Frankenstein Special Edition: Prodigal Son and City of Night. Dean Koontz
with her ability as an investigator.
Returning to the sedan, she said, “Okay, I gotta grab some sack time, but what’ll you do?”
“Go home, watch Die Hard.”
“You’ve watched it like fifty times.”
“It just gets better. Like Hamlet. Give me the car keys.”
She shook her head. “I’ll take you home.”
“You’ll drive me head-on into a bridge abutment.”
“If that’s what you want,” she said, getting behind the wheel.
In the passenger’s seat, he said, “You know what you are?”
“God’s gift to Louisiana highways.”
“Besides that. You’re a control freak.”
“That’s just a slacker’s term for someone who works hard and likes to do things right.”
“So I’m a slacker now?” he asked.
“I didn’t say that. All I’m saying, in a friendly way, is you’re using their vocabulary.”
“Don’t drive so fast.”
Carson accelerated. “How many times did your mother warn you not to run with scissors in your hand?”
“Like seven hundred thousand,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean you’re fit to drive.”
“God, you’re relentless.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“Where’d you get that word? The dialogue in Die Hard isn’t that sophisticated.”
When Carson stopped at the curb in front of Michael’s apartment house, he hesitated to get out. “I’m worried about you driving home.”
“I’m like an old dray horse. I know the route in my bones.”
“If you were pulling the car, I wouldn’t worry, but you’re gonna drive it at warp speed.”
“I’ve got a gun, but you aren’t worried about that.”
“All right, all right. Drive. Go. But if you get behind a slow motorist, don’t shoot him.”
As she drove away, she saw him in the rearview mirror, watching her with concern.
The question wasn’t whether she had fallen in love with Michael Maddison. The question was how deeply, how irretrievably?
Not that love was a sucking slough from which a person needed to be retrieved, like a drowner from the wild surf, like an addict from addiction. She was all for love. She just wasn’t ready for love.
She had her career. She had Arnie. She had questions about her parents’ deaths. Her life didn’t have room for passion right now.
Maybe she’d be ready for passion when she was thirty-five. Or forty. Or ninety-four. But not now.
Besides, if she and Michael went to bed together, departmental regulations would necessitate a new partner for each of them.
She didn’t like that many other homicide detectives. The chances were that she’d be paired with a fathead. Furthermore, right now she didn’t have the time or patience to break in a new partner.
Not that she always obeyed departmental regulations. She wasn’t a by-the-book i-dotter and t-crosser.
But the rule against cops copulating with cops and then sharing an assignment struck Carson as common sense.
Not that she always deferred to her common sense. Sometimes you had to take reckless chances if you trusted your instinct and if you were human.
Otherwise you might as well leave the force and become a safety engineer.
As for being human, there was the fright figure in Allwine’s apartment, who claimed not to be human, unless he believed that being cobbled together from pieces of criminals and being brought to life by lightning was not a sufficient deviation from the usual dad-makes-mom-pregnant routine to deny him human status.
Either the monster—that’s what he called himself; she was not being politically incorrect—had been a figment of her imagination, in which case she was crazy, or he had been real, in which case maybe the whole world had gone crazy.
In the midst of this gruesome and impossible case, she couldn’t just unzip Michael’s fly and say, I know you’ve been dreaming about this. Romance was a delicate thing. It needed tender care to grow and mature into something wonderful. Right now she didn’t have time for an orgasm, let alone for romance.
If she and Michael could have something meaningful together, she didn’t want to ruin it by rushing into bed, especially not at a time when the pressure of work was half crushing her.
And that indicated how deeply and irretrievably she loved him. She was in the water over her head.
She drove all the way home without killing herself or anyone else. If she had been as awake and clearheaded as she claimed to be, she wouldn’t have taken such goofy pride in this accomplishment.
Between the car and the house, the sunlight seemed bright enough to blind her. Even in her bedroom, daylight at the windows stung her bloodshot eyes and made her wince.
She shut the blinds. She closed the drapes. She considered painting the room black, but decided that would be going too far.
Fully clothed, she fell into bed and was asleep before the pillows finished compressing under her head.
THE FOURTH TIME that Roy Pribeaux opened the freezer to see if Candace was still there, she was still there, so he decided to rule out the possibility that he might be delusional.
He had not taken his car the previous night. He lived within strolling distance of the Quarter. They had walked everywhere.
Yet he could not have carried her all the way from the levee to his loft. Although he was a strong man and getting stronger by the day, she was a heavy person.
Besides, you couldn’t carry an eyeless corpse around the heart of New Orleans without drawing comment and suspicion. Not even New Orleans.
He didn’t own a wheelbarrow. Anyway, that wouldn’t have been a practical solution.
He poured another glass of apple juice to accompany what remained of the muffin.
The only credible explanation for Candace’s surprise appearance was that someone had brought her here from the levee and stowed her in his food freezer. The same person had put the three plastic containers, with organs, in the other freezer, the love locker.
This meant that someone knew Roy had killed Candace.
Indeed, that someone must have watched him kill her.
“Spooky,” he whispered.
He had not been aware of being followed. If someone had been dogging him, watching him romance Candace, the guy had been a master of surveillance, nearly as ephemeral as a ghost.
Not just someone. Not just anyone. Considering the human organs in the three tacky containers with ugly green lids, the perpetrator could be none other than the copycat killer.
Roy’s work had inspired an imitator. The imitator had by these actions said, Hi there. Can we be friends? Why don’t we combine our collections?
Although Roy was flattered, as any artist might be flattered by the admiration of another artist, he didn’t like this development. He didn’t like it at all.
For