Frankenstein: The Complete 5-Book Collection. Dean Koontz
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with a deep desire to contribute to society. He didn’t kill just to kill. He needed a purpose.
When he had struck upon the idea of harvesting and preserving the ideal parts of a perfect woman, he rejoiced that his life had meaning once more.
Eventually he might anonymously donate the collection to a great museum. The academics and critics who championed modern art would at once recognize the value and brilliance of his assembled woman.
First he must find that elusive living female who was perfect in every detail and who was destined to be his mate. Until then he would need the collection in order to lay it out and, item by item, compare his beloved to all those pieces of perfection, to be certain that in every way she measured up to his highest standard.
No doubt his longed-for Venus would soon cross his path – another reason why he couldn’t tolerate the intrusion of the copycat killer into his life. That poor fool’s use of tacky, low-quality Tupperware imitations provided proof enough that his appreciation for beauty in all things was so inadequate that no friendship could ever flower between him and Roy.
Now, in preparation for the copycat’s next visit, Roy loaded various pistols and revolvers. He secreted a weapon in each area of his expansive apartment.
In the bathroom, a Browning Hi-Power 9mm in the drawer where he kept his colognes.
Under a pillow on his bed, a Smith & Wesson Chief’s Special, one of the best small-frame .38 Special revolvers ever made.
Under a living-room sofa cushion, a Glock Model 23 loaded with .40 Smith & Wesson ammo.
Concealed at two points among the array of exercise machines were a pair of SIG P245s.
In the kitchen, Roy placed a Springfield Trophy Match 1911-A1 in the bread box, next to a loaf of low-fat seven-grain with raisins.
When Roy closed the drop door on the bread box and turned, a sizable stranger stood in the kitchen with him, a red-faced, boiled-looking guy with mean blue eyes.
How the intruder had gotten in and moved so quietly, Roy didn’t know, but this must be the copycat. The guy wasn’t aggressively ugly, but he wasn’t half pretty, either, just homely, so there could be no chance whatsoever of a friendship between him and Roy.
The fierce expression on the copycat’s face suggested he had no interest in friendship, either. Maybe Roy had been mistaken to assume the copycat had come here, in the first place, out of admiration.
He noticed the intruder wore latex surgical gloves. Not a good sign.
Realizing that he wouldn’t be able to turn to the bread box and retrieve the pistol quickly enough to use it, Roy struck out at his adversary with confidence, employing what he had learned during four years of instruction in Tae Kwon Do.
Although he didn’t appear to be as fit as Roy, the copycat proved to be fast and strong. He not only blocked the blows but seized Roy’s right hand, bent it backward, and snapped his wrist as if it were a dry branch.
The pain rocked Roy Pribeaux. He didn’t handle pain well. His life had been mercifully free of it. The shock of the broken wrist robbed him of breath so completely that an attempt at a scream produced only a wheeze.
Incredibly, the copycat grabbed him by his shirt and by the crotch of his slacks, lifted him overhead as if he weighed no more than a child, and slammed him down on the edge of a kitchen counter.
Louder than the wheeze of his scream came the sound of his spine snapping.
The copycat released him. Roy slid off the counter, onto the floor.
The pain had stopped. This seemed like a good thing, until he realized that he had no feeling whatsoever below his neck.
He tried to move his left hand. He could not. Paralyzed.
Glaring down at him, the copycat said, “I don’t need to cut you open and see inside. You don’t have what I’m looking for. You’re all dark inside, and I need the other thing.”
Darkness wanted Roy, and he gave himself to it.
JONATHAN HARKER, Mercy-born and Mercy-raised, had joined the New Orleans Police Department sixteen years ago.
All papers substantiating his identity and previous employment history had been impeccably forged. According to these records, he’d been a cop in Atlanta, Georgia.
Other members of the New Race, already seeded in the department at that time, had falsified follow-up with officials in Atlanta, facilitating his employment. Later they greased his path into the NOPD Homicide Division.
He had been a good son to Father, dutiful and dedicated … until the past year. He had lost his sense of purpose. The preparations for war against humanity, still at least a decade distant, did not excite or even interest him any longer.
For several years he had felt … incomplete. Over the preceding twelve months, this feeling had matured into a terrible emptiness, a cold and yawning void at the center of him.
He recognized in humanity a lust for life, a joy, that he did not possess. He wanted to know how this quality arose in them.
Every detail of his own physical and mental design had been direct-to-brain downloaded when Jonathan had been in the creation tank, so that he would have a proper awe of Victor, his maker. Thus it occurred to him that by studying human physiology and comparing theirs to his own, he should be able to identify what the Old Race had that he lacked, perhaps a gland that secreted a hormone or an enzyme that was required for happiness.
He began by studying human biology. He pored through medical texts.
Instead of discovering greater complexity in their bodies, he found comparative simplicity. He didn’t lack anything they had; quite the contrary, they seemed less well constructed for durability than he was with his second heart and other redundant systems.
Eventually he arrived at the conviction that they did contain some gland or organ that allowed them the possibility of happiness but that they themselves had not yet discovered and identified it. Therefore he could not find it in a textbook.
Because the New Race came out of their creation tanks inculcated with a faith in their superiority to ordinary human beings, Jonathan had no doubt that through further self-education, he could find what had eluded Old Race physiologists. By cutting open enough of them and searching their innards, he would – by virtue of his sharper mind and keener eye – find the gland of happiness.
When a serial killer appeared on the scene, Jonathan recognized an opportunity. He could pursue his own dissections with caution and eventually contrive to have them attributed to the killer. He’d used chloroform on one of his first two subjects for this very purpose.
Investigating behind O’Connor and Maddison, Jonathan worked the Surgeon case twenty-four hours a day, without sleep. He had an eerie, intuitive understanding of the killer’s psychology and sensed early on that his quarry had embarked on a quest for happiness similar to his own. For this reason, he found his way to Roy Pribeaux in time to watch him court and kill the cotton-candy girl.
Jonathan might have allowed Pribeaux to carry on indefinitely if not for the fact that his own circumstances had changed. Something was happening to him that promised the fulfillment for which he had long been yearning.
He had learned nothing from probing inside his first two subjects. And what he’d done to Bobby Allwine had not been part of his researches, merely an act of mercy. Bobby had wanted to die, and because Father’s programmed injunction against murder had broken down in Jonathan, he had been able to oblige his friend.
Yet though he’d discovered nothing to advance his understanding of the source of human happiness, Jonathan had begun to change in a wondrous way. He felt movement within himself. Several times he had seen