Authors: Dean Koontz
CHAPTER 36
IN A CORNER
of the main lab, Randal Six had been strapped in a cruciform posture at the center of a spherical device that resembled one of those exercise machines that could rotate a person on any imaginable axis, the better to stress all muscles equally. This, however, was not an exercise session.
Randal would not move the machine; the machine would move him, and not for the purpose of building mass or maintaining muscle tone. From head to both feet, to the tip of every finger on both hands, he was locked into a precisely determined position.
A rubber wedge in his mouth prevented him from biting his tongue if he suffered convulsions. A chin strap did not allow him to open his mouth and perhaps accidentally swallow the wedge.
These precautions would also effectively muffle his screams.
The Hands of Mercy had been insulated against the escape of any sound that might attract attention. A researcher involved in cutting-edge science, however, Victor could not be too cautious.
And so…
The brain is an electrical apparatus. Its wave patterns can be measured with an EEG machine.
After Randal Six had been extensively educated by direct-to-brain data downloading but while the boy had remained unconscious in the forming tank, Victor had established in his creation’s brain electrical patterns identical to those found in several autistic people that he had studied.
His hope had been that this would result in Randal being “born” as an eighteen-year-old autistic of a severe variety. This fond hope had been realized.
Having imposed autism upon Randal, Victor sought to restore normal brain function through a variety of techniques. Thus far he had not been successful.
His purpose in reverse-engineering Randal’s release from autism was
not
to find a cure. Finding a cure for autism interested him not at all, except that it might be a source of profits if he chose to market it.
Instead, he pursued these experiments because if he could impose and relieve autism at will, he should be able to learn to impose
selected degrees
of it. This might have valuable economic and social benefits.
Imagine a factory worker whose productivity is low due to the boring, repetitive nature of his job. Selective autism might be a means by which said worker could be made to focus
intently
on the task with an obsession that would make him as productive as—but cheaper than—a robot.
The lowest level of Epsilons in the precisely ranked social strata of Victor’s ideal society might be little more than machines of meat. They would waste no time in idle chatter with their fellow workers.
Now he threw the switch that activated the spherical device in which Randal Six was strapped. It began to rotate, three revolutions on one axis, five on another, seven on yet another, slowly at first but steadily gaining speed.
A nearby wall contained a high-resolution nine-foot-square plasma screen. A colorful ultrasound display revealed the movement of blood through Randal Six’s cerebral veins and arteries as well as the subtlest currents in his cerebrospinal fluid as it circulated between the meninges, through the cerebral ventricles, and in the brain stem.
Victor suspected that with the properly calculated application of extreme centrifugal and centripetal forces, he could establish unnatural conditions in cerebral fluids that would improve his chances of converting Randal’s autism-characteristic brainwaves into normal cerebral electrical patterns.
As the machine spun faster, faster, the subject’s groans and terrified wordless pleas escalated into screams of anguish and agony. His shrieks would have been annoying if not for the wedge in his mouth and the chin strap.
Victor hoped to achieve a breakthrough before he tested the boy to destruction. So much time would have been wasted if he had to start all over again with Randal Seven.
Sometimes Randal bit the rubber wedge so hard for so long that his teeth sank in it to the gum line, whereafter it had to be cut out of his locked jaws in pieces. This sounded as if it might be one of those occasions.
CHAPTER 37
A WHITE PICKET FENCE
met white gateposts inlaid with seashells. The gate itself featured a unicorn motif.
Under Carson’s feet, the front walkway twinkled magically as flecks of mica in the flagstones reflected moonlight. Moss between the stones softened her footsteps.
Almost thick enough to feel, the fragrance of the magnolia-tree flowers swagged the air.
The windows of the fairy-tale bungalow were flanked by blue shutters from which had been cut star shapes and crescent moons.
Trellises partially enclosed the front porch, entwined by leafy vines graced with trumpetlike purple blooms.
Kathleen Burke, who lived in this little oasis of fantasy, was a police psychiatrist. Her work demanded logic and reason, but in her private life, she retreated into gentle escapism.
At three o’clock in the morning, the windows revealed no lights.
Carson rang the bell and then at once knocked on the door.
A soft light bloomed inside, and quicker than Carson expected, Kathy opened the door. “Carson, what’s up, what’s wrong?”
“It’s Halloween in August. We gotta talk.”
“Girl, if you were a cat, you’d have your back up and your tail tucked.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t show up with a load in my pants.”
“Oh, that’s an elegant thing to say. Maybe you’ve been partnered too long with Michael. Come in. I just made some hazelnut coffee.”
Entering, Carson said, “I didn’t see any lights.”
“At the back, in the kitchen,” Kathy said, leading the way.
She was attractive, in her late thirties, molasses-black with Asian eyes. In Chinese-red pajamas with embroidered cuffs and collar, she cut an exotic figure.
In the kitchen, a steaming mug of coffee stood on the table. Beside it lay a novel; on the cover, a woman in a fantastic costume rode the back of a flying dragon.
“You always read at three in the morning?” Carson asked.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
Carson was too edgy to sit. She didn’t pace the kitchen so much as twitch back and forth in it. “This is your home, Kathy, not your office. That matters—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.
CHAPTER 38
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 embryos—Roy regarded his reflection in the vanity mirror with satisfaction.
For a few years, he had succeeded in fully arresting the aging process. More exciting, he had recently begun to reverse the effects of time, and week by week he had watched himself grow younger.
Others deluded themselves into thinking they were rolling back the years, but Roy knew his success was real. He had arrived at the most perfectly effective combination of exercise, diet, nutritional supplements, lotions, and meditation.
The final key ingredient had been purified New Zealand lamb’s urine, of which he drank four ounces a day. With a lemon wedge.
This turning back of the clock was highly desirable, of course, but he reminded himself that he could youthenize himself too far. If he reversed himself to the condition of a twenty-year-old and stayed there for a hundred years, that would be good; but if he got carried away and made himself twelve again, that would be bad.
He had not enjoyed his childhood and adolescence the first time around. Repeating any portion of them, even if solely in physical appearance, would be a glimpse of Hell.
After Roy dressed, as he stood in the kitchen, washing down twenty-four capsules of supplements with grapefruit juice prior to preparing breakfast, he was abruptly struck by the realization that his life now had no purpose.
For the past two years, he had been collecting the anatomical components of the perfect woman, first in a variety of locations far removed from New Orleans, then lately and with particular frenzy here in his own backyard. But as of Candace, he had them all. Hands, feet, lips, nose, hair, breasts, eyes, and so much more—he had forgotten nothing.
Now what?
He was surprised that he had not thought further than this. Being a man of leisure, he had a lot of time on his hands; being an immortal, he had eternity.
This thought proved suddenly daunting.
Now he slowly realized that during the years of searching and harvesting, he had superstitiously and unconsciously assumed that when his collection was complete, when the freezer was filled with all the jigsaw pieces of the most perfectly beautiful woman, then a living woman, embodying every one of those features and qualities, would magically come into his life. He had been engaged on a kind of hoodoo quest with the purpose of shaping his romantic destiny.
Perhaps this mojo would work. Perhaps this very afternoon, as he strolled the Quarter, he would come face to face with her dazzling, bewitching self.
If the days passed without this desired encounter, however, days and weeks and months…what then?
He yearned to share his perfection with a woman who would be his equal. Until that moment came, life would be empty, without purpose.
An uneasiness overcame him. He tried to quell it with breakfast.
As he ate, he became fascinated with his hands. They were more than beautiful male hands; they were exquisite.
Oh, but until he found his goddess—not in pieces but whole and alive, without fault or deficiency—his flawless hands would not be able to caress the perfection that was their erotic destiny.
His uneasiness grew.