Frankenstein: The Legacy

by Christopher Schildt

  Blacker climbed into his car with trembling legs, and he feared that he might collapse. There was a ringing in his ears. He felt short of breath. After he dropped down into the driver’s seat, he pulled out his federal ID. He stared at it for several minutes. And for the first time in more than twenty years of service to the government, he felt truly ashamed to hold it in his hands.

  The snow had begun falling early in the afternoon and was growing heavier by the hour in Unity, Maine. Native New Yorker Susan Weaver was starting to tire of going from one quaint New England town to another. This one was just north of the New Hampshire border, only an hour’s drive north of Salem. She went directly to the state police barracks in Unity, and once inside, Weaver spoke with the shift supervisor, Sergeant Gregory Johnson. Still using the Herbert alias, she showed the sergeant two pictures of Linda Kauffman; one from her DOD file from around 1969 and the second a computer extrapolation of what she would look like three decades later.

  The sergeant glanced back and forth between the two images, until he quietly shook his head. “Nope, sorry,” he said. “Can’t say that I’ve seen her, and Unity is a town of only seven hundred and sixty-three people. If she was here, I’d have seen her.”

  Susan pulled a computer-generated map out of her briefcase that pinpointed the location of the pay phone used to make the calls to Nicole Levy in Waterford. “Do you know where this place is?”

  “Sure. That’s a general store owned by a fella named Andy McIntyre. It’s about ten minutes from here, but I’d wait till later to speak with him.” He glanced up to look through a window, adding, “It’s shaping up to be a real bad storm. Looks like we’re finally getting a real nor’easter.”

  “I’ll drive extra slow,” she said reassuringly, then thanked him for his time and drove directly to Andy’s General Store and Feed. It was on Mulberry Road near the Interstate crossing.

  Weaver longed to get on that Interstate and go back to Washington, which was at least a world she understood. Her recent conversation with Blacker after acknowedging receipt of his various e-mail files was disturbing. She wasn’t sure what made her more ill, the instructions he gave her for what to say if and when she found Levy, or the reasons behind those words. Weaver was getting tired of not knowing who was alive, who was dead, who was missing—and who actually killed Margaret O’Brien thirty years ago, not to mention Father Dawl.

  Mostly she didn’t want to think about what Blacker told her about Dr. Soluri’s lab.

  Sergeant Johnson was right—driving through the swirling snow was difficult. But after a while Weaver arrived in front of the only commercial business on Mulberry Road. It was a yellow cement block building, a list of products carried by the store painted by hand in black letters on the front of the building. As she stepped through the double set of glass doors, she caught sight of a man sitting behind a handmade wooden counter and wearing a red flannel shirt and a bright orange hunter’s cap. He asked her if he could help her.

  She introduced herself as Nancy Herbert, then showed him the same set of photographs of Kauffman. He hadn’t ever seen a woman matching the woman’s description, either, and he said so in a chatty sort of way. Andy was a real talker. Quite pleasant, but a man who would talk your ear off. During their conversation, he did happen to glance down at Susan’s half-open folder, saying, “Seen this guy, though.”

  Weaver pulled out the photo he’d seen: the copy of Levy’s photograph that she had obtained from Princeton. “You’ve seen this man?”

  “Yep.” He nodded. “But he don’t exactly look like that anymore—’bout thirty, forty years older maybe. But that’s Dave Lewis, all right, no doubt about it.”

  Dave Lewis, Weaver thought to herself. Amateur. Levy probably chose a name similar to the one he was born with to make it easier for him to remember. That was the kind of mistake people often made when they were trying to go missing.

  She tried to control her excitement. This was a major break in the case. “Just how well do you know Mr. Lewis?”

  “He comes in here every once and a while,” Andy said with a shrug, “but most of the time we deliver his supplies out to his cabin.”

  “Then you know where he lives.”

  “Sure,” he answered, holding out an arm, pointing directly south down Mulberry Road. “You take the first dirt road on your left. Go about two miles, and it’s the only cabin down by the lake.” But then he shook his head and raised his eyebrows. “You’re going to have to wait till the snow clears, though. Road’s probably buried under snow.”

  “But when will the snow clear away?”

  “I don’t know—sometime in April, maybe.” He laughed. “ ’Course then the mud’ll muck you up surer than snow!”

  Weaver closed up her folder, smiling. “Thanks, but I think I’ll give it a try. . . .”

  “It’s your life. But I wouldn’t go down there, not without a four-wheel-drive vehicle.”

  Four-wheel drive, not a bad idea, Weaver thought. “Does anyone rent jeeps in town?”

  “In the winter?” He chuckled. “Lordy, you are from out of town! But nope, you couldn’t buy a four-wheeler at this time of the year with all the money in China. Them’s like gold around here in the winter.”

  Grimacing, she thanked him for his help and turned for the door. As she started to push on the handle, Weaver heard him ask, “Hey, just what did you say you wanted him for?”

  “I didn’t,” she replied pointedly, then left.

  She headed straight back to the state police. As soon as she caught sight of Johnson, she flashed her ID. “Sergeant, I’m a federal agent. I need to commandeer your SUV.”

  Within five minutes she was getting a good idea of why these were called “off-road” vehicles—because this was like no road she’d ever driven on before. Her rented sedan wouldn’t have lasted five minutes. As it was, this police-issue four-wheeler was struggling.

  The sergeant had been reluctant to accede to her request, but she gave him a business card—a real one, not the “Global Insurance” one—and wrote Blacker’s personal number on it. Let him be surprised by a local yokel cop for a change, she thought, still smarting from being embarrassed in Waterford.

  Weaver had driven through some rough snow in her time, but this took the cake. It seemed as if she drove for days. She should have remembered that “a ways down the road,” as any New Englander might put it, could have in reality meant miles. The snowstorm just grew worse, too.

  Just as she was about to give up, turn back, and find a motel to hole up in until the storm stopped, she saw it. It was barely visible in the snow, but there was no mistaking the cabin, especially with the smoke belching from the ceiling, indicating a warm fire inside.

  She got out and was immediately pelted by snow. The warmth of the SUV’s heat was useless the minute she opened the vehicle’s door, and she almost ran to the front door. She knocked, but there was no reply. The fire, however, indicated that someone was home.

  She knocked again, saying, “Federal agent, open up!”

  Still no answer, so she decided to go for broke. “Dr. Levy, open the door, now!”

  The door finally opened. A cracked, weathered, old-looking face obscured by a mop of gray hair and a thick beard.

  Even with all that, Susan Weaver recognized Daniel Levy.

  “I always knew that someone would come, sooner or later,” he said, shaking his head. “You may as well come in.”

  Weaver followed him inside. It was yet another quaint space, probably originally built as a summer home, but now winterized and inviting.

  “Can I interest you in a cup of coffee?”

  Just the walk from the SUV had made her hands numb—a hot drink sounded quite inviting. “Please.”

  He grabbed a metal container and poured its black contents into a mug. “Federal agent, huh?”

  “Susan Weaver. I’ve been looking all over for you, Doctor.”

  Chuckling as he handed her the mug, Levy said, “Now, there’s a word I ha
ven’t heard anyone use in relation to me in—well, in a long time.” He poured himself a mug of his own, then sat on a wooden rocking chair. Weaver sat down on the easy chair perpendicular to it. She had an odd sense of déjà vu from her conversation with Mr. Heiman, the old gravetender in Salem.

  “So what does the FBI want with me, Agent Weaver?”

  “You were involved in some research that—”

  “Failed, quite miserably,” he said, interrupting her. “And you want to know if it’s true. If I truly created life from lifelessness.”

  Susan cocked her head to stare at him. “Then you’re saying—”

  “Yes. It’s true,” he replied, glancing across the dimly lit cabin. “There was a man, once. But he died a very long time ago, and after a very brief and terrible life.”

  Susan stared at him. If the entire story was true—well, if nothing else, if he had indeed created a creature—or a man, as he said—from old parts, as the story Dr. Soluri had told indicated, that would explain the mismatched fingerprints, and the “ monster” sightings in Salem.

  “Did you murder Margaret O’Brien in Waterford in January 1971, Doctor?”

  “Come now, Agent Weaver. The FBI didn’t send you all alone to discuss a thirty-year-old murder. If you really thought I did it, you’d have sent Sergeant Johnson after me.” He stared right into her eyes. “So why not tell me exactly why you’ve come, and what it is that you want.”

  “All right,” Weaver said, setting the cup of coffee down on the floor. “I’m here to make you a deal.”

  “Let me guess,” Levy interrupted for a second time. “You want my research, and in exchange, I may be allowed to return to medicine.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Unfortunately, I’ve got nothing to offer you. Everything’s gone, I’m afraid.”

  “But what about the journal?” she asked him, an expression of curiosity on her face. “Or the body of the man you gave life to, surely . . .”

  “Nothing,” he answered, slowly shaking his head. “The journal that we found on the Archangel —I assume you know about that?”

  Weaver nodded.

  “It was destroyed in the fire at St. Michael’s Church in Salem—the same fire that claimed poor Father Dawl’s life. And as for him . . .” Daniel started to say as he stood up and walked over to a window in the old cabin. He used his hand to push aside the frost, then pointed toward the cliffs that overlooked the lake. “He simply lost his will to live. One day he got up, walked out, and quietly stepped over the edge. He’s buried there now, somewhere at the bottom of the lake.”

  “But I had thought he was—”

  “What?” Levy’s head snapped to look at her. “ Indestructible? No! He was as fragile as either you or I. Perhaps weaker. He didn’t even have it in him to kill me when he had the chance at St. Michael’s. Mind you, he tried. I’m sure that a good part of him wanted to. But just as he put his hands to my throat, the rage left him, along with his strength. He just stood weeping like the small, innocent child he was, saying over and over again, ‘Father . . . my father.”’

  Levy suddenly relapsed into silence. His face was blank as he slowly glanced back through the window and in the direction of the lake.

  “So what will you do now?” he asked her, his voice sounding timid.

  “I could take you into custody on suspicion of murder. Not just Margaret O’Brien, but Linda Kauffman.”

  “True,” Levy replied sadly. He had winced at the mention of Kauffman. “But that won’t give you what I don’t have to offer.”

  Weaver thought about experiments performed on animals. And about the manner in which Margaret O’Brien was killed. “The Bureau thinks you’re dead. There was a body found after the fire.”

  “Yes, a vagrant who was sleeping in the church that night.” Levy sighed. “The damn fool happened to see my creation enter the church. He panicked and threw a candle into the room. The place went up in flames. All that dried, old wood. It was the creature who saved the priest and me, though Father Dawl still died from smoke inhalation, the poor man.” Levy asked her again, “So, what will you do?”

  Weaver considered her options. For thirty years of his life, this man had lived alone, without the companionship of friends or family. If Daniel Levy had committed a crime, the many years of isolation and loss was certainly punishment enough.

  In truth, the only crime he did commit was one that he couldn’t truly be prosecuted for. Worse, it was a crime that, based on what Blacker told her about Soluri’s experiments, the U.S. government had every intention of perpetrating.

  So Special Agent Susan Weaver decided to do what she felt was right in her heart.

  “I’ll tell my superiors that I came up empty. But you should really consider moving on. I can’t guarantee that my supervisor will believe me or that others won’t come.”

  There was a show of appreciation on Levy’s face, and he said, “Just when you’ve lost all hope for humanity . . .” He smiled. “Thank you, Agent Weaver.”

  She stood up. Then she decided she couldn’t resist. “Tell me, Dr. Levy—just between you and me—what is the secret of life?” Weaver held her breath, astonished by her own nerve and candor. “I’ll never repeat what you tell me—hell, who would believe me? But after tracking you down these last few days . . .”

  “All right.”

  David Lewis—or, rather, Daniel Levy—walked closer to the federal agent who had managed to turn his life upside down and then put it back together, all in the space of about five minutes. When he reached her side, he gazed at her features: the shoulderlength blond hair, the round, blue eyes. “You know, you remind me of someone I knew a very long time ago,” he finally said, thinking back to Linda Kauffman. “The secret of life, Agent Weaver, is that it’s short and that’s what makes it precious. A rose is a treasure to behold because its beauty is short-lived, which makes us appreciate it while we can. But given an infinite number of years to live, we have a tendency to take for granted all the wondrous things that the world has to offer. In the end I also learned that life is not to be tampered with—except by those wise enough to touch lightly and with the greatest reverence. In seeing death as our greatest enemy, we sacrifice life. That is the greatest evil.”

  Daniel threw her a quick smile. But it was a rather tragic smile, and somewhat melancholy. “That’s the lesson I learned—unfortunately too late.” He turned his head to look in the direction of the window where he stood only minutes ago when he spoke of the death of his creation. His smile faded as he listened to the wind that blew outside his cabin. “But he knew it all along, this secret to life. That’s what made him truly unique, and far better than I could ever hope to be.”

  He turned back to look at the federal agent, expecting a look of disappointment.

  To his surprise, she was smiling. “I’ll remember that, Doctor. Or, should I say, Mr. Lewis. Thank you for the coffee.”

  “You’re welcome, Agent Weaver.”

  “And good luck.”

  He smiled. “To you, too. After all, you’re the one who’s going to have to sell this to your superiors.”

  “Let me worry about that. You just take care of yourself.”

  Within minutes he heard the woman’s SUV—which looked as if it was the one belonging to Sergeant Johnson—start up. Looking out through a window, Daniel watched the vehicle pull away, feeling a strange sense of unhappiness. He had come to truly like Susan Weaver, even though their time together was short. When he was certain that she had left the area, he walked over to the telephone and pushed the End button, closing the connection he’d opened when Agent Weaver had first knocked on his door. Then he reached over to a coatrack, grabbed his parka, and started to walk toward a string of low mountains by the lake. The hike was difficult through the packed snow, but he finally reached an opening to a cave, covered by stacks of brush to conceal its entrance.

  It was dark inside, and what little light there was from a setting sun had streame
d through the cavern in shades of blue. The wind whistled through the cave; water slowly dripped into small pools on the stony floor.

  “You heard?” Daniel said.

  From deep within the cavern Daniel heard a distant voice that said, “Yes, all of it.”

  “Good,” Daniel said, striking a match to ignite the kerosene lantern.

  There was a sudden burst of dull light that illuminated a circle around Daniel as he walked even deeper into the cave. Soon a tall, dark, twisted figure of a man emerged in front of Daniel, holding a small cellular phone in his oversize hand.

  “I’m certain that we can trust her,” Daniel said.

  “But others will come.”

  “Yes,” Daniel answered regretfully. “The time has come.”

  The man whom Daniel had created with such infinite care smiled back at him, for as much as that distorted face could show a smile at all. “I would agree,” he said. The creature slowly reached up for a rope that was tied to a beam at the cave’s entrance.

  “Rest peacefully, Daniel,” the creature said as the two stood close together.

  “And you as well, my old friend.”

  The creature nodded his head, then yanked on the rope as hard as he could. As boulders began to tumbled down, sealing off the cavern’s entrance, the streams of light from outside quickly faded. Daniel lowered his head, solemnly accepting his own death. But before his eyes closed forever, he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was a comforting touch that would only last for a few minutes before they both were buried alive.

  FOUR

  Four days later Susan Weaver sat at a long table in a briefing room back at FBI Headquarters in Washington, D.C. There was a long period of silence as Dr. Kevin Soluri and Agent Blacker stared at her, considering the results of her investigation. It was the doctor who finally broke the silence in the room by asking Susan for about the twelfth time since she arrived to be debriefed, “You’re absolutely sure he’s dead?”