Frankenstein: The Legacy
Page 14
“Positive,” she said. “Dr. Levy’s sister made an identification of the man buried in Salem. It’s Daniel Levy, there’s no doubt about it.”
Soluri cocked his head, lifted his eyebrows, and gazed back at her. “But I thought the body was burned beyond recognition?”
“Yes, sir, but one of the photographs taken of the deceased back in the late sixties clearly showed a very unique tattoo. That’s what was used to make an identification of the body.”
“What about the journal?” Soluri asked.
Susan slowly shook her head. “Nothing to substantiate that it ever existed.”
Kevin Soluri threw his hands up in the air, appearing frustrated, but satisfied with her report. “Well, that’s it, then. But damn, it sure would have been nice if the story were true.” The doctor stood up and reached over the table to shake Susan’s hand. He thanked her for her effort, then headed for the door. Before he left the room, he glanced over his shoulder, saying, “Sorry to hear that you’ll be leaving us, Agent Blacker. I was beginning to enjoy our conversations. Oh, well.” He sighed dramatically. “Perhaps your replacement will have a more . . . progressive view toward science.”
Blacker said nothing. He waited for Soluri to leave the room, then turned to Susan Weaver and said, “Susan, make sure you write a damn convincing report. Don’t give those bastards any kind of trail to follow.”
“I’m not sure that I follow you, sir?” Susan said with a straight face.
Blacker stood up. Before leaving the briefing room, he gave Weaver a quick wink. “Of course you don’t,” he said. “Oh, and by the way, you did the right thing.”
As his hand touched the doorknob, he heard Susan ask, “Sir, it’s none of my business, but why—” She hesitated.
“Did I resign? Quite simple, Agent Weaver. I took a good, long look in the mirror and didn’t like what I saw.” He never turned around to look at her as he spoke, so she had no way of seeing him smile. “ Luckily, you’ll never have that problem, will you, Susan?”
Agent Weaver said nothing in return. She didn’t have to. Her silence, and the way she had carefully collected her notes for her formal report, had given him all the answers he needed to hear.
“What’s he like, Susan?” Blacker quietly asked her.
“Sir?”
“Daniel Levy. What sort of a man is he?”
Susan closed her folder. “’Farewell dear flower, sweetly your time you spent. . . . Fit, while you lived, for smell, but not lament. I follow straight without complaints or grief. . . . Since, if my scent be good, I care not if it be as short as yours.”’ She had spoken in a whisper. “That’s what he told me.”
A smile slowly raised the corners of his lips, and he thanked her. He stood with his hand on the doorknob for a few more minutes more, lost in his own thoughts. He left the room without saying another word, and the strange case of Dr. Daniel Levy came to a close.
EPILOGUE
SIX MONTHS LATER
There was a sign posted by the edge of the road that announced that St. Michael’s Church would soon be reopening to serve the spiritual needs of the community. It would be an exact replica of the original church destroyed by fire more than twenty-five years ago. As the construction crew worked, a priest stood close by, whose job it was to collect the surviving artifacts which would be used for the new church. There were a few statues of saints in relatively good condition, but still in need of restoration. Most pleasing of all was the fact that the massive crucifix that once hung over the altar of the old New England church was found and could at least be repaired, although the damage was rather extensive.
“Hey, over here!” a workman yelled from the area that used to be the rectory. “Father, we found something!”
The young priest cupped his hands together in front of his mouth like a megaphone. “Just put it in the pile with the rest—”
“But I really think you should see this,” the workman answered loudly, so as to be heard over the sounds of the heavy machinery.
A foreman escorted the priest into the work area, and as they walked closer, the laborer held up what looked like a Bible over his head. When they reached him, the workman handed the priest a rather odd-looking old book. The cover was burned on the edges but was still fairly readable.
The gilded letters on its cover were terribly weathered, but the priest could still make out the title that read: Journal of Victor Frankenstein, Geneva, 17 . . . something. The rest of the date was missing.
“What is it?” the foreman asked.
“I’m not quite sure. . . .” The priest used his handkerchief to dust away the dirt, then gave it a closer look. He quickly thumbed through the pages, and inside were handmade sketches of what appeared to be sections of the human body. “I just don’t know,” the priest whispered, his eyes carefully scanning through the faded entries.
“Want me to put it in the pile with the rest?” the workman who found the book asked.
“No . . .” the priest replied, shaking his head. Then he read the title of the book out loud again, appearing even more confused. “Frankenstein? I just don’t know.”
The young priest closed the cover and tucked it under his arm. “I’ll put it in my car. . . . I think I’m going to send it over to Harvard. Maybe they can tell me what it is. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’m going to send it to Harvard.”
Introduction By Sara Jane Karloff
Prelude
Part One
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Part Two
One
Two
Three
Four
Epilogue