Frankenstein: The Complete 5-Book Collection. Dean Koontz
weird case we’re on … it feels like … if we’re not careful, it could come home to us, right here.” She glanced at Michael. “Does that sound paranoid?”
“No,” he said, and finished the rest of the bitter coffee as though the taste of it would make their unsatisfying relationship seem sweeter by comparison.
IN THE CAR AGAIN, as Carson swung away from the curb, Michael popped a breath mint in his mouth to kill the sour stench of Vicky’s death brew. “Two hearts … organs of unknown purpose … I can’t get Invasion of the Body Snatchers out of my head, pod people growing in the basement.”
“It’s not aliens.”
“Maybe not. Then I think … weird cosmic radiation, pollution, genetic engineering, too much mustard in the American diet.”
“Psychological profiles and CSI techs won’t be worth a damn on this one,” Carson said. She yawned. “Long day. Can’t think straight anymore. What if I just drive you home and we call it a wrap?”
“Sounds swell. I’ve got a new pair of monkey-pattern jammies I’m eager to try on.”
She took a ramp to the expressway, headed west toward Metairie. The traffic was mercifully light.
They rode in silence for a while, but then he said, “You know, if you ever want to petition the chief of detectives to reopen your dad’s case and let us take a whack at it, I’m game.”
She shook her head. “Wouldn’t do it unless I had something new – a fresh bit of evidence, a different slant on the investigation, something. Otherwise, we’d just be turned down.”
“We sneak a copy of the file, review the evidence on our own time, look into it until we turn up the scrap we need.”
“Right now,” she said wearily, “we don’t really have any time of our own.”
As they exited the expressway, he said, “The Surgeon case will break. Things will ease up. Just remember, I’m ready when you are.”
She smiled. He loved her smile. He didn’t see enough of it.
“Thanks, Michael. You’re a good guy.”
He would have preferred to hear her say that he was the love of her life, but “good guy” was at least a starting point.
When she pulled to the curb in front of his apartment house, she yawned again and said, “I’m beat. Exhausted.”
“So exhausted, you can’t wait to go straight back to Allwine’s apartment.”
Her smile was smaller this time. “You read me too well.”
“You wouldn’t have stopped to check on Arnie if you intended to go home after dropping me off.”
“I should know better than to bullshit a homicide dick. It’s those black rooms, Michael. I need … to work them alone.”
“Get in touch with your inner psychic.”
“Something like that.”
He got out of the car, then leaned in through the open door. “Ditch the twelve-hour days, Carson. There’s no one you’ve got to prove anything to. Not anyone on the force. Not your dad.”
“There’s me.”
He closed the door and watched her drive away. He knew that she was tough enough to take care of herself, but he worried about her.
He almost wished that she were more vulnerable. It half broke his heart that she didn’t need him desperately.
ROY PRIBEAUX ENJOYED the date more than he expected. Usually it was an annoying interlude between the planning of the murder and the commission of it.
Candace proved to be shy but charming, genuinely sweet with a dry, self-deprecating sense of humor.
They had coffee in a riverfront café. When they fell at once into easy conversation about a host of subjects, Roy was surprised but also pleased. The lack of any initial awkwardness would more quickly disarm the poor thing.
After a while she asked him exactly what he’d meant the previous night when he’d called himself a Christian man. Of what denomination, what commitment?
He knew at once that this was the key with which to unlock her trust and win her heart. He had used the Christian gambit in a couple of other instances, and with the right woman, it had worked as well as the expectation of great sex or even of love.
Why he, an Adonis, should be interested in a schlump like her – that mystery fed her suspicion. It made her wary.
If she believed, however, that he was a man of genuine moral principle who sought a virtuous companion and not just a good hump, she would see him as one with higher standards than physical beauty. She would convince herself that her lovely eyes were enough physical beauty for him and that what he really prized was her innocence, her chastity, her personality, and her piety.
The trick was to divine the brand of Christianity that she had embraced, then convince her that they shared that particular flavor of the faith. If she was a Pentecostal, his approach would have to be far different from that required if she was a Catholic, and much different from the worldly and ironic style that he must assume if she was Unitarian.
Fortunately, she proved to be an Episcopalian, which Roy found markedly easier to fake than one of the more passionate sects. He might have been lost if she’d been a Seventh Day Adventist.
She proved to be a reader, too, and especially a fan of C. S. Lewis, one of the finest Christian writers of the century just past.
In his quest to be a Renaissance man, Roy had read Lewis: not all of his many books, but enough. The Screwtape Letters. The Problem of Pain. A Grief Observed. Thankfully they had been short volumes.
Dear Candace was so enchanted to have a handsome and interested man as a conversationalist that she overcame her shyness when the subject turned to Lewis. She did most of the talking, and Roy needed only to insert a quote here and a reference there to convince her that his knowledge of the great man’s work was encyclopedic.
Another fortunate thing about her being an Episcopalian was that her denomination did not forbid drink or the joy of sensuous music. From the café, he talked her into a jazz club on Jackson Square.
Roy had a capacity for alcohol, but one potent hurricane erased whatever lingering caution Candace might otherwise have harbored.
After the jazz club, when he suggested they take a walk on the levee, her only concern was that it might be closed at this hour.
“It’s still open to pedestrians,” he assured her. “They just don’t keep it lit for the roller skaters and fishermen.”
Perhaps she would have hesitated to stroll the unlighted levee if he hadn’t been such a strong man, and so good, and capable of protecting her.
They walked toward the river, away from the shopping district and the crowds. The full moon provided more light than he would have liked but also enough to allay any of Candace’s lingering concern about their safety.
A brightly decorated riverboat chattered by, its great paddle wheel splashing through warm water. Passengers stood on the decks, sat at tables. This late-night river cruise wouldn’t stop at any nearby docks. Roy had checked the schedules, always planning ahead.
They ambled to the end of the pavement atop the breakwater of boulders. Fishermen were more likely to come this far in daylight. As he expected, here in the night, he and Candace were alone.
The lights of the receding riverboat painted serpentine ribbons of oily color on the dark water, and Candace thought this was pretty, and