Frankenstein: The Complete 5-Book Collection. Dean Koontz
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am I right?”
Pouring coffee, Kathy said, “What’s happened? What’re you so jumped up about?”
“You’re not a psychiatrist here. You’re just a friend here. Am I right?”
Putting the second mug of coffee on the table, returning to her own chair, Kathy said, “I’m always your friend, Carson – here, there, anywhere.”
Carson stayed on her feet, too wound up to sit down. “None of what I tell you here can end up in my file.”
“Unless you killed someone. Did you kill someone?”
“Not tonight.”
“Then spit it out, girlfriend. You’re getting on my nerves.”
Carson pulled a chair out from the table, sat down. She reached for the mug of coffee, hesitated, didn’t pick it up.
Her hand was trembling. She clenched it into a fist. Very tight. Opened it. Still trembling.
“You ever see a ghost, Kathy?”
“I’ve taken the haunted New Orleans tour, been to the crypt of Marie Laveau at night. Does that count?”
Clutching the handle of the mug, staring at her white knuckles, Carson said, “I’m serious. I mean any weird shit you can’t wrap your head around. Ghosts, UFO, Big Foot …” She glanced at Kathy. “Don’t look at me that way.”
“What way?”
“Like a psychiatrist.”
“Don’t be so defensive.” Kathy patted the book with the dragon on the cover. “I’m the one reads three fantasy novels a week and wishes she could actually live in one.”
Carson blew on her coffee, tentatively took a sip, then a longer swallow. “I need this. Haven’t slept. No way I’ll sleep tonight.”
Kathy waited with professional patience.
After a moment, Carson said, “People talk about the unknown, the mystery of life, but I’ve never seen one squirt of mystery in it.”
“Squirt?”
“Squirt, drop, spoonful – whatever. I want to see mystery in life – who doesn’t? – some mystical meaning, but I’m a fool for logic.”
“Until now? So tell me about your ghost.”
“He wasn’t a ghost. But he sure was something. I’ve been driving around the past hour, maybe longer, trying to find the right words to explain what happened.…”
“Start with where it happened.”
“I was at Bobby Allwine’s apartment—”
Leaning forward, interested, Kathy said, “The Surgeon’s latest victim. I’ve been working up a profile on the killer. He’s hard to figure. Psychotic but controlled. No obvious sexual component. So far he hasn’t left much forensic evidence at the scene. No fingerprints. A garden-variety psychopath isn’t usually so prudent.”
Kathy seemed to realize that she had seized the wheel of the conversation. Relinquishing it, she sat back in her chair.
“Sorry, Carson. We were talking about your ghost.”
Kathy Burke could probably keep her police work separate from their friendship, but she would find it more difficult to take off her psychiatrist hat and keep it off when she heard what Carson had come here to tell her.
A giant with a strangely deformed face, claiming to have been made from the body parts of criminals, claiming to have been brought to life by lightning, capable of such nimbleness of movement, such uncanny stealth, such inhuman speed that he could be nothing less than supernatural and, therefore, might be what he claimed to be …
“Hello? Your ghost?”
Instead of replying, Carson drank more coffee.
“That’s it?” Kathy asked. “Just the tease, and then good-bye?”
“I feel a little guilty.”
“Good. I was ready for some spooky dish.”
“If I tell you as a friend, I compromise you professionally. You’ll need to report my ass for an OIS investigation.”
Kathy frowned. “Officer involved shooting? Just how serious is this, Carson?”
“I didn’t smoke anybody. Didn’t even wing him, as far as I know.”
“Tell me. I won’t report you.”
Carson smiled affectionately. “You’d do the right thing. You’d report me, all right. And you’d write me up an order for some couch time.”
“I’m not as righteous as you think I am.”
“Yes, you are,” Carson said. “That’s one reason I like you.”
Kathy sighed. “I’m all primed for a campfire tale, and you won’t spook me. Now what?”
“We could make an early breakfast,” Carson suggested. “Assuming you’ve got any real food here in elfland.”
“Eggs, bacon, sausages, hash browns, brioche toast.”
“All of the above.”
“You’re going to be one of those blimp cops.”
“Nah. I’ll be dead long before that,” Carson said, and more than half believed it.
ROY PRIBEAUX LIKED TO RISE well before dawn to undertake his longevity regimen – except on those occasions when he had been up late the previous night murdering someone.
Nothing was quite as luxurious as lingering in bed with the knowledge that a new piece of the ideal woman had so recently been wrapped, bagged, and stored in the freezer. One felt the satisfaction of accomplishment, the swelling pride of work well done, which made an extra hour in the sheets seem justified and therefore sweet.
Getting Candace’s eyes and preserving them had not required him to be out as late as he’d been on other harvests, but he still would have lazed in bed if he hadn’t been amazingly energized by the fact that his collection was complete. The perfect eyes had been the last item on his list.
He slept deeply but for just a few hours, every minute in the arms of rapturous dreams, and sprang out of bed profoundly rested and with enthusiasm for the day ahead.
An array of high-end exercise machines occupied a portion of his loft. In shorts and tank top, he followed a circuit of weight machines that brought a burn to every muscle group in graduated sets ending in his maximum resistance. Then he worked up a positively tropical sweat on the treadmill and the ski trainer.
His morning shower always took a while. He lathered with two soaps: first an exfoliating bar with a loofa sponge, followed by a moisturizing bar and soft cloth. For the most complete cleanliness achievable and perfect follicle health, he used two natural shampoos, followed by a cream conditioner that he rinsed out after precisely thirty seconds.
The sun finally rose as he applied a skin-conditioning lotion from his neck to the bottoms of his feet. He did not neglect a single square inch of his magnificently maintained body, and used a spatula-style sponge to reach the middle of his back.
This lotion wasn’t merely a moisturizer, but also a youthenizing emollient rich in free-radical-scavenging vitamins. If he had left the bottoms of his feet untreated, he’d have been an immortal walking on a dying man’s soles, a thought that made him shudder.
After applying the usual series of revitalizing substances to his face – including a cream enriched with liquified monkey