Frankenstein: The Complete 5-Book Collection. Dean Koontz

      Michael shook his head. “I liked him better as an asshole.”

       CHAPTER 8

      OUT OF THE LAST of the twilight came Deucalion with a suitcase, in clothes too heavy for the sultry night.

      This neighborhood offered markedly less glamour than the French Quarter. Seedy bars, pawn shops, liquor stores, head shops.

      Once a grand movie house, the Luxe Theater had become a shabby relic specializing in revivals. On the marquee, unevenly spaced loose plastic letters spelled out the current double feature:

      THURS THRU SUNDAY

      DON SIEGEL REVIVAL

      INVASION OF THE BODY SNATCHERS

      HELL IS FOR HEROES

      The marquee was dark, the theater closed either for the night or permanently.

      Not all of the streetlamps were functioning. Approaching the Luxe, Deucalion found a route of shadows.

      He passed a few pedestrians, averting his face without seeming to, and drew attention only for his height.

      He slipped into a service walk beside the movie palace. For more than two centuries, he had used back doors or even more arcane entrances.

      Behind the theater, a bare bulb in a wire cage above the back door shed light as drab and gray as this litter-strewn alleyway.

      Sporting multiple layers of cracked and chipped paint, the door was a scab in the brick wall. Deucalion studied the latch, the lock … and decided to use the bell.

      He pushed the button, and a loud buzz vibrated through the door. Inside the quiet theater, it must have echoed like a fire alarm.

      Moments later, he heard heavy movement inside. He sensed that he was being studied through the fish-eye security lens.

      The lock rattled, and the door opened to reveal a sweet face and merry eyes peering out of a prison of flesh. At five feet seven and perhaps three hundred pounds, this guy was twice the man he should have been.

      “Are you Jelly Biggs?” Deucalion asked.

      “Do I look like I’m not?”

      “You’re not fat enough.”

      “When I was a star in the ten-in-one, I weighed almost three hundred more. I’m half the man I used to be.”

      “Ben sent for me. I’m Deucalion.”

      “Yeah, I figured. In the old days, a face like yours was gold in the carnival.”

      “We’re both blessed, aren’t we?”

      Stepping back, motioning Deucalion to enter, Biggs said, “Ben told me a lot about you. He didn’t mention the tattoo.”

      “It’s new.”

      “They’re fashionable these days,” said Jelly Biggs.

      Deucalion stepped across the threshold into a wide but shabby hallway “And me,” he said drily, “I’ve always been a fashion plate.”

      BEHIND THE BIG theater screen, the Luxe featured a labyrinth of passages, storage closets, and rooms that no patron had ever visited. With a rolling gait and heavy respiration, Jelly led the way past crates, mildewed cardboard boxes, and moisture-curled posters and stand-ups that promoted old films.

      “Ben put seven names on the letter he sent me,” Deucalion said.

      “You once mentioned Rombuk monastery, so he figured you might still be there, but he didn’t know what name you’d be using.”

      “He shouldn’t have shared my names.”

      “Just knowin’ your aliases doesn’t mean I can mojo you.”

      They arrived at a door that wore an armor-thick coat of green paint. Biggs opened it, switched on a light, gestured for Deucalion to enter ahead of him.

      A windowless but cozy apartment lay beyond. A kitchenette was adjacent to the combination bedroom and living room. Ben loved books, and two walls were lined with them.

      Jelly Biggs said, “It’s a sweet place you inherited.”

      The key word whipped through Deucalion’s mind before lashing back with a sharp sting. “Inherited. What do you mean? Where’s Ben?”

      Jelly looked surprised. “You didn’t get my letter?”

      “Only his.”

      Jelly sat on one of the chrome and red-vinyl chairs at the dinette table. It creaked. “Ben was mugged.”

      The world is an ocean of pain. Deucalion felt the old familiar tide wash through him.

      “This isn’t the best part of town, and getting worse,” Biggs said. “Ben bought the Luxe when he retired from the carnival. The neighborhood was supposed to be turning around. It didn’t. The place would be hard to sell these days, so Ben wanted to hold on.”

      “How did it happen?” Deucalion asked.

      “Stabbed. More than twenty times.”

      Anger, like a long-repressed hunger, rose in Deucalion. Once anger had been his meat, and feasting on it, he had starved.

      If he let this anger grow, it would quickly become fury – and devour him. For decades he had kept this lightning in a bottle, securely stoppered, but now he longed to pull the cork.

      And then … what? Become the monster again? Pursued by mobs with torches, with pitchforks and guns, running, running, running with hounds baying for his blood?

      “He was everybody’s second father,” said Jelly Biggs. “Best damn carnie boss I ever knew.”

      During the past two centuries, Ben Jonas had been one of a precious handful of people with whom Deucalion had shared his true origins, one of the few he had ever trusted completely.

      He said, “He was murdered after he contacted me.”

      Biggs frowned. “You say that like there’s a connection.”

      “Did they ever find the killer?”

      “No. That’s not unusual. The letter to you, the mugging – just a coincidence.”

      At last putting down his suitcase, Deucalion said, “There are no coincidences.”

      Jelly Biggs looked up from the dinette chair and met Deucalion’s eyes. Without a word they understood that in addition to years in the carnival, they shared a view of the world that was as rich with meaning as with mysteries.

      Pointing toward the kitchenette, the fat man said, “Besides the theater, Ben left you sixty thousand cash. It’s in the freezer.”

      Deucalion considered this revelation for a moment, then said, “He didn’t trust many people.”

      Jelly shrugged. “What do I need with money when I’ve got such good looks?”

       CHAPTER 9

      SHE WAS YOUNG, poor, inexperienced. She’d never had a manicure before, and Roy Pribeaux proposed that he give her one.

      “I give myself manicures,” he said. “A manicure can be erotic, you know. Just give me a chance. You’ll see.”

      Roy lived in a large loft apartment, the top half of a remodeled old building in the Warehouse District. Many rundown structures in this part of the city had been transformed into expansive apartments for artists.

      A printing company and a computer-assembly