Authors: Dean Koontz
CHAPTER 30
ROY PRIBEAUX ENJOYED
the date more than he expected. Usually it was an annoying interlude between the planning of the murder and the commission of it.
Candace proved to be shy but charming, genuinely sweet with a dry, self-deprecating sense of humor.
They had coffee in a riverfront café. When they fell at once into easy conversation about a host of subjects, Roy was surprised but also pleased. The lack of any initial awkwardness would more quickly disarm the poor thing.
After a while she asked him exactly what he’d meant the previous night when he’d called himself
a Christian man.
Of what denomination, what commitment?
He knew at once that this was the key with which to unlock her trust and win her heart. He had used the Christian gambit in a couple of other instances, and with the right woman, it had worked as well as the expectation of great sex or even of love.
Why he, an Adonis, should be interested in a schlump like her—that mystery fed her suspicion. It made her wary.
If she believed, however, that he was a man of genuine moral principle who sought a virtuous companion and not just a good hump, she would see him as one with higher standards than physical beauty. She would convince herself that her lovely eyes were enough physical beauty for him and that what he really prized was her innocence, her chastity, her personality, and her piety.
The trick was to divine the brand of Christianity that she had embraced, then convince her that they shared that particular flavor of the faith. If she was a Pentecostal, his approach would have to be far different from that required if she was a Catholic, and
much
different from the worldly and ironic style that he must assume if she was Unitarian.
Fortunately, she proved to be an Episcopalian, which Roy found markedly easier to fake than one of the more passionate sects. He might have been lost if she’d been a Seventh Day Adventist.
She proved to be a reader, too, and especially a fan of C. S. Lewis, one of the finest Christian writers of the century just past.
In his quest to be a Renaissance man, Roy had read Lewis: not all of his many books, but enough.
The Screwtape Letters. The Problem of Pain. A Grief Observed.
Thankfully they had been short volumes.
Dear Candace was so enchanted to have a handsome and interested man as a conversationalist that she overcame her shyness when the subject turned to Lewis. She did most of the talking, and Roy needed only to insert a quote here and a reference there to convince her that his knowledge of the great man’s work was encyclopedic.
Another fortunate thing about her being an Episcopalian was that her denomination did not forbid drink or the joy of sensuous music. From the café, he talked her into a jazz club on Jackson Square.
Roy had a capacity for alcohol, but one potent hurricane erased whatever lingering caution Candace might otherwise have harbored.
After the jazz club, when he suggested they take a walk on the levee, her only concern was that it might be closed at this hour.
“It’s still open to pedestrians,” he assured her. “They just don’t keep it lit for the roller skaters and fishermen.”
Perhaps she would have hesitated to stroll the unlighted levee if he hadn’t been such a strong man, and so good, and capable of protecting her.
They walked toward the river, away from the shopping district and the crowds. The full moon provided more light than he would have liked but also enough to allay any of Candace’s lingering concern about their safety.
A brightly decorated riverboat chattered by, its great paddle wheel splashing through warm water. Passengers stood on the decks, sat at tables. This late-night river cruise wouldn’t stop at any nearby docks. Roy had checked the schedules, always planning ahead.
They ambled to the end of the pavement atop the breakwater of boulders. Fishermen were more likely to come this far in daylight. As he expected, here in the night, he and Candace were alone.
The lights of the receding riverboat painted serpentine ribbons of oily color on the dark water, and Candace thought this was pretty, and in fact so did Roy, and they watched it for a moment before she turned to him, expecting a chaste kiss, or even one not so chaste.
Instead, he squirted her in the face with the squeeze bottle of chloroform that he had withdrawn from a jacket pocket.
He had found this saturation technique to be far quicker, more effective, and less of a struggle than a soaked cloth. The fluid penetrated her nostrils, splashed her tongue.
Choking, gasping for breath and thereby inhaling the anesthetic, Candace dropped as suddenly and as hard as if she had been shot.
She fell on her side. Roy rolled her onto her back and knelt next to her.
Even in the insistent silvery moonlight, they presented a low profile to anyone who might look this way from a craft on the river. Glancing back the way they had come, Roy saw no other late strollers.
From an inside jacket pocket, he produced a stiletto and a compact kit of scalpels and other instruments.
He didn’t need larger tools for this one. The eyes would be simple to extract, though he must be careful not to damage the part of them that he considered to be perfectly beautiful.
With the stiletto, he found her heart and conveyed her from sleep to death with only the faintest liquid sound.
Soon the eyes were his, safely in a small plastic bottle full of saline solution.
On his way back to the lights and the jazz, he was surprised when he suddenly had a taste for cotton candy, not a treat that he had ever before craved. But of course the red wagon was closed and might not open for days.
CHAPTER 31
A NINETEENTH-CENTURY
stonemason had chiseled
HANDS OF MERCY
into a limestone block above the hospital entrance. A weathered image of the Virgin Mary overlooked the front steps.
The hospital had closed long ago, and after the building had been sold to a shell corporation controlled by Victor Helios, the windows had been bricked shut. Steel doors had been installed at every entrance, equipped with both mechanical and electronic locks.
A tall wrought-iron fence surrounded the oak-shaded property, like a stockpile of spears from a full Roman legion. To the rolling electric gate was affixed a sign:
PRIVATE WAREHOUSE / NO ADMITTANCE.
Hidden cameras surveyed the grounds, the perimeter. No nuclear weapons storage depot had a larger or more dedicated security force, or one more discreet.
The forbidding structure stood silent. No beam of light escaped it, though here the new rulers of the Earth were designed and made.
A staff of eighty lived and worked within these walls, assisting in experiments in a maze of laboratories. In rooms that had once held hospital patients, newly minted men and women were housed and rapidly educated until they could be infiltrated into the population of the city.
The armored doors of certain other rooms were locked. The creations within them needed to be restrained while being studied.
Victor conducted his most important work in the main laboratory. This vast space had a techno sensibility with some Art Deco style and a dash of Wagnerian grandeur. Glass, stainless steel, white ceramic: All were easy to sterilize if things got…messy.
Sleek and arcane equipment, much of which he himself designed and built, lined the chamber, rose out of the floor, depended from the ceiling. Some of the machines hummed, some bubbled, some stood silent and menacing.
In this windowless lab, if he put his wristwatch in a drawer, he could labor long hours, days, without a break. Having improved his physiology and metabolism to the point that he needed little or no sleep, he was able to give himself passionately to his work.
Tonight, as he arrived at his desk, his phone rang. The call came on line five. Of eight lines, the last four—rollovers that served a single number—were reserved for messages and inquiries from those creations with which he had been gradually populating the city.
He picked up the handset. “Yes?”
The caller, a man, was struggling to repress the emotion in his voice, more emotion than Victor ever expected to hear from one of the New Race: “Something is happening to me, Father. Something strange. Maybe something wonderful.”
Victor’s creations understood that they must contact him only in a crisis. “Which one are you?”
“Help me, Father.”
Victor felt diminished by the word
father.
“I’m not your father. Tell me your name.”
“I’m confused…and sometimes scared.”
“I asked for your name.”
His creations had not been designed to have the capability to deny him, but this one refused to identify himself: “I’ve begun to
change.
”
“You must tell me your
name.
”
“Murder,” said the caller. “Murder…excites me.”
Victor kept the growing concern out of his voice. “No, your mind is fine. I don’t make mistakes.”
“I’m changing. There’s so much to learn from murder.”
“Come to me at the Hands of Mercy.”
“I don’t think so. I’ve killed three men…without remorse.”
“Come to me,” Victor insisted.
“Your mercy won’t extend to one of us who has…fallen so far.”
A rare queasiness overcame Victor. He wondered if this might be the serial killer who enchanted the media. One of his own creations, breaking programming to commit murder
for no authorized reason
?
“Come to me, and I’ll provide whatever guidance you need. There is only compassion for you here.”
The electronically disguised voice denied him again. “The most recent one I killed…was one of yours.”
Victor’s alarm grew. One of his creations killing another
by its own decision.
Never had this happened before. A programmed injunction against suicide was knit tightly into their psyches, as was a stern commandment that permitted murder for just two reasons: in self-defense or when instructed by their maker to kill.
“The victim,” Victor said. “His name?”
“Allwine. They found his corpse inside the city library this morning.”
Victor caught his breath as he considered the implications.
The caller said, “There was nothing to learn from Allwine. He was like me inside. I’ve got to find it elsewhere, in others.”
“Find what?” Victor asked.
“What I need,” said the caller, and then hung up.
Victor keyed in
*
69—and discovered that the caller’s phone was blocked for automatic call-back.
Furious, he slammed down the handset.
He sensed a setback.
CHAPTER 32
FOR A WHILE AFTER
Victor left for the Hands of Mercy, Erika remained in bed, curled in the fetal position that she’d never known in the creation tank. She waited to see if her depression would pass or thicken into the darker morass of discouragement.
The flux of her emotional states sometimes seemed to have little relation to the experiences from which they proceeded. After sex with Victor, depression always followed without fail, and understandably; but when it
should
have ripened into something like despondency, it sometimes did not. And though her future seemed so bleak that her despondency should have been unshakable, she often shook it off.
Remembering verses by Emily Dickinson could lift her out of gloom:
“Hope” is the thing with feathers—/ That perches in the soul—/ And sings the tune without the words—/ And never stops at all.
The art on Victor’s walls was abstract: oddly juxtaposed blocks of color that loomed oppressively, spatterings of color or smears of gray on black that to Erika seemed like chaos or nullity. In his library, however, were large books of art, and sometimes her mood could be improved simply by immersing herself in a single painting by Albert Bierstadt or Childe Hassam.
She has been taught that she is of the New Race, posthuman, improved, superior. She is all but impervious to disease. She heals rapidly, almost miraculously.
Yet when she needs solace, she finds it in the art and music and poetry of the mere humanity that she and her kind are intended to replace.
When she has been confused, has felt lost, she’s found clarity and direction in the writings of imperfect humanity. And the writers are those of whom Victor would especially disapprove.
This puzzles Erika: that a primitive and failed species, infirm humanity, should by its works lift her heart when none of her own kind is able to lift it for her.
She would like to discuss this with others of the New Race, but she is concerned that one of them will think her puzzlement makes her a heretic. All are obedient to Victor by design, but some view him with such reverential fear that they will interpret her questions as doubts, her doubts as betrayals, and will then in turn betray her to her maker.
And so she keeps her questions to herself, for she knows that in a holding tank waits Erika Five.
Abed, with the smell of Victor lingering in the sheets, Erika finds this to be one of the times when poetry will prevent depression from ripening toward despair.
If I shouldn’t be alive / When the Robins come / Give the one in Red Cravat / A Memorial crumb.
She smiled at Dickinson’s gentle humor. That smile might have led to others if not for a scrabbling noise under the bed.
Throwing back the sheets, she sat up, breath held, listening.
As though aware of her reaction, the scrabbler went still—or if not still, at least silent, creeping now without a sound.
Having neither heard nor seen any indication of a rat when she and Victor had returned to the bedroom following the departure of their guests, Erika had assumed that she’d been mistaken in thinking one had been here. Or perhaps it had found its way into a wall or a drain and from there to another place in the great house.
Either the vermin was back or it had been here all along, quiet witness to the terrible tax Victor placed upon Erika’s right to live.
A moment passed, and then a sound issued from elsewhere in the room. A short-lived furtive rustle.
Shadows veiled the room, were lifted only where the light of a single bedside lamp could reach.
Naked, Erika slipped out of bed and stood, poised and alert.
Although her enhanced eyes made the most of available light, she lacked the penetrating night vision of a cat. Victor was conducting cross-species experiments these days, but she was not one of them.
Desirous of more light, she moved toward a reading lamp beside an armchair.
Before she reached the lamp, she sensed more than heard a thing on the floor scurry past her. Startled, she pulled her left foot back, pivoted on her right, and tried to sight the intruder along the path that instinct told her it must have taken.
When there was nothing to be seen—or at least nothing that she could see—she continued to the reading lamp and switched it on. More light revealed nothing that she hoped to find.
A clatter in the bathroom sounded like the small waste can being knocked over.
That door stood ajar. Darkness lay beyond.
She started toward the bathroom, moving quickly but coming to a stop short of the threshold.
Because members of the New Race were immune to most diseases and healed rapidly, they were afraid of fewer things than were ordinary human beings. That didn’t mean they were utter strangers to fear.
Although hard to kill, they were not immortal, and having been made in contempt of God, they could have no hope of a life after this one. Therefore, they feared death.
Conversely, many of them feared
life
because they had no control of their destinies. They were indentured servants to Victor, and there was no sum they could work off to gain their freedom.
They feared life also because they could not surrender it if the burden of serving Victor became too great. They had been created with a deeply embedded psychological injunction against suicide; so if the void appealed to them, they were denied even that.
Here but a step from the bathroom threshold, Erika experienced another kind of fear: of the unknown.
That which is abnormal to nature is a monster, even if it might be beautiful in its way. Erika, created not by nature but by the hand of man, was a lovely monster but a monster nonetheless.
She supposed that monsters should not fear the unknown because, by any reasonable definition, they were part of it. Yet a tingle of apprehension traced the contours of her spine.
Instinct told her that the rat was not a rat, that instead it was a thing unknown.
From the bathroom came a
clink,
a clatter, a metallic rattle, as if something had opened a cabinet and set about exploring the contents in the dark.
Erika’s two hearts beat faster. Her mouth went dry. Her palms grew damp. In this vulnerability, but for the double pulse, she was so human, regardless of her origins.
She backed away from the bathroom door.
Her blue silk robe was draped over the armchair. With her gaze fixed on the bathroom door, she slipped into the robe and belted it.
Barefoot, she left the suite, closing the hall door behind her.
As the midnight hour came, she descended through the house of Frankenstein, to the library where, among the many volumes of human thought and hope, she felt safer.