Frankenstein: The Complete 5-Book Collection. Dean Koontz
in life’s a little scary.”
“That’s so true.”
“In fact, that was the theme of my homily last Sunday.”
Harker put down his drink, stood before Duchaine. “But I’m more excited than scared. It started two days ago, and it’s accelerating.”
Expectantly, Patrick rose from his chair.
“Like Pinocchio,” Harker said, “I’m changing.”
“Changing … how?”
“Victor denied us the ability to reproduce. But I … I’m going to give birth to something.”
With an expression that seemed to be as much pride as fear, Harker lifted his loose-fitting T-shirt.
A subcutaneous face was taking shape beneath the skin and the surface fat layers of Harker’s abdomen. The thing was like a death mask but in motion: blind eyes rolling, mouth opening as though in a silent scream.
Recoiling in shock, Father Duchaine crossed himself before he realized what he had done.
The doorbell rang.
“Birth?” the priest said agitatedly. “What makes you think it’s birth instead of biological chaos?”
Sudden sweat sheathed Harker’s face. Sullen at this rejection, he pulled down his T-shirt. “I’m not afraid. Why should I be?” But clearly he was afraid. “I’ve murdered. Now I create – which makes me more human.”
The doorbell rang again.
“A breakdown in cell structure, metastasis,” Father Duchaine said. ‘A terrible design flaw.”
“You’re envious. That’s what you are – envious in your chastity.”
“You’ve got to go to him. Get his help. He’ll know what to do.”
“Oh, he’ll know what to do, all right,” Harker said. “There’s a place waiting for me in the landfill.”
The doorbell rang a third time, more insistently than before.
“Wait here,” said Father Duchaine. “I’ll be back. We’ll figure out what to do … something. Just wait.”
He closed the door when he left the study. He crossed the parlor to the front hall.
When the priest opened the front door, he discovered Victor on the porch.
“Good evening, Patrick.”
Striving to conceal his anxiety, Father Duchaine said, “Sir. Yes. Good evening.”
“Just ‘good evening’?”
“I’m sorry. What?” When Victor frowned, Duchaine understood. “Oh, yes. Of course. Come in, sir. Please come in.”
MOTH SHADOWS BEAT an ever-changing tattoo across the faces of Christ, Buddha, Amen-Ra.
In the attic above Jonathan Harker’s apartment, Carson, Michael, and Deucalion gathered at the wall-to-wall collage of gods, on which Harker must have spent scores of hours.
“It seems to express such yearning,” Carson said. “You can feel his anguish.”
“Don’t be too moved by it,” Deucalion advised. “He would embrace any philosophy that filled the void in him.”
He peeled away an image of Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane, then one of Buddha, revealing different forms and faces beneath, their nature at first mysterious.
“God was only his most recent obsession,” Deucalion explained.
As other pictures were peeled away, Carson saw an underlying collage of Nazi images and symbols: swastikas, Hitler, goose-stepping soldiers.
“Under all these faces of traditional gods is another god that failed him,” Deucalion said. “A god of violent social change and racial purity There are so many of those.”
Perhaps at last fully convinced of Deucalion’s nature, Michael said, “How did you know there was a second layer?”
“Not just a second,” Deucalion said. “Also a third.”
When Hitler and his ilk were torn off the wall, there was revealed an even eerier collage: images of Satan, demons, satanic symbols.
Deucalion said, “The unique despair of a creature without a soul eventually leads to desperation, and desperation fosters obsession. In Harker’s case, this is only the surface of it.”
Peeling away a horned-and-fanged demonic face, Carson said, “You mean … more layers under this?”
“The wall feels spongy, padded,” Michael said.
Deucalion nodded. “It’s been papered over twenty times or more. You might find gods and goddesses again. When new hopes fail, old hopes return in the endless cycle of desperation.”
Instead, Carson found Sigmund Freud in the fourth layer. Then other pictures of equally solemn men.
“Freud, Jung, Skinner, Watson,” Deucalion said, identifying each newly revealed face. “Rorschach. Psychiatrists, psychologists. The most useless gods of all.”
FATHER DUCHAINE RETREATED from the threshold as Victor stepped through the front door into the rectory foyer.
The master of the New Race looked around with interest. “Cozy. Quite nice. A vow of poverty doesn’t preclude certain comforts.” He touched one finger to Father Duchaine’s Roman collar. “Do you take your vows seriously, Patrick?”
“Of course not, sir. How could I? I’ve never actually gone to the seminary. I’ve never taken vows. You brought me to life with a manufactured past.”
In what might have been a warning tone, Victor said, “That’s worth remembering.”
With a sense of entitlement, Victor proceeded along the hall, deeper into the house, without invitation.
Following his master into the parlor, the priest asked, “To what do I owe the honor of this visit, sir?”
Surveying the room, Victor said, “The authorities haven’t found Detective Harker yet. We’re all at risk until I reacquire him.”
“Would you like me to mobilize our people to search for him?”
“Do you really think that would do any good, Patrick? I’m not so sure.”
As Victor moved across the living room toward the door of the study, Father Duchaine said, “Can I get you coffee, sir? Brandy?”
“Is that what I smell on your breath, Patrick? Brandy?”
“No. No, sir. It’s … it’s vodka.”
“There’s only one thing I want now, Patrick. A tour of your lovely home.”
Victor crossed to the study door, opened it.
Holding his breath, Father Duchaine followed his maker across that threshold – and found that Harker had gone.
Circling the room, Victor said, “I programmed you with a fine education in theology. Better than anything you could have gotten from any university or seminary.”
He paused to look at the bottle of wine and bottle of vodka that stood side by side on the coffee table. Only one glass stood on the table.
With alarm, Father Duchaine noticed that a wet ring marked