by Dean Koontz
As if not in the least surprised to see them, as if picking up in midconversation, Harker said, "Word is the mayor might push for a task force as early as the weekend. If we'll be teaming this later, we might as well start swapping thoughts now."
To Harker, Carson said, "Surely you gotta know your reputation. Everyone in the department pegs you and Frye for glory hogs."
"Envy," Harker said dismissively. "We close more cases than anyone."
"Sometimes by popping the suspect," Michael said, referring to a recent officer-involved shooting for which Harker had narrowly avoided being brought up on charges.
Harker's smile was contemptuous. "You want my theory about the library security guard?"
Michael said, "Do I want pancreatic cancer?"
"The black rooms are a death wish," Harker conjectured.
"Damn," Carson said.
"He tried to slash his wrists with each of those razor blades in the bathroom wall," Harker continued. "But he just couldn't find the courage."
"You and Frye went to Allwine's apartment?"
"Yeah. You two," Harker said, "you're our babies, and we sometimes feel the need to burp you."
He pushed between them, walked away, glanced back after a few steps. "When you have a theory, I'll be happy to listen to it."
To Carson, Michael said, "I've got a short list of hearts I'd like to cut out."
CHAPTER 20
AFTER VICTOR LEFT the master suite, Erika slipped into a St. John dress that managed to be sensational yet respectable, subtly sexy but classy.
Standing in front of a full-length mirror in her enormous walk-in closet, which was as big as most master bedrooms, she knew that she looked enchanting, that she would leave an indelible impression on every man at the dinner. Nevertheless, she felt inadequate.
She would have tried other dresses if the first guests had not been scheduled to arrive in mere minutes. Victor expected her to be at his side to greet each arrival, and she dared not fail him.
All of her clothes were behind doors or in drawers along three aisles. She owned literally hundreds of outfits.
She hadn't shopped for any of them. Having created her to his ideal measurements, Victor had purchased everything while she had still been in the tank.
Perhaps he'd bought some of these things for the previous Erika. She didn't like to think about that.
She hoped that someday she would be allowed to shop for herself. When Victor allowed that, she would know she had at last met his standards and earned his trust.
Briefly, she wondered what it would be like not to care what Victor—or anyone—thought of her. To be herself. Independent.
Those were dangerous thoughts. She must repress them.
At the back of the closet, perhaps two hundred pairs of shoes were stored on canted shelves. Although she knew that time was of the essence, she dithered between Gucci and Kate Spade.
Behind her in the closet, something rustled, something thumped.
She turned to look back at the center aisle but saw only closed cherrywood doors behind which hung some of her seasonal wardrobe, and pale yellow carpet. She peeked into the right-hand aisle, then into the left, but they were also deserted.
Refocusing on her dilemma, she finally resolved it by choosing the Kate Spades. Carrying them in one hand, she hurried out of the closet into her dressing room.
Entering, she thought she saw movement from the corner of her eye, on the floor at the open doorway to the bedroom. When she turned her head, nothing was there.
Curious, she went into the bedroom nevertheless—just in time to see the silk spread flutter behind something that had just slipped under the king-size bed.
They had no house pets, no dog, no cat.
Victor would be furious if it turned out that a rat had gotten into the house. He had zero tolerance for vermin.
Erika had been made to be cautious of danger but to fear nothing in the extreme—although her programmed respect for her maker came close to fear at times.
If a rat had gotten into the house and if now it hid under the bed, she would not hesitate to snare it and dispose of it.
She set aside the Kate Spades and dropped to her knees beside the bed. She had no doubt that her reflexes were quick enough to snatch a scurrying rat.
When she lifted the spread and looked under the bed, her superb vision required no flashlight. But nothing lurked beneath the boxed springs:
She got to her feet and turned, surveying the room. She sensed that something was here, but she didn't have time to search behind every piece of furniture.
Conscious of time racing rat-fast, she sat on the edge of an armchair, near the fireplace, and pulled on her shoes. They were beautiful, but she would have liked them more if she had bought them herself.
She sat for a moment, listening. Silence. But this was the kind of silence that suggested something might be listening to her as she listened for it.
When she left the master suite for the upstairs hall, she closed the door behind her. It fit tight. Nothing could get under it. If a rat was loose in the bedroom, it couldn't get downstairs to spoil the dinner party.
She descended the grand staircase, and as she reached the foyer, the doorbell rang. The first guests had arrived.
CHAPTER 21
AS ROY PRIBEAUX dressed in black slacks, a pale-blue silk sport jacket, and a white linen shirt for his date with Candace— those eyes!—an all-news channel on TV did a segment about the Surgeon.
What an absurd name they had given him. He was a romantic. He was an idealist from a family of idealists. He was a purist. He was many things, but he was not a surgeon.
He knew they were talking about him, though he did not closely follow the media response to his harvests. He hadn't begun his collection of female perfection with the hope that he would become a celebrity. Fame had no appeal for him.
Of course his quest generated public interest for all the wrong reasons. They saw violence, not art. They saw blood, not the work of a dreamer who sought perfection in all things.
He had only contempt for the media and for the audience to which they pandered. Knaves speaking to fools.
Having come from a prominent family of politicians—his father and grandfather had served the city of New Orleans and the state of Louisiana—he had seen with what ease the public could be manipulated by the clever use of envy and fear. His family had been expert at it.
In the process, the Pribeauxs had greatly enriched themselves. His grandfather and father had done so well in public service that Roy himself had never needed to work and never would.
Like great artists during the Renaissance, he had patrons: generations of taxpayers. His inheritance allowed him to devote his life to the pursuit of ideal beauty.
When the TV reporter mentioned the most recent two victims, Roy's attention was suddenly focused by the coupling of an unknown name-Bobby Allwine— with that of Elizabeth Lavenza. He had harvested Elizabeth's lovely hands before consigning the depressingly imperfect remainder of her to the City Park lagoon.
The heart had been removed from this Allwine person.
Roy had no interest in hearts. He wasn't about internals. He was about externals. The kind of beauty that moved Roy was skin deep.
Furthermore, this Allwine person was a man. Roy had no interest in the ideal beauty of men—except in the constant refinement and perfection of his own physique.
Now, standing before the TV, he was further surprised to hear that Allwine was the third man whom the Surgeon had murdered. From the others he had taken a kidney and a liver.
These murders were linked to those of the women by the fact that at least one of the male victims had been chloroformed.
Copycat. Misguided imitator. Out there somewhere in New Orleans, an envious fool had been inspired by Roy's murders without understanding the purpose of them.
For a moment, he was offended. Then he realized that the copycat, inevitably less intelligent than Roy himself, would eventuall
y screw up, and the police would pin all these killings on the guy The copycat was Roy's get-out-of-jail-free card.
CHAPTER 22
THE PROJECTION BOOTH might have seemed too small for two men as large—in different ways —as Jelly Biggs and Deucalion. Nevertheless, it became the space they shared when they preferred not to be alone.
The booth was cozy, perhaps because of Jelly's collection of paperback books, perhaps because it felt like a high redoubt above the fray of life.
For extended periods of his long existence, Deucalion had found solitude appealing. One of those periods had ended in Tibet.
Now, with the discovery that Victor was not dead, solitude disturbed Deucalion. He wanted companionship.
As former carnies, he and Jelly had a world of experience in common, tales to tell, nostalgic reminiscences to share. In but one day they found that they fell into easy conversation, and Deucalion suspected that in time they would become true friends.
Yet they fell into silences, as well, for their situation was similar to that of soldiers in a battlefield trench, in the deceptive calm before the mortar fire began. In this condition, they had profound questions to ponder before they were ready to discuss them.
Jelly did his thinking while reading mystery novels of which he was inexpressibly fond. Much of his life, imprisoned in flesh, he had lived vicariously through the police, the private investigators, and the amateur detectives who populated the pages of his favorite genre.
In these mutual silences, Deucalion's reading consisted of the articles about Victor Helios, alias Frankenstein, that Ben had accumulated. He pored through them, trying to accustom himself to the bitter, incredible truth of his creator's continued existence, while also contemplating how best to destroy that pillar of arrogance.
Again and again, he caught himself unconsciously fingering the ruined half of his face until eventually Jelly could not refrain from asking how the damage had been done.
"I angered my maker," Deucalion said.
"We all do," Jelly said, "but not with such consequences."
"My maker isn't yours," Deucalion reminded him.
A life of much solitude and contemplation accustomed Deucalion to silence, but Jelly needed background noise even when reading a novel. In a corner of the projection booth, volume low, stood a TV flickering with images that to Deucalion had no more narrative content than did the flames in a fireplace.
Suddenly something in one of the droning newscast voices caught his attention. Murders. Body parts missing.
Deucalion turned up the volume. A homicide detective named Carson O'Connor, beseiged by reporters outside the city library, responded to most of their questions with replies that in different words all amounted to no comment.
When the story ended, Deucalion said, "The Surgeon.....How long has this been going on?"
As a mystery novel aficionado, Jelly was interested in true crime stories, too. He not only knew all the gory details of the Surgeon's murder spree; he also had developed a couple of theories that he felt were superior to any that the police had thus far put forth.
Listening, Deucalion had suspicions of his own that grew from his unique experience.
Most likely, the Surgeon was an ordinary serial killer taking souvenirs. But in a city where the god of the living dead had taken up residence, the Surgeon might be something worse than the usual psychopath.
Returning the clippings to the shoe box, rising to his feet, Deucalion said, "I'm going out."
"Where?"
"To find his house. To see in what style a self-appointed god chooses to live these days."
CHAPTER 23
ILLEGALLY-PARKED IN Jackson Square, the hood of the plainwrap sedan served as their dinner table.
Carson and Michael ate corn-battered shrimp, shrimp etouffee with rice, and corn maque choux from take-out containers.
Strolling along the sidewalk were young couples, hand-in-hand. Musicians in black suits and porkpie hats hurried past, carrying instrument cases, shouldering between slower-moving older Cajun men in chambray shirts and Justin Wilson hats. Groups of young women showed more skin than common sense, and drag queens enjoyed the goggling of tourists.
Somewhere good jazz was playing. Through the night air wove a tapestry of talk and laughter.
Carson said, "What pisses me off about guys like Harker and Frye—"
"This'll be an epic list," Michael said.
"—is how I let them irritate me."
"They're cheesed off because no one makes detective as young as we did."
"That was three years ago for me. They better adjust soon."
"They'll retire, get shot. One way or another, we'll eventually have our chance to be the old cranks."
After savoring a forkful of corn maque choux, Carson said, "It's all about my father."
"Harker and Frye don't care about what your father did or didn't do," Michael assured her.
"You're wrong. Everyone expects that sooner or later it'll turn out I carry the dirty-cop gene, just like they think he did."
Michael shook his head, "I don't for a minute think you carry the dirty-cop gene."
"I don't give a shit what you think, Michael, I know what you think. It's what everyone else thinks that makes this job so much harder for me than it ought to be."
"Yeah, well," he said, pretending offense, "I don't give a shit that you don't give a shit what I think."
Chagrined, Carson laughed softly. "I'm sorry, man. You're one of a handful of people I do care what they think of me."
"You wounded me," he said. "But I'll heal."
"I've worked hard to get where I am." She sighed. "Except where I am is eating another meal on my feet, in the street."
"The food's great," he said, "and I'm glittering company."
"Considering the pay, why do we work so hard?"
"We're genuine American heroes."
"Yeah, right."
Michael's cell phone rang. Licking Creole tartar sauce off his lips, he answered the call: "Detective Maddison." When he hung up moments later, he said, "We're invited to the morgue. No music, no dancing. But it might be fun."
CHAPTER 24
CARESSED BY CANDLELIGHT, the chased surfaces of classic silver seemed perpetually about to melt.
With five movers and shakers and their spouses gathered in his dining room, Victor looked forward to stimulating conversation that he could guide subtly into channels that would serve his interests long after the mayor, the district attorney, the university president, and the others had left his table. To Victor, every social occasion was primarily an opportunity to influence political and cultural leaders, discreetly advancing his agenda.
Initially, of course, the talk was of frivolous things, even among such accomplished guests. But Victor fancied himself to be as capable of light chatter as anyone and could enjoy this witty froth because it sharpened his anticipation for meatier discussion.
William and Christine served the soup, the butler holding the tureen while the maid ladled a creamy pink richness into the bowls.
This was Erika's third dinner party in the five weeks since she had risen from the tank, and she exhibited some improvement in her social skills, though less than he had hoped.
He saw her frown as she noticed that the flower arrangements were different from those that she had painstakingly created. She possessed the good sense to say nothing of the change.
When his wife glanced at him, however, Victor said, "The roses are perfect," so she would learn from her error.
District Attorney Watkins, whose once-patrician nose had begun subtly to deform as inhaled cocaine ate away supporting cartilage, used one hand to fan the rising aroma from the bowl to his nostrils. "Erika, the soup smells delicious."
John Watkins's opponent in the next election-Buddy Guitreau— was one of Victor's people. With all the dirt about Watkins that Victor could provide, Buddy would romp to victory at the polls. In the months until then, however, it was necessary to flatter Wat
kins with dinner invitations and to work with him.
"I love lobster bisque," said Pamela Watkins. "Is this your recipe, Erika?"
"No. I found it in a magazine, but I added some spices. I doubt I've improved it, probably the opposite, but I like even lobster bisque to have a little bite."
"Oh, it's divine," the university president's wife declared after her first taste.
This compliment, at once echoed by others, brought a glow of pride to Erika's face, but when she herself raised a spoonful to her mouth, she took it with a soft, protracted slurp.
Appalled, Victor watched her dip the spoon into the bowl once more.
Soup had not been on the menu at either of their previous dinner parties, and Victor had taken a meal with Erika only twice otherwise. Her faux pas surprised and unsettled him.
She sucked in the second spoonful no less noisily than she had the first.
Although none of the guests appeared to notice this ghastly play of tongue and lips, Victor took offense that as his wife she should risk being mocked. Those who might laugh at her behind her back would also laugh at him.
He announced, "The bisque is curdled. William, Christine, please remove it at once."
"Curdled?" the mayor's wife asked, bewildered. "Not mine."
"Curdled," Victor insisted as the servants quickly retrieved the soup bowls. “And you don't want to eat a lobster dish when it might be in any way off."
Stricken, Erika watched as the bowls were removed from the table.
"I'm sorry, Erika," Victor said, into an awkward silence. "This is the first time I've ever found fault with your cooking—or with anything about you."
John Watkins protested, "Mine was delicious."
Although she might not have understood the cause of Victor's action, Erika recovered quickly. "No, John. 'You've always got my vote for district attorney. But in culinary matters, I trust Victor. His palate is as refined as any chef's."
Victor felt his clenched jaw relaxing into a genuine smile. In part, Erika had redeemed herself.