Frankenstein: Dead and Alive (33 page)

In Victor’s bathroom, he showered.

In the mirrored alcove in the corner of Victor’s walk-in closet, he admired his body. No metal cables wove through it, and he did not bear the scars of two centuries. He was physical perfection.

After dressing, he took a briefcase to the walk-in safe. There, he discovered that some valuables were not where they should have been. But other drawers offered all that he needed.

He would leave the mansion on foot. He was so wary of having any connection with Victor Helios that he would not even use one of the cars merely to abandon it at the airport.

Before he left, he set the Dresden countdown for half an hour. Both the house and the dormitory would soon be ashes.

He wore a raincoat with a hood, aware of the irony of departing in garb reminiscent of the great brute’s current costume.

Although he was the very image of Victor Frankenstein, he was not in fact the man, but instead a clone. By virtue of direct-to-brain data downloading, however, his memory matched Victor’s, all 240 years of it, except for the events of the past eighteen hours or so,
which was the last time Victor had conducted a memory update for him, by phone transmission. He was like Victor also in that he shared Victor’s vision for the world.

This was not precisely personal immortality, but an acceptable substitute.

In a fundamental way, the recently deceased and this recently born individual were different. This Victor was stronger, quicker, and perhaps even more intelligent than the original. Not perhaps. Most definitely more intelligent. He was the new and improved Victor Frankenstein, and the world needed him now more than ever.

CHAPTER 72

This world is a world of stories, of mystery and enchantment. Everywhere you look, if you look close enough, a tale of wonder is unfolding, for every life is a narrative and everyone a character in his or her own drama.

In San Francisco, the O’Connor–Maddison Detective Agency not long ago celebrated its first year. They were a success almost from the day they opened for business. A hand laid on him by a tattooed healer has brought Arnie out of autism. He works in the office after school, doing some filing and learning hard-boiled lingo. Duke adores him. Seven months from now, a baby will complicate the sleuthing. But that’s what they make infant carriers for. Hang the kid on the chest or sling him from the back, and there’s no reason not to keep pursuing truth, justice, bad guys, and good Chinese food.

In a small house on a large property in rural Montana, Erika has discovered a talent for motherhood, and she is fortunate to have, in Jocko, a perpetual child. Thanks to what she took from Victor’s safe, they have all the money they will ever need. They don’t travel, and only she goes into town, because they don’t want to have to deal with all the brooms and buckets. The local birds, however, have gotten used to him, and he’s never feeling pecked anymore, in any sense. He has a collection of funny hats, all with bells, and she has developed a contagious laugh. They don’t know why only they survived, of all those made of New Race flesh, but it had something to do with the lightning. So every night, when she tucks him in, she makes him say his prayers, as she does, too, before she sleeps.

At St. Bartholomew’s Abbey, in the great mountains of northern California, Deucalion resides as a guest, while he considers becoming a postulant. He enjoys all the brothers, and has a special friendship with Brother Knuckles. He has learned much from Sister Angela, who runs the associated orphanage, and the disabled children there think he is the best Santa Claus ever. He does not try to envision his future. He waits for it to find him.

This trilogy is dedicated to the late
Mr. Lewis, who long ago realized that
science was being politicized, that its
primary goal was changing from knowledge
to power, that it was also becoming
scientism, and that in the
ism
is the
end of humanity.

BY DEAN KOONTZ

77 Shadow Street • What the Night Knows • Breathless
Relentless • Your Heart Belongs to Me
The Darkest Evening of the Year • The Good Guy
The Husband
•
Velocity
•
Life Expectancy
The Taking
•
The Face
•
By the Light of the Moon
One Door Away From Heaven
•
From the Corner of His Eye
False Memory
•
Seize the Night
•
Fear Nothing
Mr. Murder
•
Dragon Tears
•
Hideaway
•
Cold Fire
The Bad Place
•
Midnight
•
Lightning
•
Watchers
Strangers
•
Twilight Eyes
•
Darkfall
•
Phantoms
Whispers
•
The Mask
•
The Vision
•
The Face of Fear
Night Chills
•
Shattered
•
The Voice of the Night
The Servants of Twilight
•
The House of Thunder
The Key to Midnight
•
The Eyes of Darkness
Shadowfires
•
Winter Moon
•
The Door to December
Dark Rivers of the Heart
•
Icebound
•
Strange Highways
Intensity
•
Sole Survivor
•
Ticktock
The Funhouse
•
Demon Seed

ODD THOMAS

Odd Thomas
•
Forever Odd
•
Brother Odd
•
Odd Hours

FRANKENSTEIN

Prodigal Son
•
City of Night
•
Dead and Alive
Lost Souls
•
The Dead Town

A Big Little Life: A Memoir of a Joyful Dog Named Trixie

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Dean Koontz is the author of many #1
New York Times
bestsellers. He lives in Southern California with his wife, Gerda, their golden retriever, Anna, and the enduring spirit of their golden, Trixie.

Correspondence for the author should be addressed to:

Dean Koontz
P.O. Box 9529
Newport Beach, California 92658

DON’T MISS ANY OF THE VOLUMES IN

DEAN KOONTZ’S

thrilling reimagining of one of the classic stories of all time

Don’t miss

any of the adventures of

Odd Thomas
,

America’s favorite hero
.

From #1 Bestselling Author

ODD THOMAS IS BACK.

His mysterious journey of suspense and discovery moves to a dangerous new level in his most riveting adventure to date… .

by #1
New York Times
bestselling author

DEAN KOONTZ

On sale in hardcover
Summer 2012

ONE

Near sunset of my second full day as a guest in Roseland, crossing the immense lawn between the main house and the eucalyptus grove, I halted and pivoted, warned by instinct. Racing toward me, the great black stallion was as mighty a horse as I had ever seen. Earlier, in a book of breeds, I had identified it as a Friesian. The blonde who rode him wore a white nightgown.

As silent as any spirit, the woman urged the horse forward, faster. On hooves that made no sound, the steed ran
through
me with no effect.

I have certain talents. In addition to being a pretty good short-order cook, I have an occasional prophetic dream. And in the waking world, I sometimes see the spirits of the lingering dead who, for various reasons, are reluctant to move on to the Other Side.

This long-dead horse and rider, now only spirits in our world, knew that no one but I could see them. After appearing to me twice the previous day and once this morning, but at a distance, the woman seemed to have decided to get my attention in an aggressive fashion.

Mount and mistress raced around me in a wide arc. I turned to follow them, and they cantered toward me once more but then halted. The stallion reared over me, silently slashing the air with the hooves of its forelegs, nostrils flared, eyes rolling, a creature of such immense power that I stumbled backward even though I knew that it was as immaterial as a dream.

Spirits are solid and warm to my touch, as real to me in that way as is anyone alive. But I am not solid to them, and they can neither ruffle my hair nor strike a death blow at me.

Because my sixth sense complicates my existence, I try otherwise to keep my life simple. I have fewer possessions than a monk. I have no time or peace to build a career as a fry cook or as anything else. I never plan for the future, but wander into it with a smile on my face, hope in my heart, and the hair up on the nape of my neck.

Bareback on the Friesian, the barefoot beauty wore white silk and white lace and wild red ribbons of blood both on her gown and in her long blond hair, though I could see no wound. Her nightgown was rucked up to her thighs, and her knees pressed against the stallion’s heaving flanks. In her left hand, she twined a fistful of the horse’s mane, as if even in death she must hold fast to her mount to keep their spirits joined.

If spurning a gift weren’t ungrateful, I would at once return my supernatural sight. I would be content to spend my days whipping up omelets that make you groan with pleasure and pancakes so fluffy that the slightest breeze might float them off your plate.