Dean Koontz's Frankenstein 4-Book Bundle (105 page)

She said, “This isn't a video game, Arnie.”

“No. It isn't. It's all that's been wrong with the world for thousands of years, all that's wrong now coming to a head here in our time. Maybe Armageddon is more than the name of an old Bruce Willis movie. Maybe you're not Joan of Arc, but you're more than you think you are.”

In the two years since Deucalion cured Arnie of severe autism, seemingly by a touch, Carson had sometimes thought that he had not only taken away that affliction but had also given the boy something. A quiet wisdom greater than his years. But not only wisdom. Another quality, perhaps not of mind or body but of character, an ineffable quality of which she was aware, though she could not name it.

To Deucalion, she said, “Even if we wanted to help, even if we
should
, what are we to do? If Victor is alive somehow, we don't know where he is. We don't know what madness he's up to, if he's up to anything at all.”

“He's up to what he's always been up to,” said Deucalion. “He wants to murder the idea of human exceptionalism, debase all life until it has no value whatsoever, acquire ultimate power at any cost, and by the accomplishment of those goals, thereby destroy the soul of the world. As for where he is … one way or another, we'll soon know the place.”

One of Carson's two cell phones rang. The tone was that of the line given solely to Francine Donatello, their office manager, who used it
only on exceptional occasions, usually regarding a crisis related to one of their current cases. Grateful for the distraction, Carson answered the phone.

Francine said, “I got this call from a woman, she claimed it's a matter of life and death, and she was pretty convincing. She left a phone number.”

“What woman?” Carson asked.

“She said to tell you that she was aware of your work in New Orleans and kept track of you when you left the NOPD.”

“Did she leave a name with that number?”

“Yeah. She said you met her sister, but you never met her. She said her last name now is Swedenborg, but her maiden name was Erika Five. I never heard a name that was a number before.”

Bryce Walker sat in his hospital bed, staring at the window, watching gray clouds, like a spooring fungus, gradually creep across the sky.

The sheets were clean, the carafe contained ice water, but the capsule in the pill cup was different from the medication he received the previous evening.

According to the information on his chart, in the plastic sleeve hanging from the footrail of the bed, his prescription had not been changed. The nurse must have given him the wrong capsule by mistake.

That was one explanation, anyway. A second possibility might be that she had intentionally switched medications, hoping that he would not notice the difference in size and color from the capsule that he had been given twelve hours before, following his MRI.

Dr. Rathburn's uncharacteristic impatience and his humorless demeanor. The silence and forced smiles of the nurses. The glimpse Bryce
had gotten of hatred in the eyes of one of them, her face tight with contempt …

If he'd had a paperback Western to read, perhaps he would have told himself that everyone was entitled to be a screwup or a crank now and then, and he might have lost himself in a good yarn as he waited to see if lunch would be served on time. But then—the voices in the air shaft. Even the best book by his favorite author wouldn't have taken his mind off those cries for help and mercy.

If the nurse gave him the incorrect medication on purpose, Bryce could imagine only one reason. The capsule in the paper cup must be a sedative. She was annoyed at him because of his dissatisfaction with his treatment, and she wanted him to be either more compliant or fast asleep.

No professional nurse of his experience would have done such a thing. Rainbow Falls Memorial didn't rate as a five-star facility in anyone's book, but neither was it a third-world hospital. When his wife, Rennie, had been ill, everyone on the staff proved efficient, friendly, and emotionally supportive.

Instead of swallowing the capsule, he put it in the pocket of his pajama shirt.

The room darkened as increasingly malignant-looking clouds metastasized across the sun.

Bryce vacillated between apprehension and denial.

Perhaps what truly troubled him, what affected him more profoundly than he realized, was the memory of the chest pains that had brought him here. An old man acutely aware of his mortality, terrified of death but too macho to admit his fear, might distract himself from his failure of courage by imagining mysterious enemies, conspiracies. The
ordinary hisses and whistles of air moving through grilles and ductwork might inspire auditory hallucinations in a man left already shaken by a brush with death.

And
that
was as big a load as an elephant ever dropped.

Bryce had no abnormal fear of dying. In fact, he hardly feared it at all. Death was just a door he needed to go through to be with Rennie again.

He was trying to talk himself out of pursuing answers to the staff's peculiar behavior and to the voices in the ductwork. Bryce was uncomfortably aware that since Rennie's passing, he had been reactive instead of proactive in all things. He had not given up on life, but he'd given in to a tendency toward passivity that he would never tolerate in one of the heroic marshals or determined ranchers who were the protagonists in the novels that he wrote.

Not exactly disgusted with himself but more than merely annoyed, Bryce threw back the covers, got out of bed, and stepped into his slippers. From his closet, he withdrew the thin bathrobe provided by the hospital and pulled it on over his pajamas.

In the main second-floor corridor, Doris Makepeace, the shift supervisor, sat alone at the nurses' station. Bryce remembered her well and fondly from Rennie's last hospitalization.

Nurse Makepeace seemed to be lost in thought, staring at the wall clock across the hallway from her post.

Bryce could not remember an occasion when a shift supervisor or any other nurse had not been busy at the central station, from which they tended to all of the patients on this floor. Nurses always had more work than they could easily complete.

Doris in particular had always been industrious—bustling and lively and engaged and diligent. Now she appeared detached and even
bored. Either she hoped to make the hands of the clock move faster by watching them or her thoughts had traveled so far beyond the hospital that she didn't even see the clock.

As before, he might be making something out of nothing. Everyone needed to zone out for a few minutes now and then, during a busy day.

When Bryce passed in front of her, Doris Makepeace stirred from her trance to say, “Going somewhere?”

“Just getting a little exercise, maybe visit a couple of the other patients.”

“Stay close. Stay where we can find you. We might be taking you downstairs for tests.”

“Don't worry. I'll be right around here,” he promised, and he found himself shuffling instead of walking, not because he needed to shuffle, which he did not, but because he thought it might be wise to appear somewhat feeble.

“Don't tax yourself. The sooner you're back in bed and resting, the better.”

Nurse Makepeace's voice had neither its characteristic lilt nor its customary warmth. In fact, Bryce heard a cold, authoritarian note close to contempt.

He paused at a couple of rooms to glance at the patients. He saw no one he knew.

Step by step, he felt the weight of the nurse's stare against his back. He probably should not go directly to a stairway with her watching.

In Room 218, no one occupied the bed nearer the door, and in the farther bed sat a boy of about nine. He paged through a comic book as if nothing in it could hold his attention.

Entering the room, Bryce said, “A lot of years ago, I wrote some
comic books. Of course, they were all about cowboys and horses, not aliens and spaceships and superheroes, so they'd probably only put you to sleep. What's your name, son?”

The boy seemed wary but was most likely merely shy. “Travis.”

“Now that's a fine old name, always a hero's name, and perfect for a Western novel.” Indicating the day beyond the nearby window, he added, “Think we might have an early snow, Travis?”

Dropping the comic book on the bed, the boy said, “Did they take away your BlackBerry?”

“I don't have a BlackBerry, and I never will. I prefer to talk to people instead of type at them, but then I'm older than the Great Wall of China and just as solidly set in my ways.”

“They took mine this morning.” Travis glanced toward the hallway door, as if he didn't want to be overheard. “They said text messaging interferes with some hospital machines.”

“I suppose it might. I'm pretty much ignorant about machines,” Bryce admitted. “The only thing I could fix on a car is a flat tire. But I can do a bunch of rope tricks and sharpshoot, for what that's worth.”

“I had it the first two days here, and nobody cared. Then this morning they just suddenly make a big deal about it.”

Picking up the comic book to have a closer look at the superhero on the cover, Bryce said, “You seemed bored with this. That made my heart feel good. But then it's probably just because you've read it twenty times before.”

Travis glanced at the door, at the window, at the door again, and then met Bryce's eyes. “What's wrong with them?”

“In my opinion, a lot of things. No damn superhero is ever really in jeopardy, not even when someone locks him in a lead box with a chunk of kryptonite as big as a cabbage and drops him in the ocean.”

“I mean them,” Travis said, lowering his voice and gesturing toward the hallway door. “The nurses, doctors, all of them.”

They were both silent for a moment, eye to eye, and then Bryce said, “What do you mean, son?”

The boy chewed his lower lip and seemed to search for words. Then he said, “You're real.”

“I've always thought I am.”

“They're not,” said Travis.

Sitting on the edge of the bed to make a quieter conversation possible, the doorway clear in his peripheral vision, Bryce said, “Sounds like it's not just them taking the BlackBerry that's gotten under your skin.”

“Not just the BlackBerry,” Travis agreed.

“Want to tell me about it?”

The boy's voice fell to a whisper. “Something wakes me in the night. Don't know what it is. Some sound. It scares me. Don't know why. I lay here listening for it again—ten minutes, twenty. The room is dark. Only the moonlight in the window. Then the hall door opens and two of them come to my bed.”

“Who?”

“Nurses. I can't see much of their faces. I pretend I'm asleep, but my eyes are open a little. I watch them watching me.”

“Watching you?”

“They don't have medicine to give me. Don't feel my forehead for a fever. They just watch me in the dark, and then they leave.”

“They say anything to you, to each other?”

“No.”

“How long?” Bryce asked.

“Two minutes, three. A long time to be watching someone in the
dark, don't you think?” The boy looked at the window, where a graying sky would mask the moon in the night to come. “And the whole time they were watching me … I could feel it.”

“Feel what?” Bryce asked.

Travis met his eyes again. “How much they hated me.”

Nummy kept his cash money in a OneZip plastic bag, in a box of saltines, in a kitchen cabinet. At the moment the bag contained three five-dollar bills and ten one-dollar bills, plus ten more ones, plus three more ones.

Mr. Leland Reese, Grandmama's attorney, only gave him fives and ones because Nummy wasn't good with numbers. He could count to ten as well as anyone, but after that he got confused. Nummy couldn't read, but he could see the difference between a five and a one.