by Dean Koontz
For anyone drawn into an orbit around Victor Helios, the word impossible no longer had any meaning. So maybe in his spare time, the Transylvanian transplant scored some pterodactyl DNA, combined it with a sociopathic homeboy’s genes, and cooked up a man-reptile cop killer that would swoop in from the storm. Chances were she wasn’t going to die from a heart attack or from anything else that would leave a neat corpse, but she was for damn sure not going to be torn apart in the jaws of a gangbanger-dragon hybrid wearing a do-rag and a gold nose ring.
Deucalion must have taken the call, because Michael said, “Hey, it’s me. We’re in a parking garage. Fourth floor.”
After giving the address, Michael hung up.
As the phone produced an end-call beep, Deucalion stepped into the garage about twenty feet away, as though he’d come out of Narnia through a wardrobe, except there wasn’t even a wardrobe.
Carson always forgot how big he was until she saw him again. In his long black coat, as he approached them, he looked like Darth Vader on a steroids-only diet.
“You’re wet,” Deucalion said.
“We were in a monster mash at Audubon Park,” Michael said. “One of them had a nice butt.”
Duke padded around the car, saw the tattooed newcomer, halted, and cocked his head.
“Whose dog?” Deucalion asked.
“He belonged to the district attorney,” Michael said, “then to the district attorney’s replicant, but the replicant walked smack into a bunch of shotgun slugs, so now Duke belongs to us.”
“Things are going to get apocalyptic soon,” Deucalion said. “A dog will get in your way.”
“Not this dog. He’s one of those highly trained service dogs. When we switch from shotguns to .50 Magnums, he can reload the empty weapons for us.”
To Carson, Deucalion said, “I’m never sure I understand half the things he says.”
“Eventually you don’t care,” Carson assured him. “Michael has hyperactive disorder, but he talks fast enough to keep himself entertained, so he’s not a lot of trouble.”
Duke approached Deucalion, tail wagging.
Holding one of his hands down to allow the dog to lick his fingers, Deucalion stared so intently at Carson that she felt X-rayed, and then he turned the same stare on Michael.
“It was not an accident that I crossed your path rather than that of other detectives. You’re different from most who carry a badge, and I am different from everyone. Our difference is our strength. We have been chosen for this, and if we fail—the world fails.”
Michael grimaced. “That wouldn’t look good on my résumé.”
“Earlier, at the Luxe,” Carson said, referring to the just shuttered movie theater where Deucalion lived, “you said Victor has progressed doggedly for so long, in spite of his setbacks, he has no fear of failure, he believes his triumph is inevitable. So he’s blind to the rot in his empire. At the time, I thought the rot might not be as extensive as you hoped. But after our lark in the park with those replicants … maybe collapse is coming even sooner than you think.”
Pulses of inner light passed through the giant’s eyes. “Yes. The clock is ticking.”
After listening to Deucalion’s one-minute abridged version of his discoveries in the Hands of Mercy, Carson was left with stomach acid burning in the back of her throat and a clutching chill in the pit of her stomach.
“When does the place melt down?” Michael asked.
“In fifty-five minutes. When Victor hears about the fire, he’ll know I did it, but he won’t know how out of control things were in there tonight. He’ll continue to trust his New Race to defend him. But he won’t risk staying in the Garden District. He’ll fall back to the farm.”
Carson said, “The creation-tank farm, the New Race factory Pastor Kenny told you about?”
“As I learned tonight, it’s farther along than Kenny thought. The first crop begins rising from the tanks tomorrow night—five hundred a day for four days.”
Michael said, “We way underestimated our ammo needs.”
“Victor owns large tracts of land north of Lake Pontchartrain.” From an inside coat pocket, Deucalion withdrew a packet of papers. “I retrieved the information from his computer. There’s a place called Crosswoods Waste Management, owned by a Nevada corporation, which is owned by a holding company in the Bahamas, which is held by a trust in Switzerland. But in the end, it’s all just Victor.”
“Waste management?” Carson said. “Is that a dump?”
“It is a very large dump.”
“What would he want with a dump?”
“A graveyard for his failures and for the people his replicants replace.”
Michael said, “It must have a more memorable smell than your average dump.”
“The tank farm is on a twenty-acre property adjacent to the dump. We’re going to be there well ahead of Victor. In fact, I will be there in ten minutes.” Deucalion handed the packet of papers to Carson. “Addresses, background, a little reading for the road. If you take Interstate 10 east to Interstate 12 west, then the state route north as I’ve marked, it’s about seventy miles, less than an hour and a half.”
“A lot less if she’s driving,” Michael said.
“When you’re getting near, call me,” Deucalion said. “We’ll join forces there.”
“And then what?” Carson asked.
“And then … whatever’s necessary.”
CHAPTER 36
Erika Five loaded a stainless-steel cart with everything Jocko needed, and took it to the second floor in the service elevator.
After Victor had joined the original two residences, there were three hallways. At the south end of the house, the south-wing hall ran east-west. At the north end, the hall also ran east-west. Each measured eighty feet. Those corridors were connected by the main hall, which extended 182 feet.
In the south wing, the service elevator was not far from the kitchen. Once upstairs, Erika had to push the cart the length of the main hall to the north wing, where the troll waited in his new quarters toward the back of the house.
The double doors to the master suite were at the midpoint of the main hall, on the left, opposite the head of the grand staircase. She thought Victor remained in the suite, but she couldn’t be sure. If by chance he stepped into the hall and saw her pushing the cart stacked with bedding, towels, toiletries, and food, he would want to know where she was going and to what purpose.
The nine-foot-wide hallway featured a series of Persian rugs, as in the north and the south halls, and the cart rolled silently across them. Where mahogany flooring lay exposed between rugs, the rubber wheels made only a faint noise.
When, with relief, Erika entered the unfurnished north-wing suite, the troll was standing on the points of his toes, pirouetting.
She rolled the cart into the living room. Closing the door to the hall, she said, “Where did you learn to dance?”
“Is Jocko dancing?” he asked, continuing to spin.
“That’s ballet.”
“It’s just … a thing … Jocko does,” he said, and pirouetted into the bedroom.
Following with the cart, Erika said, “Don’t you get very dizzy?”
“Sometimes … Jocko vomits.”
“Well then, you better stop.”
“No control.”
Putting the bedding on the floor, in a corner, Erika said, “You mean you’re compelled to pirouette?”
The troll spun to a stop, came off pointe, and weaved a few steps before regaining his equilibrium. “Not so bad that time.”
“You poor thing.”
He shrugged. “Everybody’s got problems.”
“That’s very philosophical.”
“Most worse than mine.”
Erika was pretty sure there weren’t many fates worse than being a grotesque troll with three hairs on your tongue, penniless, living mostly in storm drains, with a compulsion to spin until you threw up. But she admired the little guy’s positive attitude.
“Jocko likes salty, Jocko likes sweet, but never bring Jocko any hot sauce, like with jalapeños, because it makes Jocko squirt funny-smelling stuff out his ears.”
“I’ll be sure to remember that,” Erika said. “Of course, I’ll bring you healthy meals whenever I can, not just snack foods. Is there anything you don’t like besides hot sauce?”
“Jocko’s been living mostly in storm drains, eating bugs and rats. And hot sauce on corn chips that one time. Anything you bring is delicious enough for Jocko.”
“This is very exciting, isn’t it?” Erika said.
“What is?”
“Having a secret friend.”
“Who does?”
“I do.”
“What friend?”
“You.”
“Oh. Yes. Jocko is excited.”
Putting away the last of the towels, she said, “I’ll be back in the morning, in just a few hours, after Victor has gone to the Hands of Mercy, and then you can read to me.”
Sitting on the edge of the tub, Jocko asked, “Is this good to eat?”
“No, that’s bath soap.”
“Oh. Is this good to eat?”
“That’s another bath soap.”
“So it’s good to eat?”
“No. Soap is never good to eat.”
“Is this good to eat?”
“That’s also bath soap. It’s a four-pack.”
“Why soap, soap, soap, soap?”
“I brought extras of several things. You’re going to be here awhile.… Aren’t you?”
“As long as you say Jocko can.”
“Good. That’s very good.”
“Now go away,” said Jocko.
“Oh, of course, you must be tired.”
“Must be,” he agreed, following her into the living room. “Go away.”
Erika left the stainless-steel cart, intending to return it to the kitchen in the morning, after Victor went to the lab.
Cracking the door, she scoped the hallway, which was deserted and quiet. Glancing back at the troll, she said, “Don’t be afraid.”
“You either.”
“You’re safe.”
“You too.”
“Just lie low.”
“Go away.”
Stepping into the hall, Erika quietly pulled the door shut behind her.
CHAPTER 37
The instant the door closed, Jocko scampered into the bathroom. Snatched up a bar of soap. Tore the wrapper off. Took a bite.
Erika was wrong. Soap looked delicious, and it was.
She was wrong or … she lied.
How sad she would lie. She seemed so different from others. So pretty. So kind. Such delicate nostrils. But a liar.
Almost everybody lied. The world was a kingdom of lies.
Jocko lied, too. Told her he was Harker.
True, he came out of Harker. All Harker’s knowledge. Harker’s memories. But he wasn’t Harker.
Jocko was Jocko, unique. Jocko wanted what Jocko wanted. Not what anybody else wanted.
Only one way Jocko and Harker were alike. Hated Victor Helios. Hated him.
One thing Jocko wanted, Harker had wanted. Victor Helios dead.
Jocko was Jocko. But he was also vengeance.
Soap tasted better than rats. Almost as good as bugs. But so chewy. Not easy to swallow.
Jocko put down the half-eaten bar. Didn’t have time for so much chewing. Later.
Jocko wanted what Jocko wanted. Wanted it so bad. But couldn’t have what he wanted until he killed Victor Helios.
He dashed into the living room. Stood on his hands. Walked around the room on his hands. Around and around.
Such a waste of time. Jocko didn’t want to walk around on his hands. But he just had to.
Finally, enough. On his feet again. To the bathroom again. One more bite of soap. Good.
Time to kill Victor.
Quick, quick, quick through the bedroom. Through the living room. To the door.
As she turned away from the door to Jocko’s quarters, Erika knew that she should go to the master suite to see if Victor wanted her for any reason.
However, the prospect of her secret friend reading to her from a book so excited her that she didn’t want to wait until morning to select the volume for their initial session. She descended the back stairs at the west end of the north wing, eager to explore what titles the library offered.
The grand hall on the ground floor measured twelve feet across, a third more spacious than the upstairs hallways. It was furnished with sideboards, pairs of chairs separated by tables on which stood bowls of flowers, and pedestals supporting magnificent figurative bronzes. The walls were hung with priceless works by the European masters of the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries, which Victor had been clever enough to smuggle out of Germany shortly before his patron and dear friend, the much-misunderstood and delightfully witty Hitler, whom Victor called mein schatz, “my treasure,” was tragically brought to grief by the ignorant masses, by greedy capitalists, by voracious bankers, and by religious fanatics.
Victor suffered so much frustration and loss in his long life that Erika, who had been given everything from birth, might need twenty years, thirty, or longer to understand him. The problem was, thus far the Erikas tended to be short-lived.
Her best hope of understanding her husband, of learning how to be the kind of wife who never triggered his rage, seemed to be books. Books were dangerous, yes, but they were dangerous because they contained so much knowledge both of the helpful kind and the harmful kind. Perhaps Erika Four absorbed too much of the wrong information, things that would never be included in an education acquired by direct-to-brain data downloading, and was thereby corrupted. Erika Five intended to proceed cautiously with books, always alert for the harmful kind of knowledge.
She enjoyed an advantage over Erika Four: She had Jocko. She would instruct him to be always on the lookout for knowledge that was harmful in any way, to censor it as he read, so that she wouldn’t be contaminated by it. If a book contained too much harmful information to remain comprehensible when all of the bad stuff had been redacted, she would return it to the shelves and choose another.
Entering the library, Erika saw Christine getting up from the desk, holding a book and an envelope. She should have been in the staff dormitory.
“Why are you here at this hour?” Erika asked.
“Oh, goodness, you startled me.” Christine pushed the desk chair into the kneehole. “I’ve been selecting a book to send to a friend, and writing her a warm note of remembrance, with apologies for having been frightfully behind in my correspondence.”
Christine seemed to be speaking with a slight English accent.
“But these books don’t belong to you,” Erika reminded her.
Straightening her shoulders and lifting her head in what might have been defiance, Christine said, “I should think any books that belong to my husband also belong to me.”
“Your husband?” Erika said.
“Yes, Mrs. Danvers, quite mine. Rebecca is gone. I rather think you should get used to that.”
Erika didn’t need to learn anything from a book to know that Christine was suffering what Victor referred to as an interruption of function. The previous morning, the butler, William, had bitten off seven of his fingers during an interruption of function. For the moment, at least, Christine’s condition wasn’t as serious as William’s.
Approaching the maid, Erika reached out for the book. “I’ll take care of that for you.”
Pressing the volume and the letter to her bosom, Christine said, “No thank you, Mrs. Danvers. In the morning, I shall ask Christine to package and post it.”
In a superbly tailored blue suit, white silk shirt with spread collar, and sapphire-amber-emerald striped tie, with an amber disp
lay handkerchief, carrying the Springfield Armory Colt .45 in a concealed shoulder rig that did not interfere at all with the elegant drape of the coat, Victor studied his reflection, and the mirror presented to him a man who had the style and the bearing of a sovereign born to the throne.
Because there were mirrors also at the Hands of Mercy, he left the closet. As he crossed the bedroom, his cell phone rang.
He stopped at the door to the hall and, after a hesitation, took the call. “Yes?”
“My esteemed master, my glorious brute,” said Erika Four, “we have prepared a resting place for you at the dump.”
He was resolved not to lose his temper and determined not to let her dominate as she had in her previous call. “I thought you were coming home.”
“We have lined your grave with the rotting cadavers of some of your Old Race victims, and with the remains of those of your people who failed you and could not be resuscitated as I was.”
“Perhaps,” he said, “you have the courage to call but not the courage to face me.”
“Oh, darling, sublime megalomaniac, you are the emperor of self-delusion. I will face you soon enough. I will smile at you and blow a kiss as we bury you alive in the depths of the dump.”
Victor happened to be looking at the doorknob when it began to turn. He drew the .45 from his shoulder rig.
Quick, quick, quick, Jocko scurried east along the north hall. Stopped at the corner. Peeked around. Nobody in sight.
A bite of soap would be nice. Stay focused. Kill first. Soap later.
He knew where to find the master bedroom. Erika mentioned it when sneaking him up the back stairs. Main hall. Opposite the grand staircase.
Tippytoe, tippytoe, across soft rugs. Pretty rugs. Would be fun to twirl on rugs so soft and pretty.
No! Don’t think about twirling. Don’t even think about it.
Grand staircase to the left. Double doors to the right. This was the place.
Standing at the doors, hand on a doorknob, Jocko heard a muffled voice. Harker’s memory said, Victor’s voice. Just beyond these doors.