Frankenstein Special Edition: Prodigal Son and City of Night. Dean Koontz
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yes. Not tonight.”
“I’ll learn,” she promised. “I’ll improve.”
“Yes,” he said, for that was what she must do if she hoped to keep her role, but he had begun to doubt that Erika Four would be the final Erika.
“I’m going to the hospital,” he said. “I’m in a creative mood.”
“The Hands of Mercy” She shuddered. “I think I dream of it.”
“You don’t. I spare all of you from dreams of your origins.”
“I dream of someplace,” she persisted. “Dark and strange and full of death.”
“There’s your proof that it’s not the Hands of Mercy. My labs are full of life.”
Both bored with Erika and troubled by the direction of her musings, Victor rose from the bed and went naked into the bathroom.
A jewel in this mounting of gold-plated fixtures and marble-clad walls, he looked at himself in the beveled mirrors and saw something much more than human.
“Perfection,” he said, though he knew that he was just shy of that ideal.
Looping through his torso, embedded in his flesh, entwining his ribs, spiraling around his spine, a flexible metallic cord and its associated implants converted simple electrical current—to which he submitted himself twice a day—into a different energy, a stimulating charge that sustained a youthful rate of cellular division and held biological time at bay.
His body was a mass of scars and strange excrescences, but he found them beautiful. They were the consequences of the procedures by which he’d gained immortality; they were the badges of his divinity.
One day he would clone a body from his DNA, enhance it with the many improvements he had developed, expedite its growth, and with the assistance of surgeons of his making, he’d have his brain transferred to that new home.
When that work was finished, he would be the model of physical perfection, but he would miss his scars. They were proof of his persistence, his genius, and the triumph of his will.
Now he got dressed, looking forward to a long night in his main laboratory at the Hands of Mercy.
WHILE CARSON CHECKED on her castle-building brother, Michael stood at a kitchen counter with a mug of Vicky’s coffee.
Having just finished cleaning the oven, Vicky Chou said, “How’s the java?”
“As bitter as bile,” he said.
“But not acidic.”
“No,” he admitted. “I don’t know how you manage to make it bitter without it being acidic, but you do.”
She winked. “My secret.”
“Stuff’s as black as tar. This isn’t a mistake. You actually try to get it like this, don’t you?”
“If it’s so terrible,” she said, “why do you always drink it?”
“It’s a test of my manhood.” He took a long swallow that made his face pucker. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately, but you’ll tell me to shut up, you don’t want to know.”
Washing her hands at the sink, she said, “I have to listen to you, Michael. It’s part of my job description.”
He hesitated but then said, “I’ve been thinking how things might be if Carson and I weren’t partners.”
“What things?”
“Between her and me.”
“Is there something between you and her?”
“The badge,” he said mournfully. “She’s too solid a cop, too professional to date a partner.”
“The bitch,” Vicky said drily.
Michael smiled, sampled the coffee, grimaced. “Problem is, if I changed partners so we could date, I’d miss kicking ass and busting heads together.”
“Maybe that’s how the two of you relate best.”
“There’s a depressing thought.”
Vicky clearly had more to say, but she clammed up when Carson entered the kitchen.
“Vicky,” Carson said, “I know you’re good about keeping doors locked. But for a while, let’s be even more security conscious.”
Frowning, Vicky asked, “What’s wrong?”
“This weird case we’re on…it feels like…if we’re not careful, it could come home to us, right here.” She glanced at Michael. “Does that sound paranoid?”
“No,” he said, and finished the rest of the bitter coffee as though the taste of it would make their unsatisfying relationship seem sweeter by comparison.
IN THE CAR AGAIN, as Carson swung away from the curb, Michael popped a breath mint in his mouth to kill the sour stench of Vicky’s death brew. “Two hearts…organs of unknown purpose…I can’t get Invasion of the Body Snatchers out of my head, pod people growing in the basement.”
“It’s not aliens.”
“Maybe not. Then I think…weird cosmic radiation, pollution, genetic engineering, too much mustard in the American diet.”
“Psychological profiles and CSI techs won’t be worth a damn on this one,” Carson said. She yawned. “Long day. Can’t think straight anymore. What if I just drive you home and we call it a wrap?”
“Sounds swell. I’ve got a new pair of monkey-pattern jammies I’m eager to try on.”
She took a ramp to the expressway, headed west toward Metairie. The traffic was mercifully light.
They rode in silence for a while, but then he said, “You know, if you ever want to petition the chief of detectives to reopen your dad’s case and let us take a whack at it, I’m game.”
She shook her head. “Wouldn’t do it unless I had something new—a fresh bit of evidence, a different slant on the investigation, something. Otherwise, we’d just be turned down.”
“We sneak a copy of the file, review the evidence on our own time, look into it until we turn up the scrap we need.”
“Right now,” she said wearily, “we don’t really have any time of our own.”
As they exited the expressway, he said, “The Surgeon case will break. Things will ease up. Just remember, I’m ready when you are.”
She smiled. He loved her smile. He didn’t see enough of it.
“Thanks, Michael. You’re a good guy.”
He would have preferred to hear her say that he was the love of her life, but “good guy” was at least a starting point.
When she pulled to the curb in front of his apartment house, she yawned again and said, “I’m beat. Exhausted.”
“So exhausted, you can’t wait to go straight back to Allwine’s apartment.”
Her smile was smaller this time. “You read me too well.”
“You wouldn’t have stopped to check on Arnie if you intended to go home after dropping me off.”
“I should know better than to bullshit a homicide dick. It’s those black rooms, Michael. I need…to work them alone.”
“Get in touch with your inner psychic.”
“Something like that.”
He