, I'd go to prison.”

Eyes pinched to slits, shoulders hunched, head thrust forward, like one of those birds that ate dead things on the highway, Mr. Lyss came close again. “Is that your story, boy?”

“It's what almost happened, sir. But Mr. Bob Pine he got a cold in his feet.”

“In his feet?”

“Such a bad cold, he didn't feel good enough to do the stealing and killing. So he goes to Chief Jarmillo, tells him all what Mrs. Trudy LaPierre hired him for.”

“When did this happen?”

“Yesterday.”

“So why are you here?”

“Mrs. Trudy LaPierre she's dangerous. Chief says she's got a history of dangerous, and she's all crazy-mad at me.”

“She hasn't been arrested?”

“Nobody can find her.”

“Why would she be mad at you?”

“It's silly,” said Nummy. “Mr. Bob Pine come to my place to see me before doing the stealing and killing. He wanted to cremate me.”

For no clear reason, Mr. Lyss got angry and shook his bony old fist in Nummy's face. His knuckles were dirty. “Damn it, boy, don't complicate dumb with stupid. I'm trying to get a simple truth out of you, and you snarl it up so I just about need a translator.
Cremate
? Burn you to ashes? If he's going to pin the crime on you, he's not going to cremate you first.”

Easing back toward the bunks, trying to escape his cellmate's breath, which burned in the nose worse than gasoline fumes, Nummy tried harder to get the word right. “Creminate. No.
In
creminate.”

“In
crim
inate,” said Mr. Lyss. “Pine wanted to incriminate you, set you up for old Fred's murder.”

“
Poor
Fred.”

“But he hadn't stolen anything yet, he didn't have anything to plant in your house.”

“No, what he come for was to get some stuff of mine he was going to put in Poor Fred's house.”

“What stuff?”

“Stuff I didn't know was stuff I even had. Deeanhay.”

“What? What did you say?”

“Deeanhay. Chief Jarmillo says like some of my hairs, my spit on a water glass.”

“D-N-A, you damn fool.”

“My fingers on the glass, my marks.”