Frankenstein: The Legacy

by Christopher Schildt

  PART TWO

  ONE

  FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION,

  WASHINGTON, D. C.

  THIRTY YEARS LATER

  “So that’s the story,” Dr. Kevin Soluri said, “or at least as much as we know.” “But whatever happened to this Daniel? The priest? What about the journal?” Agent Blacker asked.

  “No idea,” he replied, shrugging his shoulders. “But you have to remember, this information came to us from an outside source—a young priest who knew Father Dawl.”

  “If you’re asking my opinion, it sounds like bullshit,” Blacker said with a grin.

  Dr. Soluri nodded his head, adding, “Perhaps. But remember, the Granger was lost somewhere at the North Pole.”

  “Sure, but everyone covered the story. Your priest could have read about it in Time magazine, for all we know.”

  “Yes,” Soluri reluctantly agreed. “But he knew exactly where the Granger went down.”

  “So? What’s your point?”

  “There was never any mention of an expedition to the North Pole by the government, back in seventy-one,” Soluri replied. “In fact, the public was told that the Granger was lost somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean while on routine patrol. Bear in mind, she was armed with nuclear weapons. The Pentagon wasn’t about to release her actual last known position. So how would our source have any way of knowing?

  “And what about Novelli and Kauffman? A NASA physician by the name of Novelli reportedly did go down with the Granger’s crew. And a DOD physicist named Kauffman was a member of that expedition, also, and she disappeared shortly after that, but her name was never released to the press. There was also a civilian attached to the Granger, but there’s no name in the records. Apparently, Admiral LaManna wasn’t as diligent with paperwork as one would like.”

  “Pity they didn’t have real computers back then,” Blacker said with a smile.

  Ignoring the jibe, Soluri clicked his briefcase open. “Then there’s this.” He pulled out a set of color photographs. “I got these from NASA. They were taken by Apollo 7, while in orbit over the North Pole, back in seventy-one. And they do clearly show a tiny black dot. So once again the young priest was correct.”

  “All right, let’s suppose for a moment that there’s some truth to the story. Why the sudden interest in all of this?” Blacker asked, cocking his head. “What’s the connection?”

  The doctor stood up and slowly wandered over to a window. For a moment he watched the crowds moving on the sidewalk, just three stories below. He quietly studied their faces, their features. The different heights and hair color. The various characteristics that made each one of them truly unique. Then he finally said, “What do you know about cloning?”

  “Just what I’ve read about in Newsweek. Why?”

  “Well, it really does work—up to a point,” he said, glancing over his shoulder to look at the agent. “And despite the White House’s official position against human cloning, we’ve been actively developing the ability not only to replicate a human being, but to speed up the process of natural growth and development. Unfortunately, the clones haven’t been able to survive the procedure for more than a few weeks. And if the story about this Daniel person’s work is true, and we have every reason to believe that it is, he was able to prolong life indefinitely.”

  Blacker threw him a passing smirk and shook his head. “If you’re asking my opinion, the whole thing sounds insane.”

  “But we’re not asking your opinion,” Soluri retorted sourly. “As the president’s chief science adviser, I’m requesting that you investigate the matter. We want that journal. We want to know who this Daniel is, or was. Is he still alive? And if he is, then we want him found.”

  “And if it’s bullshit . . . ?”

  “Then prove that it is. But keep in mind that no one, except for the bureau and me, is to know what you’re looking for.”

  “Fine.” Blacker shrugged. “And while we’re at it, we can check out those stories of aliens landing at Roswell. Oh, and I hear that Bigfoot was sighted at Yellowstone National Park. . . .”

  Soluri chuckled, closing his briefcase. “A sense of humor, that’s good. But remember, I want this Daniel! I want to know what he knows. If he’s dead, then show me a body. If he’s alive, then I want him in my office posthaste. Clear?”

  “Crystal.”

  “Good.” Soluri exited the office, then Blacker pressed the intercom key on his telephone. “Did you copy?”

  “Everything, sir,” the squelched voice of a woman answered.

  “Fine. I want you to dig up everything we’ve got on Dr. Andrew Novelli and Dr. Linda Kauffman. Oh, and check the Granger’s crew list for a name beginning with Daniel. Then come directly to my office.”

  The voice on the other end of the intercom made an affirmative noise, and after about an hour, Special Agent Susan Weaver entered Blacker’s office holding a thin pile of folders in her arms.

  “Well?”

  Agent Weaver set the files on his desk. She cocked her head to gaze back at him. Lifting her eyebrows, she said, “You’re not going to like it, sir. But there was a file on both Novelli and Kauffman.”

  Blacker felt like a balloon that had been deflated. He had been hoping the records wouldn’t back up Soluri’s crazy tale. “Really?”

  “I’m afraid so, sir,” she replied, then flipped open the file covers. Weaver quickly thumbed through the pages, coming to a stop on two faded black-and-white photographs. “Dr. Andrew E. Novelli, born February 12, 1925, Charleston, South Carolina; employed by the National Aeronautics and Space Administration. Died while attached to the Navy, specifically to the USS Granger when it went down in 1971.”

  “And this would be Dr. Kauffman?” Blacker asked, pointing to the second photograph.

  “Unfortunately. Born August 7th, 1942, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Graduated from Stanford, Ph.D. in Physics. But here’s the kicker—she was reported as missing by her family in early 1972. Soluri’s source was right again.”

  Blacker dropped back in his chair, rubbing his forehead. “Damn.”

  “I told you that you weren’t going to like it, sir. And there were seventeen men with the first name of Daniel on the Granger’s crew list, but none of them matches the profile of a civilian physician.”

  “All right.” Blacker loosened his necktie, then crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I want you to go to Princeton, see if you can find someone on the faculty from the late sixties, early seventies named Daniel whose lab blew up. Can’t be too many of them. If you can get a last name on this guy, I want you to head up to Waterford, get a line on the family—this Nicole girl who died, and maybe the father. Then head over to Salem, see if there really is, or was, a St. Michael’s. And if there is, ask the older parishioners. See if anyone remembers a priest named Dawl.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said with a nod, having written this all down in her notebook. “When do you want me to leave?”

  “Right away. I’ll arrange for Agent McElroy to handle whatever you’re working on. And Susan? Report directly to me, all right?”

  “Okay, boss,” she said cheerfully.

  Blacker shook his head. “Cloning. Christ. What sort of twisted shit is that?”

  “You know, that’s probably what someone asked themselves after hearing about the atomic bomb, fifty years ago,” Weaver said.

  “Yeah, and look at all the trouble that got us into.”

  Susan Weaver took a cab to Dulles Airport at sunrise on the following morning. The commuter flight—chock-full of people heading to New York for whatever business awaited them, many of them with cell phones surgically attached to the ear until just before takeoff, and most of whom switched them back on the minute they pulled up to the gate at JFK—was quick and painless. She then rented a car and drove through the tangle of New York traffic to the Verrazano Narrows Bridge to Staten Island and thence to New Jersey. On the New Jersey Turnpike the traffic was better, since most people were heading into the ci
ty at this hour, not away from it as she was. The drive to Princeton University from JFK actually took longer than the flight from D.C., she mused as she arrived at the stone gates of the main campus. She parked in the loop that led to the Dean’s Office. The dean himself, a good-looking man in his mid-forties with salt-and-pepper hair, was named Anderson, and he was expecting her.

  “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me,” Weaver said as she entered his office, holding out her hand to shake his. “This shouldn’t take too long.”

  “My pleasure, Ms. Herbert, was it?”

  “Yes, sir, Nancy Herbert,” she replied. “I’m an investigator with the Global Insurance Company.” Weaver even had a business card to offer him. The address was fake, but the telephone number worked—an answering service operated by the FBI for undercover assignments.

  “Is this about my accident two months ago?” Dean Anderson appeared just a little annoyed. “You know, I’m still waiting for the repair bill to be paid by that jackass who hit me.”

  “No, sir,” she answered, smiling. “Actually, I’m investigating a vandalism case at another university—damage to one of their medical research buildings.”

  “Oh, that’s terrible. Which school was it?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say, unfortunately,” she said with a tone of regret to make it sound as if she was simply doing her job—which, in truth, she was. “The university in question is concerned about their reputation.”

  “Understandable.” Then his face fell. “You don’t think it was somebody from our campus, do you?”

  “No, not at all,” Weaver said reassuringly. “ However, looking over the files from other insurance companies, we happened to notice that Princeton had the same problem thirty years ago in 1971.”

  He started laughing, saying, “You don’t think there’s a connection do you? I mean, my God, thirty years . . .”

  “Anything’s possible.”

  “True.” The dean steepled his fingers. “But I’m afraid I’m not going to be much help. I’ve only been here for about seven years. However, there is a professor who’s worked for the university for more than thirty-five years. His name is Dr. Lloyd Hodges.”

  Anderson pulled a campus map out of his top drawer and circled the building that housed the offices for staff members of the Department of Medicine. “I’ll have my secretary call over there and arrange a meeting. You’ll like Hodges . . . kind of a jovial old fellow.”

  Lloyd Hodges, M.D., fit all the stereotypes of the grizzled old college professor: highly dedicated, more than a little eccentric, office cluttered by endless stacks of yellowing papers and journals, a thick, white beard, bent wire-rimmed glasses.

  And he remembered an incident at one of their research buildings that happened about thirty years ago. “How could I forget it,” he said, after being introduced to “Ms. Herbert” and asking her to take a seat somewhere, among the mess. “It was terrible. The fire destroyed everything. Damn lucky that no one was hurt.”

  “Do you know how the fire started?” she asked, pulling a notepad and pen out of her purse.

  “Lightning from a storm. Nasty storm, too, though the cops were a little suspicious. The damage was in the millions, you see, and a bit out of proportion to what one bolt of lightning could do. But the worst part was the awful effect it had on Dr. Levy.”

  Weaver’s eyes snapped to look at him. “Would Dr. Levy’s first name be Daniel?”

  “Yes, Daniel James Levy.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I should be.” He chuckled, stretching back in his wooden swivel chair. “We served on the advisory committee together for more than three years.”

  “Could you tell me about him?”

  He shrugged. “Certainly, but why? He had nothing to do with it. God, the fire left him devastated. In fact, he left us shortly afterward. Headed home to Connecticut during Christmas break and never came back. I even called at one point—mostly to wish him a Merry Christmas, you know. I distinctly remember that both his father and his sister passed away right after he went home, too.” Chuckling a bitter chuckle, Hodges said, “Must’ve been a helluva Christmas. Just terrible.”

  Agent Weaver paused for a moment to study him, tapping her pen against the top of her notepad. After sizing up the situation, she decided to change her strategy. “Look, Dr. Hodges, I have to be honest with you. I’m not investigating vandalism at another university. Actually, it’s Dr. Levy that my company is interested in.”

  “But why?” he asked, appearing more confused than insulted by her prevarication. “Daniel never did anything to anyone.”

  “Perhaps. But he did leave behind a very large life insurance policy. A million dollars, plus accumulated interest. With so much money at stake, we have to take certain precautions.”

  Dr. Hodges leaned forward, resting his arms against the top of his cluttered desk. He appeared deeply concerned. “Then, you’re telling me he’s dead?”

  “Well, Doctor, that’s the problem. He’s apparently been missing for many years. But a cousin of his has filed a claim. So naturally, we’re anxious to find out what happened to him. The last thing we have on record is his departure from this university after a fire to his lab.”

  “Well, I don’t think I’m going to be of much use to your investigation,” he said with a deep sigh. “We lost touch with each other shortly after his father passed away. But I can tell you this . . . he was never quite the same after returning from his assignment with the Navy.”

  “His what?” she slowly asked, cocking her head.

  “I’m sorry, I thought you knew. Daniel served in the Navy before he joined the faculty here. They borrowed him for some kind of expedition up north. Not sure of the details—you know how the government is, keeping things all hush-hush. Especially back then.”

  Weaver smiled, knowing better than the professor imagined.

  “Anyhow, I’m not exactly sure what happened, but when he returned to the school, he was a different man.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, for one thing, he insisted on working alone on some kind of research project—took a sabbatical from teaching and everything. He was obsessed with this project, but he never confided with the rest of us, not ever. Daniel virtually lived in his laboratory, day and night. Never left the building, and refused to allow any of us to visit with him.”

  “Then?”

  He shrugged. “Then the fire. After that, he packed up a few things and headed home.”

  Packed a few things. “Tell me, Doctor, would you know what happened to the rest of his belongings?”

  “Sure, I packed up his things myself. Some of it still has to be here, boxed away up in the office attic, somewhere. But there shouldn’t be anything of use. It’s just a bunch of degrees, awards, pictures—just stuff that was in his office.”

  Weaver smiled. She could probably lift fingerprints off the glass on the picture frames—even after thirty years, if they’d remained undisturbed, she should be able to get something. And if he was in the Navy, there’d be some kind of service record. Amazing what a difference having a last name meant. . . .

  So she asked Hodges to take her to the attic. He was a little reluctant at first but finally agreed.

  Once there Weaver started to look around the place with Hodges, checking through one dusty, dated box after another. A half an hour was passed this way until she noticed a carton marked LEVY, DANIEL, M.D. And at the same time Hodges said, “By God, that’s it.”

  “Would you mind if I take a look?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Hodges replied, resting himself comfortably on an old chair.

  Weaver smiled appreciatively, then carefully pulled off the masking tape from the top. It took only a few minutes to sort through the seemingly meaningless contents before Agent Weaver saw what she had hoped to find: a black framed picture of a man standing with a young girl.

  Weaver held the photograph up closely to a single lightbulb crudely mounted to an
overhead beam. “Is this him?”

  “It certainly is.” He nodded, appearing respectful to an old friend’s memory. “The little girl is his sister. God, that picture’s more than thirty years old. That poor girl was eighteen when she died, but she’s only about fourteen or so in that shot.”

  Weaver stepped closer to Hodges. “I don’t suppose you’d let me take this with me?”

  “Sure. Hey, if nobody’s come for it by now . . .”

  “I’ll make sure that it gets right back to you,” she promised, pulling an evidence bag out of her purse. “I shouldn’t need it for very long.”

  “No hurry, but tell me . . .” He paused to stare sincerely at her. “What do you suppose happened to him?”

  “I wish I knew, Doctor,” she answered honestly, slowly shaking her head. “But I’ll let you know if we find anything.”

  He sighed, glancing down at the floor, saying, “Too bad you never had a chance to meet him. Finest, most dedicated man I ever knew. Funny thing is, though, I don’t think I’ve actually thought much about him for years. But life goes on, I suppose.”

  That night Weaver lay on the bed of a hotel room just outside of Princeton waiting for Blacker to return her call. At ten o’clock the phone finally rang. “Tell me something good,” he said without preamble.

  “Daniel . . . Dr. Daniel James Levy,” she answered as she reached for her notepad from the night table. “So far the story matches. He was a professor in the medical school, he was working on a mysterious research project in seventy-one after doing some hush-hush mission for the Navy, and his lab suffered a major fire, after which he went home to Connecticut. It looks like it’s coming together. Oh, and he served in the Navy, too, so we should be able to dig up a service record. I’ve FedExed you a picture of him we found, as well as the frame—should have some latent prints, if we’re lucky.”