Frankenstein: The Complete 5-Book Collection. Dean Koontz
the lack of bibelots and mementoes, the disinterest in beautifying the space in any way reminded her too much of how Allwine had lived.
At least one inspirational poster or cute cookie jar would have been welcome.
Instead, here came Dwight Frye out of the kitchen, looking as greasy as ever but, as never before, contrite. “If you’re gonna rip me a new one, don’t bother. I’ve already done it.”
Michael said, “That’s one of the most moving apologies I’ve ever heard.”
“I knew him like a brother,” Frye said, “but I didn’t know him at all.”
Carson said, “He had a passion for modern dance.”
Frye looked baffled, and Michael said approvingly, “Carson, you might get the hang of this yet.”
“For real he went out that kitchen window?” Frye asked.
“For real,” Carson said.
“But the fall would’ve killed him.”
“Didn’t,” Michael said.
“He didn’t have a damn parachute, did he?”
Carson shrugged. “We’re amazed, too.”
“One of you fired two rounds from a twelve-gauge,” Frye noted, indicating the pellet holes in the wall.
“That would be me,” said Carson. “Totally justified. He shot at us first.”
Frye was puzzled. “How could you not take him down at such close range?”
“Didn’t entirely miss.”
“I see some blood,” Frye said, “but not a lot. Still and all, even gettin’ winged by a twelve-gauge – that’s got to sting. How could he just keep on keepin’ on?”
“Moxie?” Michael suggested.
“I’ve drunk my share of Moxies, but I don’t expect to laugh off a shotgun.”
A CSI tech stepped out of the bedroom. “O’Connor, Maddison, you gotta see this. We just found where he really lived.”
FATHER PATRICK DUCHAINE, shepherd to the congregation at Our Lady of Sorrows, took the phone call in the rectory kitchen, where he was nervously eating sugar-fried pecans and wrestling with a moral dilemma.
After midnight, a call to a priest might mean that a parishioner had died or lay dying, that last rites were wanted, as well as words of comfort to the bereaved. In this case, Father Duchaine felt sure that the caller would be Victor, and he was not wrong.
“Have you done what I asked, Patrick?”
“Yes, sir. Of course. I’ve been all over the city since we had our little conference. But none of our people has seen one of us acting … strangely.”
“Really? Can you assure me there isn’t a renegade among the New Race? No … apostate?”
“No, sir, I can’t absolutely assure you. But if there is one, he’s given no outward sign of a psychological crisis.”
“Oh, but he has,” Victor said coolly.
“Sir?”
“If you’ll turn on your radio or watch the first TV news in the morning, you’ll get quite an earful about our Detective Harker of the Homicide Division.”
Father Duchaine nervously licked his lips, which were sugary from the pecans. “I see. It was some policeman, was it? Do you … do you feel that I’ve failed you?”
“No, Patrick. He was clever.”
“I was exhaustive … in my search.”
“I’m sure you did everything that you possibly could.”
Then why this call? Father Duchaine wanted to ask, but he dared not.
Instead, he waited a moment, and when his maker said nothing, he asked, “Is there anything more you need me to do?”
“Not at the moment,” Victor said. “Perhaps later.”
All the sugar had been licked from Father Duchaine’s lips, and his mouth had gone dry, sour.
Searching for words that might repair his maker’s damaged trust in him, he heard himself saying, “God be with you.” When only silence answered him, he added, “That was a joke, sir.”
Victor said, “Was it really? How amusing.”
“Like in the church – when you said it to me.”
“Yes, I remember. Good night, Patrick.”
“Good night, sir.”
The priest hung up. He plucked fried pecans from the dish on the kitchen counter, but his hand shook so badly that he dropped the nuts before he could convey them to his mouth. He stooped, retrieved them.
At the kitchen table with a water glass and a bottle of wine, Jonathan Harker said, “If you need sanctuary, Patrick, where will you turn?”
Instead of answering, Father Duchaine said, “I’ve disobeyed him. I’ve lied to him. How is that possible?”
“It may not be possible,” said Harker. “At least not without terrible consequences.”
“No. I think perhaps it’s possible because … my programming is being rewritten.”
“Oh? How can it be rewritten when you’re not in a tank anymore or hooked up to a data feed?”
Father Duchaine looked toward the ceiling, toward Heaven.
“You can’t be serious,” Harker said, and took a long swallow of communion wine.
“Faith can change a person,” Father Duchaine said.
“First of all, you’re not a person. You’re not human. A real priest would call you a walking blasphemy.”
This was true. Father Duchaine had no answer to the charge.
“Besides,” Harker continued, “you don’t really have any faith.”
“Lately, I’m … wondering.”
“I’m a murderer,” Harker reminded him. “Killed two of them and one of us. Would God approve of your giving me sanctuary any more than Victor would?”
Harker had put into words a key element of Father Duchaine’s moral dilemma. He had no answer. Instead of replying, he ate more sugar-fried pecans.
IN THE BACK OF the bedroom closet, Harker had broken through the lath and plaster. He had reconfigured the studs and cats to allow easy passage to the space beyond.
Leading Carson, Michael, and Frye through the wall, the young tech said, “This building was at one time commercial on the ground floor, offices in the upper three, and it had an attic for tenant storage.”
On the other side of the wall were rising steps – wood, worn, creaky.
As he led them upward, the tech said, “When they converted to apartments, they closed off the attic. Harker somehow found out it was here. He made it into his go-nuts room.”
In the high redoubt, two bare bulbs hanging on cords from the ridge beam shed a dusty yellow light.
Three large gray moths swooped under and around the bulbs. Their shadows swelled, shrank, and swelled again