by Dean Koontz
Satisfied with his life, immensely satisfied with himself, Roy had no reason for insomnia. He slept soundly every night.
The copycat, however, could not have brought such a heavy person as Candace into the loft and to the freezer while Roy slept unawares.
The kitchen was open to the dining area. The dining area flowed into the living room. Only a pony wall separated the living room from the bedroom. Sound would have traveled unobstructed, and Roy would have been awakened.
Now he went into the bathroom at the far end of the loft from the kitchen. He shut the door. He turned on the water in the shower. He switched on the vent fan.
Yes. Entirely possible. The copycat could have brought Candace into the loft when Roy had been enjoying his predawn shower.
He took long showers: the exfoliating soap with loofa sponge, the moisturizing soap, two superb shampoos, a cream conditioner….
The visitor’s precise timing suggested that he knew a great deal about Roy’s domestic routine. And he must have a key.
Roy had no landlord. He owned the building. He possessed the only keys to the loft.
Standing in the bathroom, surrounded by the susurrant rush of water and vent-fan blades, he was overcome by the suspicion that the copycat was in the apartment even now, preparing another surprise.
This concern had no merit, based as it was on the requirements that the copycat be omniscient and omnipresent. Yet suspicion grew into conviction.
Roy cranked off the shower, switched off the fan. He burst out of the bathroom and searched the loft. No one.
Although alone, Roy was at last alarmed.
CHAPTER 48
SHE WAS RIDING a black horse across a desolate plain under a low and churning sky.
Cataclysmic blasts of lightning ripped the heavens. Where each bright sword stabbed to earth, a giant rose, half handsome and half deformed, tattooed.
Each giant grabbed at her, trying to pull her from her mount. Each grabbed at the horse, too, at its flashing hooves, at its legs, at its silky mane.
The terrified horse screamed, kicked, faltered, broke loose, plunged forward.
Without a saddle, she clamped the mount with her knees, clutched fistfuls of its mane, held on, endured. There were more giants in the earth than the horse could outrun. Lightning, the crash of thunder, yet another golem rising, a huge hand closing around her wrist—
Carson woke in unrelieved darkness, not thrown from sleep by the nightmare but pricked from it by a sound.
Piercing the soft thrum and shush of the air conditioner came the sharp creak of a floorboard. Another floorboard groaned. Someone moved stealthily through the bedroom.
She had awakened on her back, in a sweat, atop the bedclothes, in the exact position in which she’d fallen into bed. She sensed someone looming over her.
For a moment she couldn’t remember where she’d left her service pistol. Then she realized that she still wore her street clothes, her shoes, even her shoulder holster. For the first time in her life, she had fallen asleep while armed.
She slid a hand under her jacket, withdrew the gun.
Although Arnie had never previously entered her room in the dark and though his behavior was predictable, this might be him.
When she slowly sat up and with her left hand groped toward the nightstand lamp, the bedsprings sang softly.
Floorboards creaked, perhaps because the intruder had reacted to the noise she made. Creaked again.
Her fingers found the lamp, the switch. Light.
She saw no one in the first flush of light. At once, however, she sensed more than saw movement from the corner of her eye.
Turning her head, bringing the pistol to bear, she found no one.
At one window, draperies billowed. For a moment she attributed that movement to the air conditioner. Then the billows subsided. The draperies hung limp and still. As if someone, leaving, had brushed against them.
Carson got out of bed and crossed the room. When she pulled the draperies aside, she found the window closed. And locked.
Maybe she hadn’t awakened as instantly as she’d thought. Maybe sleep had clung to her, and the dream. Maybe.
CARSON SHOWERED changed clothes, and felt fresh but slightly disoriented. Having slept away the afternoon, she rose to the night, inner clock confused, lacking purpose.
In the kitchen, she scooped a serving of curried chicken salad from a bowl. With her dish and a fork, eating on the move, she went to Arnie’s room.
The castle glorious, fit for King Arthur, seemed to have grown higher towers.
For once, Arnie was not at work upon this citadel. Instead he sat staring at a penny balanced on his right thumbnail, against his forefinger.
“What’s up, sweetie?” she asked, though she expected no reply.
He met her expectation, but flipped the penny into the air. The copper winked brightly as it turned.
With quicker reflexes than he usually exhibited, the boy snatched the coin from the air, held it tightly in his right fist.
Carson had never seen him engaged in this behavior before. She watched, wondering.
Half a minute passed while Arnie stared at his clenched fist. Then he opened it and frowned as if with disappointment when he saw the penny gleaming on his palm.
As the boy flipped it and caught it in midair once more, Carson noticed a stack of bright pennies on the drawbridge to the castle.
Arnie had neither an understanding of money nor any need for it.
“Honey, where did you get the pennies?”
Opening his hand, Arnie saw the penny and frowned as before. He flipped it again. He seemed to have a new obsession.
At the open door, Vicky Chou peered in from the hallway. “How’s the chicken salad?”
“Fabulous. Every day, you make me feel inadequate in a new way.”
Vicky made a de nada gesture. “We all have our special talents. I couldn’t shoot anyone the way you do.”
“Anytime you need it done, you know where to find me.”
“Where did Arnie get the pennies?” Vicky asked.
“That’s what I was gonna ask you.”
Having flipped the penny again, having found it in his palm after snatching it from the air, the boy looked puzzled.
“Arnie, where did you get the pennies?”
From his shirt pocket, Arnie withdrew a card. He sat staring at it in silence.
Aware that her brother might study the card for an hour before offering it to her, Carson gently plucked it from his fingers.
“What?” Vicky asked.
“It’s a pass to someplace called the Luxe Theater. One free movie. Where would he have gotten this?”
Arnie flipped the penny again, and as he snatched it out of the air, he said, “Every city has secrets—”
Carson knew she had heard those words somewhere—
“—but none as terrible as this.”
—and her blood chilled as she saw in her mind’s eye the tattooed man standing at the window in Bobby Allwine’s apartment.
CHAPTER 49
TWO HUNDRED YEARS of life can leave a man jaded.
If he is a genius, like Victor, his intellectual pursuits lead him always on new adventures. The mind can be kept fresh and forever engaged as it confronts and resolves increasingly complex problems.
On the other hand, repetition of physical pleasures eventually makes former delights seem dull. Boredom sets in. During the second century, a man’s appetites turn increasingly toward the exotic, the extreme.
This is why Victor requires violence with sex, and the cruel humiliation of his partner. He has long ago transcended the guilt that committing acts of cruelty might spawn in others. Brutality is an aphrodisiac; the exercise of raw power thrills him.
The world offers so many cuisines that conventional sex grows boring long before favorite dishes grow bland to the tongue. Only in the past decade has Victor developed a periodic craving for foods so exotic that they must be eaten with discretion
.
At certain restaurants in the city, where the owners value his business, where the waiters value his generous gratuities, and where the chefs admire his uniquely sophisticated palate, Victor from time to time arranges special dinners in advance. He is always served in a private room, where a man of his refinement can enjoy dishes so rare that they might seem repulsive to the ignorant multitudes. He has no wish to explain these acquired tastes to the boorish diners—and they are virtually always boorish—at an adjoining table.
Quan Yin, a Chinese restaurant named for the Queen of Heaven, had two private dining rooms. One was suitable for a group of eight. Victor had reserved it for himself.
He frequently ate alone. With two hundred years of experience that no one of an ordinary life span could match, he found that he was virtually always his own best company.
Teasing his appetite, allowing time to anticipate the exotic entrée, he began with a simple dish: egg drop soup.
Before he had half finished this first course, his cell phone rang. He was surprised to hear the voice of the renegade.
“Murder doesn’t scare me anymore, Father.”
With a note of authority that always secured obedience, Victor said, “You must talk to me about this in person.”
“I’m not as troubled about murder as when I called you before.”
“How did you get this number?”
The emergency contact number at Hands of Mercy, given to members of the New Race, did not transfer calls to Victor’s cell phone.
Instead of answering, the renegade said, “Murder just makes me more human. They excel at murder.”
“But you’re better than their kind.” The need to discuss this, to debate it, annoyed Victor. He was master and commander. His word was law, his desire obeyed, at least among his people. “You’re more rational, more—”
“We’re not better. There’s something missing in us…something they have.”
This was an intolerable lie. This was heresy.
“The help you need,” Victor insisted impatiently, “only I am able to give.”
“If I just cut open enough of them and look inside, sooner or later I’ll discover what makes them…happier.”
“That isn’t rational. Come to me at the Hands of Mercy—”
“There’s this girl I see sometimes, she’s particularly happy. I’ll find the truth in her, the secret, the thing I’m missing.”
The renegade hung up.
As before, Victor pressed *69. Also as before, the call had come from a number that blocked automatic call-backs.
His special dinner had not been ruined by this development, but his bright mood had dimmed. He decided to switch from tea to wine.
Beer often went with Chinese food better than wine did. Victor was not, however, a beer man.
Unlike many Chinese restaurants, Quan Yin had an extensive cellar full of the finest vintages. The waiter—in a ruffled white tuxedo shirt, bow tie, and black tuxedo pants—brought a wine list.
As he finished his soup and waited for a salad of hearts of palms and peppers, Victor studied the list. He wavered between a wine suitable for pork and one better matched with seafood.
He would be eating neither pork nor seafood. The entrée, which he’d had before, was such a rare delicacy that any connoisseur of wine must be of several minds about the most compatible selection.
Finally he chose a superb Pinot Grigio and enjoyed the first glass with his salad.
Much ceremony accompanied the presentation of the main course, beginning with the chef himself, a Buddha-plump man named Lee Ling. He sprinkled red rose petals across the white tablecloth.
Two waiters appeared with an ornately engraved red-bronze tray on which stood a legged, one-quart copper pot filled with boiling oil. A Sterno burner under the pot kept the oil bubbling.
They put the tray on the table, and Victor breathed deeply of the aroma rising from the pot. This peanut oil, twice clarified, had been infused with a blend of pepper oils. The fragrance was divine.
A third waiter put a plain white plate before him. Beside the plate, red chopsticks. So gently as to avoid the slightest clink, the waiter placed a pair of stainless-steel tongs on the plate.
The handles of the tongs were rubberized to insulate against the heat that the steel would draw from the boiling oil. The pincer ends were shaped like the petals of lotus blossoms.
The pot of oil stood to Victor’s right. Now a bowl of saffron rice was placed at the head of his plate.
Lee Ling, having retreated to the kitchen, returned with the entrée, which he put to the left of Victor’s plate. The delicacy waited in a silver serving dish with a lid.
The waiters bowed and retreated. Lee Ling waited, smiling.
Victor removed the lid from the silver server. The dish had been lined with cabbage leaves briefly steamed to wilt them and make them pliable.
This rare delicacy did not appear on the menu. It was not available at all times or on short notice.
In any event, Lee Ling would prepare it only for that one-in-a-thousand customer whom he’d known for years, whom he trusted, whom he knew to be a true gourmet. The customer must also be one so familiar with regional Chinese cuisine that he knew to request this very item.
Restaurant-licensing officials would not have approved of this offering, not even here in libertine New Orleans. No health risk was involved, but some things are too exotic even for the most tolerant of people.
In the dish, nestled in the cabbage, squirmed a double litter of live baby rats, so recently born that they were still pink, hairless, and blind.
In Chinese, Victor expressed his approval and gratitude to Lee Ling. Smiling, bowing, the chef retreated, leaving his guest alone.
Perhaps the excellent wine had restored Victor’s good mood or perhaps his own extraordinary sophistication so pleased him that he could not for long remain glum. One of the secrets to leading a life full of great accomplishment was to like oneself, and Victor Helios, alias Frankenstein, liked himself more than he could express.
He dined.
CHAPTER 50
THE SECOND FLOOR of the Hands of Mercy is quiet.
Here the men and women of the New Race, fresh from the tanks, are undergoing the final stages of direct-to-brain data downloading. Soon they will be ready to go into the world and take their places among doomed humanity.
Randal Six will leave Mercy before any of them, before this night is over. He is terrified, but he is ready.
The computer maps and virtual reality tours of New Orleans have unnerved him as much as they have prepared him. But if he is to avoid the spinning rack and survive, he can wait no longer.
To make his way in the dangerous world beyond these walls, he should be armed. But he has no weapon and cannot see anything in his room that might serve as one.
If the journey is longer than he hopes, he will need provisions. He has no food in his room, only what is brought to him at mealtimes.
Somewhere in this building is a kitchen of considerable size. A pantry. There he would find the food he needs.
The prospect of searching for a kitchen, gathering food from among an overwhelming number of choices, and packing supplies is so daunting that he cannot begin. If he must provision himself, he will never leave Mercy.
So he will set out with nothing more than the clothes he wears, a fresh book of crossword puzzles, and a pen.
At the threshold between his room and the hallway, paralysis seizes him. He cannot proceed.
He knows that the floors of these two spaces are on the same plane, yet he feels certain that he will drop a killing distance if he dares cross into the corridor. What he knows is usually not as powerful as what he feels, which is the curse of his condition.
Although he reminds himself that perhaps an encounter with Arnie O’Connor is his destiny, he remains unmoved, unmoving.
His emotional weather worsens as he stands paralyzed. Agitation stirs his thoughts into confusion, like a whirl of wind
sweeps autumn leaves into a colorful spiral.
He is acutely aware of how this agitation can quickly develop into a deeper disturbance, then a storm, then a tempest. He wants desperately to open the book of puzzles and put his pen to the empty boxes.
If he succumbs to the crossword desire, he will finish not one puzzle, not two, but the entire book. Night will pass. Morning will come. He will have lost forever the courage to escape.
Threshold. Hallway. With one step, he can cross the former and be in the latter. He has done this before, but this time it seems like a thousand-mile journey.
The difference, of course, is that previously he had intended to go no farther than the hallway. This time, he wants the world.
Threshold, hallway.
Suddenly threshold and hallway appear in his mind as hand-inked black letters in rows of white boxes, two entries in a crossword puzzle, sharing the letter h.
When he sees the two words intersecting in this manner, he more clearly recognizes that the threshold and the hallway in reality also intersect on the same plane. Crossing the first into the latter is no more difficult than filling the boxes with letters.
He steps out of his room.
CHAPTER 51
THE GEOMETRIC DESIGNS on the Art Deco facade of the Luxe Theater were given greater depth and drama by the honing glow of a streetlamp and the shadows that it sharpened.
The marquee was dark, and the theater appeared to be closed if not abandoned until Carson peered through one of the doors. She saw soft light at the refreshment counter and someone at work there.
When she tried the door, it swung inward. She stepped into the lobby.
The glass candy cases were lighted to display their wares. On the wall behind the counter, an illuminated Art Deco–style Coca-Cola clock, frost white and crimson, was a surprisingly poignant reminder of a more innocent time.
The man working behind the counter was the giant she had met in Allwine’s apartment. His physique identified him before he turned and revealed his face.
She snapped the movie pass against the glass top of the counter. “Who are you?”
