by Dean Koontz
“I don’t get it.”
“Neither do I.”
BY THE TIME Carson parked in front of Fullbright’s Funeral Home, she had told Michael everything that happened in Allwine’s apartment.
His face revealed no skepticism, but his tone of voice was the equivalent of raised eyebrows: “You were tired, in a weird place—”
“He took a gun away from me,” she said, which might have been the essence of her astonishment, the one thing about the experience that had seemed the most supernatural. “No one takes a gun away from me, Michael. You want to try?”
“No. I enjoy having testicles. All I’m saying is that he was dressed in black, the apartment is black, so the disappearing trick was probably just a trick.”
“So maybe he manipulated me, and I saw what he wanted me to see. Is that it?”
“Doesn’t that make more sense?”
“Sure damn does. But if it was a trick, he should be headlining a magic act in Vegas.”
Looking at the funeral home, Michael said, “Why’re we here?”
“Maybe he didn’t really move faster than the eye, and maybe he didn’t in fact vanish into thin air, but he was dead-on when he said Allwine was in despair, wanted to die…but couldn’t kill himself.”
From a pocket she withdrew the four memorial booklets and handed them to Michael.
“Bobby had like a hundred of these,” she continued, “in a drawer of his nightstand. All from different funerals at this place. Death appealed to him.”
She got out of the car, slammed the driver’s door, and met Michael on the sidewalk.
He said, “‘Life force from a thunderstorm.’ What the hell does that mean?”
“Sometimes like a soft lightning throbs through his eyes.”
Hurrying at her side, Michael said, “You’ve always been stone solid until now, like Joe Friday with no Y chromosome. Now you’re Nancy Drew on a sugar rush.”
Like so many things in New Orleans, the mortuary seemed as much a dream place as a reality. It had once been a Gothic Revival mansion and no doubt still served as the mortician’s residence as well as his place of business. The weight of the lavish rococo millwork must have been only a few pounds shy of the critical load needed to buckle the eaves, implode the walls, and collapse the roof.
Live oaks dating to the plantation era shaded the house, while camellias, gardenias, mimosa, and tea roses cast a scene-saturating perfume. Bees buzzed lazily from bloom to bloom, too fat and happy to sting, besotted by rich nectar.
At the front door, Carson rang the bell. “Michael, don’t you sometimes sense there’s more to life than the grind—some amazing secret you can almost see from the corner of your eye?” Before he could reply, she plunged on: “Last night I saw something amazing…something I can’t put into words. It’s almost like UFOs exist.”
“You and me—we’ve put guys in psych wards who talk like that.”
A bearish, dour-looking man answered the door and acknowledged in the most somber tones that he was indeed Taylor Fullbright.
Flashing her police ID, Carson said, “Sir, I’m sorry I didn’t call ahead, but we’re here on a rather urgent matter.”
Brightening at the discovery that they were not a bereaved couple in need of counseling, Fullbright revealed his true convivial nature. “Come in, come in! I was just cremating a customer.”
CHAPTER 41
FOR A LONG TIME after the session in the spinning rack, Randal Six lies on his bed, not sleeping—for he seldom sleeps—facing the wall, his back to the room, shutting out the chaos, allowing his mind slowly, slowly to grow still.
He does not know the purpose of the treatment, but he is certain that he cannot endure many more of those sessions. Sooner than later, he will suffer a massive stroke; the failure of an inner vessel will do what a bullet to his armored skull cannot as easily achieve.
If a cerebral aneurysm does not finish him, he will surely trade the developmental disability called autism for genuine psychosis. He will seek in madness the peace that mere autism is not always able to ensure.
In his darkest moments, Randal wonders whether the spinning rack is a treatment, as Father has repeatedly called it, or if it might be intended as torture.
Not born of God and alienated from belief, this is the closest he can come to a blasphemous thought: that Father is a cruel rather than a caring maker, that Father himself is psychotic and his entire enterprise an insane endeavor.
Whether Father is sincere or deceitful, whether his project is genius or dementia, Randal Six knows that he himself will never find happiness in the Hands of Mercy.
Happiness lies streets away, a little less than three miles from here, at the home of one Carson O’Connor. In that house lies a secret to be taken if it isn’t freely offered: the cause of Arnie O’Connor’s smile, the reason for the moment of joy captured in the newspaper photo, no matter how brief it might have been.
As soon as possible, he must get to the O’Connor boy, before the cerebral aneurysm that kills him, before the spinning rack whirls him into madness.
Randal is not locked in his room. His autism, which is at times complicated by agoraphobia, keeps him this side of the threshold more securely than could locks or chains.
Father often encourages him to explore from end to end of the building, even floors above and below this one. Adventurousness will be a first proof that his treatments are working.
No matter where he goes in the building, he cannot leave, for the exterior doors are wired to a security system. He would be caught before he escaped the grounds…and might be punished with a very long session in the spinning rack.
Anyway, when he occasionally leaves his room and wanders the halls, he never dares to go far, never a fraction as far as Father would like to see him travel. Sometimes even a distance of thirty feet presents him with an overload of sights and sounds that brings him trembling to his knees.
In his self-isolation, he nonetheless sees. He hears. He learns. He knows of a way out of Mercy that will not trigger an alarm.
He may not have sufficient fortitude to reach that special door, let alone to confront the busier world beyond. But his despondency has recently advanced to desperation, and the reckless action that is the whip of desperation may lash into him a kind of courage.
He will leave this coming night, in little more than twelve hours.
CHAPTER 42
THE QUIET RECEIVING FOYER featured a baroque frieze instead of traditional crown moldings: deeply carved acanthus leaves punctuated every two feet and at the corners by the heads of angels alternating with gargoyles or perhaps mocking demons.
Inlaid in the forest-green marble floor, a foot-wide circular work of marquetry employed lighter marbles to portray mythological beings—gods, goddesses, and demigods—in perpetual pursuit. Even without dropping to his knees, Michael could see that some of the pursuit involved sexual fondling.
Only in New Orleans would either of these elements have seemed suitable to a funeral home. The house had probably been built around 1850 by nouveau riche newcomers who hadn’t been welcome in the Creole sections of town. In this city, time eventually conferred dignity on what had once been outrageous as well as on what had been classic from the day it had been erected.
Studying a photo of Bobby Allwine that Carson had given him, Taylor Fullbright said, “This is the very gentleman, yes. I felt sorry for the poor soul—so many of his friends were dying. Then I realized he didn’t know any of the deceased.”
Carson said, “He—what?—just got a thrill being around dead people?”
“Nothing that kinky,” said Fullbright. “He just…seemed to be at peace around them.”
“That’s what he said—he was at peace?”
“The only thing I can remember he said was ‘Death can be as much a gift as a curse,’ which is often true.”
“Did you confront him about coming to all these viewings?”
“Confrontation isn’t my style, Detective. So
me funeral directors are solemn to the point of seeming stern. I’m more of a hugger and a consoler. Mr. Allwine and his friend, they were never a problem. More melancholy than weird.”
Carson’s phone rang, and when she stepped away to answer it, Michael said to Fullbright, “He came with a friend? Can you give us a description?”
Smiling, nodding, as affable as a cartoon bear, the mortician said, “I can see him as clear in memory as if he were standing here. He was ordinary to a fault. Average height. A little heavier than average weight. Middle-aged. Brown hair—or maybe blond. Blue or green eyes, maybe hazel.”
With a sarcasm that sounded like earnest praise, Michael said, “Amazing. That’s as good as a photo.”
Pleased, Fullbright said, “I’ve got a sharp eye for detail.”
Putting away her phone, Carson turned to Michael: “Jack Rogers wants to see us at the morgue.”
“You might mention to the coroner,” Fullbright said, “that while I don’t extend commissions to those who send us business, I do offer discounts for referrals.”
“I can’t wait to tell him,” Michael said. Pointing to the marble marquetry at their feet, he asked, “Who’s that figure?”
“The one with the winged feet? That’s Mercury.”
“And that one next to him?”
“Aphrodite,” said Fullbright.
“Are they…?”
“Engaged in sodomy?” the mortician asked jovially. “Indeed they are. You’d be amazed how many mourners notice and are cheered by it.”
“I am amazed,” Michael agreed.
CHAPTER 43
THE LONGER ROY PRIBEAUX roamed his expansive loft apartment, gazing out of the tall windows, brooding about his future, the more troubled he became.
When a brief midmorning shower pelted the panes, blurring the city, he felt as if his future also blurred further, until it was a meaningless smear. He might have cried if crying had been his thing.
Never in his young—and getting steadily younger—life had he been without a purpose and a plan. Meaningful work kept the mind sharp and the heart uplifted.
Meaningful work, having a worthwhile purpose, was as crucial to longevity and to enduring youthfulness as were megadoses of Vitamin C and Coenzyme Q10.
Without a purpose to inspire him, Roy feared that in spite of a perfect diet, ideally balanced nutritional supplements, an array of exotic emollients, and even purified lamb’s urine, he would begin to grow old mentally. The more he brooded, the more it seemed that the path to senility loomed before him, as steep as a luge chute.
Mind and body were inextricably linked, of course, so a year of mental senescence would inevitably lead to lines at the corners of his eyes, the first gray hairs at his temples. He shuddered.
He tried to muster the desire to take a walk, but if he spent the day in the Quarter, among the throngs of celebratory tourists, and if he failed to encounter the radiant goddess of his destiny, his uneasiness would deepen.
Because he himself was very close to perfect, perhaps now that he had collected all the parts of an ideal woman, he should make it his goal to refine himself that final degree. He could now focus on achieving the perfect metabolism until he ceased to excrete wastes.
Although this was a noble undertaking, it didn’t promise as much fun as the quest he had recently completed.
Finally, out of desperation, he found himself wondering—indeed hoping—that he had erred when he concluded that he had completed his collection. He might have overlooked an anatomical feature that, while minor, remained essential to beauty’s jigsaw.
For a while he sat at the kitchen table with da Vinci’s famous anatomical charts and several old Playboy centerfolds. He studied the female form from every angle, looking for a morsel that he might have overlooked.
When he made no discovery that allowed him to cry Eureka, he began to consider the possibility that he had not been sufficiently specific in his collecting. Was it possible that he had collected from too macro a perspective?
Were he to take Elizabeth Lavenza’s lovely pale hands from the freezer and review them critically, he might be surprised to find that they were perfect, yes, in every detail but one. Perhaps she had a single thumb that fell short of perfection.
Perhaps the lips he had harvested were not both perfect as he had remembered. The upper might be perfect, the lower not quite.
If he needed to set out on a search for the perfect left thumb to marry to Elizabeth’s otherwise faultlessly fair hands, if he must find a bee-stung lower lip to match the exquisite upper already in his possession, then his quest had not been completed, after all, and he would for a while have meaningful…
“No,” he declared aloud. “That way lies madness.”
Soon he would be reduced to harvesting one toe per donor and killing for mere eyelashes. A thin line separated serious homicidal purpose from buffoonery.
Realizing that a blind alley lay before him, Roy might at that moment have fallen into a swoon of despair, even though at heart he was an optimistic person. Fortunately, he was saved by a new thought.
From his nightstand he retrieved his original list of wanted anatomical delights. He had drawn a line through every item as he acquired it, concluding with EYES.
The list was long, and perhaps early in the quest he had crossed off an item out of wishful thinking, before he had taken possession of it. His memory of certain periods in his past was somewhat hazy, not because of any mental deficiency, but solely because he was such a tomorrow-oriented person, focused on the future in which he would grow younger and closer to perfection.
He vaguely recalled, over the years, killing a woman or two for an ideal feature, only to discover, in the intimate presence of the corpse, that the wanted item was minutely flawed and therefore not worth harvesting. Perhaps more than a woman or two. Maybe as many as four had disappointed him. Maybe five.
He supposed it was possible that he had crossed off an item or two on his list only to discover, after the kill, that he had been too easy in his judgment—and then in his busyness had forgotten to restore the needed item to the list.
Either to confirm or eliminate this possibility, he needed to compare the contents of his special freezer to his original list.
Despondency quickly faded and a happy anticipation filled him. He opened a bottle of apple juice and sectioned a raisin muffin to sample as he worked.
All the appliances in his roomy kitchen boasted stainless-steel finishes, including the ovens, microwave, dishwasher, icemaker, Sub-Zero refrigerator, and two enormous freezers.
In the first freezer he stored the parts of the perfect woman. He playfully referred to this as the love locker.
The second freezer contained an assortment of dairy-free, soy-based ice creams, free-range chicken breasts, and quarts of rhubarb puree. In the event that a major act of terrorism led to a disruption in the distribution of vital nutritional supplements, he also stored five-pound packages of powdered saw palmetto, St. John’s wort, bee pollen, and other items.
When he lifted the lid on the first freezer, a cloud of frosted air wafted past him, crisp with a faint scent vaguely like that of frozen fish. He saw at once that the freezer contained items that did not belong with his collection.
His larger treasures—legs and arms—were tightly sealed in multiple layers of Reynolds Plastic Wrap. The smaller lovelies were sealed first in OneZip bags and then in Tupperware containers with dependably tight lids.
Now he found among his collection three containers that were not Tupperware. They were cheap knockoffs of that desired brand: opaque plastic bottoms with ugly green lids.
This discovery mystified him. Although certain events in the more distant past might be blurry in his memory, these unacceptable containers were set atop the rest of his collection; they could have been placed here only recently. Yet he had never seen them before.
Curious but not yet alarmed, he took the three containers from the freezer. He put them on a nearby coun
ter.
When he opened them, he found what might have been human organs. The first resembled liver. The second might have been a heart. With no real interest in things internal, he couldn’t guess whether the third item was a kidney, spleen, or something even more arcane.
Pausing for some raisin muffin and apple juice, he could not avoid considering that these three specimens might be the souvenirs taken by the other killer currently making the news in New Orleans.
Being a Renaissance man who had educated himself in a variety of disciplines, Roy knew more than a little about psychology. He could not help but give some consideration now to the concept of multiple personalities.
He found it interesting to consider that he might be both the original killer and the copycat, might have murdered three men while in a fugue state, and that even now, confronted with evidence, he couldn’t remember popping or chopping them. Interesting…but in the end not convincing. He and himself, working separately, were not, together, the Surgeon.
The true explanation eluded him, but he knew that it would prove to be more bizarre than multiple personalities.
Instinct drew his attention to the second freezer.
If the first had contained the unexpected, might not the second hold surprises, too? He might find gallons of high-fat ice cream and pounds of bacon among the herbs and health foods.
Instead, when he opened the lid and blinked away the initial cloud of frosted air, he discovered Candace’s eyeless corpse jammed atop the supplements and foodstuffs.
Roy was certain that he had not brought this cotton-candy person home with him.
CHAPTER 44
LIKE THE SOMEWHAT disheveled medical examiner himself, Jack Rogers’s private office was a classic example of managed chaos. The desktop overflowed with papers, notebooks, folders, photos. Books were jammed in the shelves everywhichway. Nevertheless, Jack would be able to find anything he needed after mere seconds of searching.
Only partly because of sleep deprivation and too much coffee, Carson’s mind felt as disordered as the office. “Bobby Allwine’s gone?”