Frankenstein: The Complete 5-Book Collection. Dean Koontz

he spoke, seemingly from the doorway to the living room – “I’m your best hope” – yet when she turned a third time in search of him, she was still alone.

      She didn’t find him in the living room, either, though she did recover her service pistol. The weapon lay on the floor beside the Lockaid lock-release gun, which she had left there earlier.

      The door to the public hallway stood open.

      Wishing that her thudding heart would quiet, she ejected the magazine. The telltale gleam of brass confirmed that the weapon was loaded but for the one expended round.

      Slamming the magazine into the pistol, she cleared the doorway fast, staying low, weapon in front of her.

      The corridor was deserted. She held her breath but did not hear any footsteps thundering down the stairs. All quiet.

      Considering the shot that had accidentally discharged, she could be reasonably sure that someone in the apartment across the hall was watching her through the fish-eye lens in that door.

      She stepped back into the black hole, snatched up the Lockaid gun, and pulled the door shut. She left the building.

      As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she realized that she had not switched off the lights in the apartment. To hell with it. Allwine was too dead to care about his electric bill.

       CHAPTER 36

      IN A CORNER of the main lab, Randal Six had been strapped in a cruciform posture at the center of a spherical device that resembled one of those exercise machines that could rotate a person on any imaginable axis, the better to stress all muscles equally. This, however, was not an exercise session.

      Randal would not move the machine; the machine would move him, and not for the purpose of building mass or maintaining muscle tone. From head to both feet, to the tip of every finger on both hands, he was locked into a precisely determined position.

      A rubber wedge in his mouth prevented him from biting his tongue if he suffered convulsions. A chin strap did not allow him to open his mouth and perhaps accidentally swallow the wedge.

      These precautions would also effectively muffle his screams.

      The Hands of Mercy had been insulated against the escape of any sound that might attract attention. A researcher involved in cutting-edge science, however, Victor could not be too cautious.

      And so …

      The brain is an electrical apparatus. Its wave patterns can be measured with an EEG machine.

      After Randal Six had been extensively educated by direct-to-brain data downloading but while the boy had remained unconscious in the forming tank, Victor had established in his creation’s brain electrical patterns identical to those found in several autistic people that he had studied.

      His hope had been that this would result in Randal being “born” as an eighteen-year-old autistic of a severe variety. This fond hope had been realized.

      Having imposed autism upon Randal, Victor sought to restore normal brain function through a variety of techniques. Thus far he had not been successful.

      His purpose in reverse-engineering Randal’s release from autism was not to find a cure. Finding a cure for autism interested him not at all, except that it might be a source of profits if he chose to market it.

      Instead, he pursued these experiments because if he could impose and relieve autism at will, he should be able to learn to impose selected degrees of it. This might have valuable economic and social benefits.

      Imagine a factory worker whose productivity is low due to the boring, repetitive nature of his job. Selective autism might be a means by which said worker could be made to focus intently on the task with an obsession that would make him as productive as – but cheaper than – a robot.

      The lowest level of Epsilons in the precisely ranked social strata of Victor’s ideal society might be little more than machines of meat. They would waste no time in idle chatter with their fellow workers.

      Now he threw the switch that activated the spherical device in which Randal Six was strapped. It began to rotate, three revolutions on one axis, five on another, seven on yet another, slowly at first but steadily gaining speed.

      A nearby wall contained a high-resolution nine-foot-square plasma screen. A colorful ultrasound display revealed the movement of blood through Randal Six’s cerebral veins and arteries as well as the subtlest currents in his cerebrospinal fluid as it circulated between the meninges, through the cerebral ventricles, and in the brain stem.

      Victor suspected that with the properly calculated application of extreme centrifugal and centripetal forces, he could establish unnatural conditions in cerebral fluids that would improve his chances of converting Randal’s autism-characteristic brainwaves into normal cerebral electrical patterns.

      As the machine spun faster, faster, the subject’s groans and terrified wordless pleas escalated into screams of anguish and agony. His shrieks would have been annoying if not for the wedge in his mouth and the chin strap.

      Victor hoped to achieve a breakthrough before he tested the boy to destruction. So much time would have been wasted if he had to start all over again with Randal Seven.

      Sometimes Randal bit the rubber wedge so hard for so long that his teeth sank in it to the gum line, whereafter it had to be cut out of his locked jaws in pieces. This sounded as if it might be one of those occasions.

       CHAPTER 37

      A WHITE PICKET FENCE met white gateposts inlaid with seashells. The gate itself featured a unicorn motif.

      Under Carson’s feet, the front walkway twinkled magically as flecks of mica in the flagstones reflected moonlight. Moss between the stones softened her footsteps.

      Almost thick enough to feel, the fragrance of the magnolia-tree flowers swagged the air.

      The windows of the fairy-tale bungalow were flanked by blue shutters from which had been cut star shapes and crescent moons.

      Trellises partially enclosed the front porch, entwined by leafy vines graced with trumpetlike purple blooms.

      Kathleen Burke, who lived in this little oasis of fantasy, was a police psychiatrist. Her work demanded logic and reason, but in her private life, she retreated into gentle escapism.

      At three o’clock in the morning, the windows revealed no lights.

      Carson rang the bell and then at once knocked on the door.

      A soft light bloomed inside, and quicker than Carson expected, Kathy opened the door. “Carson, what’s up, what’s wrong?”

      “It’s Halloween in August. We gotta talk.”

      “Girl, if you were a cat, you’d have your back up and your tail tucked.”

      “You’re lucky I didn’t show up with a load in my pants.”

      “Oh, that’s an elegant thing to say. Maybe you’ve been partnered too long with Michael. Come in. I just made some hazelnut coffee.”

      Entering, Carson said, “I didn’t see any lights.”

      “At the back, in the kitchen,” Kathy said, leading the way.

      She was attractive, in her late thirties, molasses-black with Asian eyes. In Chinese-red pajamas with embroidered cuffs and collar, she cut an exotic figure.

      In the kitchen, a steaming mug of coffee stood on the table. Beside it lay a novel; on the cover, a woman in a fantastic costume rode the back of a flying dragon.

      “You always read at three in