Dean Koontz's Frankenstein 4-Book Bundle

by Dean Koontz

  She was torn by something like pity for Cassandra, Glenda, and the others on the staff, by a quiet horror at the idea of Cassandra stalking the most defenseless of the Old Race, and by compassion for the murdered, toward whom she had been programmed to feel nothing but envy, anger, and hatred.

  Her actions on behalf of Jocko crossed the line that Victor had drawn for her, for all of them, in the afore-mentioned quicksand. The curious sense of companionship that had developed so quickly between her and the little guy should have been beyond her emotional range. Even as the friendship grew, she recognized that it might signify a pending interruption of function like the one that William, the butler, had experienced.

  She was allowed compassion, humility, and shame, as the others were not—but only so that Victor might be more thrilled by her pain and anguish. Victor didn’t intend that the finer feelings of his Erikas should benefit anyone but himself, or that anyone else should have the opportunity to respond to his wife’s tender attentions with anything other than the contempt and brutality with which he answered them.

  To Glenda, she said, “Go back to the dormitory. I’ll select what I need from these and put the rest away.”

  “And never tell him.”

  “Never tell him,” Erika confirmed.

  Glenda started to turn away, but then she said, “Do you think maybe …”

  “Maybe what, Glenda?”

  “Do you think maybe … the end is coming soon?”

  “Do you mean the end of the Old Race, once and forever, the killing of them all?”

  The provisioner searched Erika’s gaze and then turned her face up to the ceiling as tears welled in her eyes. In a voice thick with fear, she said, “There’s got to be an end, you know, there’s really got to be.”

  “Look at me,” Erika said.

  Obedient as her program required, Glenda met her mistress’s eyes again.

  With her fingers, Erika wiped the tears from the provisioner’s face. “Don’t be afraid.”

  “It’s that or rage. I’m worn out by rage.”

  Erika said, “An end is coming soon.”

  “You know?”

  “Yes. Very soon.”

  “How? What end?”

  “In most cases, not all ends are desirable, but in this case … any end will do. Don’t you think?”

  The provisioner nodded almost imperceptibly. “May I tell the others?”

  “Will knowing help them?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am. Life’s always been hard, you know, but lately harder.”

  “Then by all means, tell them.”

  The provisioner seemed to regard Erika with the nearest thing to gratitude that she could feel. After a silence, she said, “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Neither of us does,” said Erika. “That’s how we are.”

  “Good-bye, Mrs. Helios.”

  “Good-bye, Glenda.”

  The provisioner left the storage room, and Erika closed her eyes for a moment, unable to look at the many items of apparel strewn on the floor around her.

  Then she opened her eyes and knelt among the clothes.

  She selected those that might fit her friend.

  The garments of the executed were still garments. And if the universe was not, as Victor said, a meaningless chaos, if it were possible for anything to be sacred, surely these humble items, worn by martyred innocents, were hallowed and might provide her friend not only with a disguise but also with protection of a higher kind.

  CHAPTER 55

  DUKE LED THEM across a wide earthen rampart, between vast pits of trash, through the dump, as if he knew the way.

  With the moon and the stars sequestered behind ominous clouds, Crosswoods for the most part lay in darkness, although a few small fires burned out there in the black remoteness.

  Carson and Michael followed the dog, in the company of Nick Frigg and Gunny Alecto, who with flashlights picked out potholes and places where the crumbling brink might be treacherous, as if every detail of this terrain was engraved in the memory of each.

  “I’m a Gamma,” Nick said, “or I was, and Gunny here—she’s an Epsilon.”

  “Or was,” she said. “Now I’m reborn freeborn, and I don’t hate anymore. I’m not afraid anymore.”

  “It’s like we’ve been living with bands of iron around our heads, and now they’re cut away, the pressure gone,” said Nick.

  Carson didn’t know what to make of their strange born-again declarations. She still expected one of them suddenly to come at her with no more goodwill than a buzz saw.

  “Sign, sink, spoon, spade, soup, stone, spinach, sparkler, soda, sand, seed, sex. Sex!” Gunny laughed with delight that she had found the word she wanted. “Man, oh, man, I wonder what it’ll be like the next time the whole dump gang gets sexed up together, going at each other every which way, but none of us angry, nobody punching or biting, just doing all the better kind of stuff to each other. It should be interesting.”

  “It should,” Nick said. “Interesting. Okay, folks, right up here, we’re gonna go down a ramp into the west pit. See the torches and oil lamps out there a ways? That’s where Deucalion’s waiting.”

  “He’s waiting out there by the big hole,” Gunny said.

  Nick said, “We’re all going down the big hole again.”

  “This is some night,” Gunny declared.

  “Some crazy night,” Nick agreed.

  “What a night, huh, Nick?”

  “What a night,” Nick agreed.

  “Down the big hole again!”

  “It’s sure a big hole.”

  “And we’re going down it again!”

  “We are, for sure. The big hole.”

  “Mother of all gone-wrongs!”

  “Something to see.”

  “I’m just all up!” said Gunny.

  “I’m all up, too,” Nick said.

  Grabbing at Nick’s crotch, Gunny said, “I bet you are!”

  “You know I am.”

  “You know I know you are.”

  “Don’t I know?”

  Carson figured she was no more than two conversational exchanges from either bolting back to the car or emptying the Urban Sniper into both of them.

  Michael saved her sanity by breaking the rhythm and asking Nick, “How do you live with this stench?”

  “How do you live without it?” Nick asked.

  From the top of the rampart, they descended a slope of earth, into the west pit. Trash crunched and crackled and rustled underfoot, but it was well-compacted and didn’t shift much.

  More than a dozen people stood with Deucalion, but he was a head taller than the tallest of them. He wore his long black coat, the hood thrown back. His half-broken and tattooed face, uplit by torchlight, was not as disturbing as it ought to have been in this setting, under these circumstances. In fact, he had an air of calm certainty and unflinching resolve that reminded Carson of her father, who had been a military man before becoming a detective. Deucalion projected that competence and integrity that motivated men to follow a leader into battle—which apparently was what they were soon to do.

  Michael said to him, “Hey, big guy, you’re standing there like we’re in a rose garden. How do you tolerate this stench?”

  “Controlled synesthesia,” Deucalion explained. “I convince myself to perceive the malodors as colors, not smells. I see us standing in a weave of rainbows.”

  “I’m going to hope you’re pulling my chain.”

  “Carson,” Deucalion said, “there’s someone here who wants to meet you.”

  From behind Deucalion stepped a beautiful woman in a dress stained and crusted with filth.

  “Good evening, Detective O’Connor.”

  Recognizing the voice from the phone, Carson said, “Mrs. Helios.”

  “Yes. Erika Four. I apologize for the condition of my dress. I was murdered little more than a day ago and buried in garbage. My darling Victor didn’t think to send me here with a supply of moist towelette
s and a change of clothes.”

  CHAPTER 56

  AFTER LEAVING THE CHILDREN’S CLOTHES with Jocko in the library, Erika went to the master suite, where she quickly packed a single suitcase for herself.

  She didn’t clean up the blood in the vestibule. She should have wrapped Christine’s body in a blanket and called the New Race trash collectors who conveyed corpses to Crosswoods, but she did not.

  After all, if she went to a window and looked northwest, the sky would be on fire. And worse was coming. Maybe it would still matter if authorities found a murdered housekeeper in the mansion, or maybe not.

  Anyway, even if the discovery of Christine’s body turned out to be a problem for Victor, it wasn’t an issue for Erika. She suspected that she would never again see this house or New Orleans, and that she would not much longer be Victor’s wife.

  Only hours ago, she handled with aplomb—if not indifference—such macabre episodes as a butler chewing off his fingers. But now the mere presence of a dead Beta in the bedroom disturbed her both for reasons she understood and for reasons she was not yet able to define.

  She put her suitcase at the foot of the bed, and she chose a smaller piece of luggage in which to pack everything that Victor wanted from the safe.

  The existence of the walk-in vault had not been disclosed to Erika during her in-tank education. She learned about it only minutes earlier, when Victor told her how to find it.

  In one corner of his immense closet, which was as large as the formal dining room downstairs, an alcove featured three floor-to-ceiling mirrors. After Victor dressed, he stepped into this space to consider the clothes he wore and to assess the degree to which his outfit achieved the effect he desired.

  Standing in this alcove, Erika spoke to her reflection: “Twelve twenty-five is four one.”

  A voice-recognition program in the house computer accepted those five words as the first part of a two-sentence combination to the vault. The center mirror slid into the ceiling, revealing a plain steel door without hinges or handle, or keyhole.

  When she said, “Two fourteen is ten thirty-one,” she heard lock bolts disengage, and the door slid open with a pneumatic hiss.

  In addition to tall upper cabinets, the vault contained lower drawers, all measuring the same: one foot deep, two feet wide. Each of three walls held twelve drawers, numbered I through 36.

  From Drawer 5, she withdrew sixteen bricks of hundred-dollar bills and put them in the small suitcase. Each banded block contained fifty thousand dollars, for a total of eight hundred thousand.

  Drawer 12 offered a quarter of a million dollars’ worth of euros, and she emptied it.

  From Drawer 16, she withdrew one million worth of bearer bonds, each valued at fifty thousand.

  Drawer 24 revealed numerous small gray-velvet bags featuring drawstring closures tied in neat bows. In these were precious gems, mostly diamonds of the highest quality. She scooped up all of the bags and dropped them in the suitcase.

  No doubt Victor maintained offshore bank accounts containing significant sums, held by such an intricate chain of shell companies and false names that no tax collector could link them to him. There he kept the larger part of his wealth.

  What Erika collected here, according to Victor’s instructions, was his on-the-run money, which he might need if the current crisis could not be contained. Listening to him on the phone, she’d thought he should use the word would instead of might, and when instead of if, but she’d said nothing.

  With the suitcase, she returned to the mirrored alcove, faced the open vault door, and said, “Close and lock.”

  The pneumatic door hissed shut. The bolts engaged. The mirror descended into place, bringing with it her reflection, as if it had previously taken her image into the ceiling.

  In the garage, Erika stowed both pieces of luggage in the cargo space of the GL550.

  With a large cloth tote bag in which to carry their books, she returned to the library. In his new attire, Jocko looked less like Huckleberry Finn than like a mutant turtle from another planet, out of its shell and likely to pass for human only if everyone on Earth were struck blind.

  Although the faded blue jeans looked all right from the front, they sagged in the seat because the troll didn’t have much of a butt. His thin pale arms were longer than those of a real boy, so the long-sleeved T-shirt fell three inches short of his wrists.

  For the first time, Erika considered that Jocko had six fingers on each hand.

  He had adjusted the expansion strap on the back of the baseball cap to its full extension, making it big enough to fit him, and in fact making it too big. The cap came over the tops of his gnarled ears, and he kept tipping it back to see out from under the bill.

  “It’s not a funny hat,” he said.

  “No. I couldn’t find one here, and the funny-hat store doesn’t open until nine o’clock.”

  “Maybe they deliver earlier.”

  Stuffing Jocko’s selection of books in the tote bag, she said, “They don’t deliver like a pizza shop.”

  “A pizza would be a funnier hat than this. Let’s get a pizza.”

  “Don’t you think wearing a pizza on your head would attract more attention than we want?”

  “No. And the shoes don’t work.”

  Even after taking the laces out, he had not been able to fit his wide feet comfortably in the sneakers.

  He said, “Anyway, Jocko walks way better barefoot, has a better grip, and if he wants to suck his toes, he doesn’t have to undress them first.”

  His toes were nearly as long as fingers and had three knuckles each. Erika thought he must be able to climb like a monkey.

  “You’re probably well enough disguised if you stay in the car,” she said. “And if you slump in your seat. And if you don’t look out the window when another car’s passing us. And if you don’t wave at anyone.”

  “Can Jocko give them the finger?”

  She frowned. “Why would you want to make obscene gestures at anyone?”

  “You never know. Like, say it’s a pretty night, big moon, stars all over, and say suddenly a woman’s smacking you with a broom and a guy’s beating your head with an empty bucket, shouting ‘What is it, what is it, what is it?’ You run away faster than they can run, and you want to shout something really smart at them, but you can’t think of anything smart, so there’s always the finger. Can Jocko give them the okay sign?”

  “I think it’s better if you keep your hands down and just enjoy the ride.”

  “Can Jocko give them a thumbs-up sign? Attaboy! Way to go! You done good!”

  “Maybe the next time we go for a ride. Not tonight.”

  “Can Jocko give them a power-to-the-people fist?”

  “I didn’t know you were political.” The tote bag bulged with books. “Come on. We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “Oh. Wait. Jocko forgot. In his room.”

  “There’s nothing in your room that you’ll need.”

  “Be back in half a jiffy.”

  He snatched up one of the laces from the sneakers and, holding it between his teeth, somersaulted out of the library.

  When the troll returned a few minutes later, he was carrying a sack made from a pillowcase, tied shut with the shoelace.

  “What’s that?” Erika asked.

  “Stuff.”

  “What stuff?”

  “Jocko’s stuff.”

  “All right. All right. Let’s go.”

  In the garage, at the GL550, Jocko said, “You want me to drive?”

  CHAPTER 57

  JUDGING BY THE QUALITY of their excitement and the content of their conversations among themselves, Carson decided that most if not all of the people with torches and oil lamps were Epsilons, like Gunny Alecto, and were workers at the landfill.

  In addition to Erika Four, however, five others of the New Race, left for dead at Crosswoods but later resurrected, were Alphas—four men and a woman—who had been terminated by Victor for one reason
or another. This was the group that called themselves the Dumpsters.

  Carson and Michael had been unnerved when one of the Dumpsters proved to be Bucky Guitreau, the district attorney. He wasn’t the one they had killed in Audubon Park, and he wasn’t the original and fully human Bucky. He was instead the first replicant intended to replace Bucky. He’d been replaced himself by a second replicant, the one she and Michael had killed, when Victor decided that number one wasn’t a sufficiently gifted mimic to pull off the impersonation of the district attorney.

  Apparently, all of these Alphas had been returned to life longer than Mrs. Helios. They had found water to wash themselves, and they wore reasonably clean if threadbare clothes, which perhaps they had salvaged from these many acres of refuse.

  Although she was the most recent to have been pulled back from the brink of oblivion, Erika Four had been appointed to speak not only for herself but also for the other five Alphas, perhaps because she had been their tormentor’s wife. She knew Victor well, his corrupted character and temper. Better than anyone, she might be able to identify the weakness most likely to render him vulnerable.

  Deucalion towered behind Erika, and as she brought Carson and Michael up-to-date, the landfill workers edged closer. None of what she said was news to them, but being the intellectual lower caste of the New Race, they seemed to be easily enchanted. They were rapt, faces shining in the lambent firelight, like children gathered for story hour around a campfire.

  “The workers here have known something strange was happening under the trash fields,” Erika said. “They’ve seen the surface rise and resettle, as if something sizable was traveling this way and that in the lower realms. They’ve heard haunting voices filtering up from below. Tonight they saw it for the first time, and they call it the mother of all gone-wrongs.”

  A murmuring passed through the Epsilons, whispered exclamations. Their faces revealed emotions that they of the New Race should not have been able to feel: happiness, awe, and perhaps hope.