Frankenstein: The Complete 5-Book Collection. Dean Koontz

billows subsided. The draperies hung limp and still. As if someone, leaving, had brushed against them.

      Carson got out of bed and crossed the room. When she pulled the draperies aside, she found the window closed. And locked.

      Maybe she hadn’t awakened as instantly as she’d thought. Maybe sleep had clung to her, and the dream. Maybe.

      CARSON SHOWERED, changed clothes, and felt fresh but slightly disoriented. Having slept away the afternoon, she rose to the night, inner clock confused, lacking purpose.

      In the kitchen, she scooped a serving of curried chicken salad from a bowl. With her dish and a fork, eating on the move, she went to Arnie’s room.

      The castle glorious, fit for King Arthur, seemed to have grown higher towers.

      For once, Arnie was not at work upon this citadel. Instead he sat staring at a penny balanced on his right thumbnail, against his forefinger.

      “What’s up, sweetie?” she asked, though she expected no reply.

      He met her expectation, but flipped the penny into the air. The copper winked brightly as it turned.

      With quicker reflexes than he usually exhibited, the boy snatched the coin from the air, held it tightly in his right fist.

      Carson had never seen him engaged in this behavior before. She watched, wondering.

      Half a minute passed while Arnie stared at his clenched fist. Then he opened it and frowned as if with disappointment when he saw the penny gleaming on his palm.

      As the boy flipped it and caught it in midair once more, Carson noticed a stack of bright pennies on the drawbridge to the castle.

      Arnie had neither an understanding of money nor any need for it.

      “Honey, where did you get the pennies?”

      Opening his hand, Arnie saw the penny and frowned as before. He flipped it again. He seemed to have a new obsession.

      At the open door, Vicky Chou peered in from the hallway. “How’s the chicken salad?”

      “Fabulous. Every day, you make me feel inadequate in a new way.”

      Vicky made a de nada gesture. “We all have our special talents. I couldn’t shoot anyone the way you do.”

      “Anytime you need it done, you know where to find me.”

      “Where did Arnie get the pennies?” Vicky asked.

      “That’s what I was gonna ask you.”

      Having flipped the penny again, having found it in his palm after snatching it from the air, the boy looked puzzled.

      “Arnie, where did you get the pennies?”

      From his shirt pocket, Arnie withdrew a card. He sat staring at it in silence.

      Aware that her brother might study the card for an hour before offering it to her, Carson gently plucked it from his fingers.

      “What?” Vicky asked.

      “It’s a pass to someplace called the Luxe Theater. One free movie. Where would he have gotten this?”

      Arnie flipped the penny again, and as he snatched it out of the air, he said, “Every city has secrets—”

      Carson knew she had heard those words somewhere—

      “—but none as terrible as this.”

      —and her blood chilled as she saw in her mind’s eye the tattooed man standing at the window in Bobby Allwine’s apartment.

       CHAPTER 49

      TWO HUNDRED YEARS of life can leave a man jaded.

      If he is a genius, like Victor, his intellectual pursuits lead him always on new adventures. The mind can be kept fresh and forever engaged as it confronts and resolves increasingly complex problems.

      On the other hand, repetition of physical pleasures eventually makes former delights seem dull. Boredom sets in. During the second century, a man’s appetites turn increasingly toward the exotic, the extreme.

      This is why Victor requires violence with sex, and the cruel humiliation of his partner. He has long ago transcended the guilt that committing acts of cruelty might spawn in others. Brutality is an aphrodisiac; the exercise of raw power thrills him.

      The world offers so many cuisines that conventional sex grows boring long before favorite dishes grow bland to the tongue. Only in the past decade has Victor developed a periodic craving for foods so exotic that they must be eaten with discretion.

      At certain restaurants in the city, where the owners value his business, where the waiters value his generous gratuities, and where the chefs admire his uniquely sophisticated palate, Victor from time to time arranges special dinners in advance. He is always served in a private room, where a man of his refinement can enjoy dishes so rare that they might seem repulsive to the ignorant multitudes. He has no wish to explain these acquired tastes to the boorish diners – and they are virtually always boorish – at an adjoining table.

      Quan Yin, a Chinese restaurant named for the Queen of Heaven, had two private dining rooms. One was suitable for a group of eight. Victor had reserved it for himself.

      He frequently ate alone. With two hundred years of experience that no one of an ordinary life span could match, he found that he was virtually always his own best company.

      Teasing his appetite, allowing time to anticipate the exotic entrée, he began with a simple dish: egg drop soup.

      Before he had half finished this first course, his cell phone rang. He was surprised to hear the voice of the renegade.

      “Murder doesn’t scare me anymore, Father.”

      With a note of authority that always secured obedience, Victor said, “You must talk to me about this in person.”

      “I’m not as troubled about murder as when I called you before.”

      “How did you get this number?”

      The emergency contact number at Hands of Mercy, given to members of the New Race, did not transfer calls to Victor’s cell phone.

      Instead of answering, the renegade said, “Murder just makes me more human. They excel at murder.”

      “But you’re better than their kind.” The need to discuss this, to debate it, annoyed Victor. He was master and commander. His word was law, his desire obeyed, at least among his people. “You’re more rational, more—”

      “We’re not better. There’s something missing in us … something they have.”

      This was an intolerable lie. This was heresy.

      “The help you need,” Victor insisted impatiently, “only I am able to give.”

      “If I just cut open enough of them and look inside, sooner or later I’ll discover what makes them … happier.”

      “That isn’t rational. Come to me at the Hands of Mercy—”

      “There’s this girl I see sometimes, she’s particularly happy. I’ll find the truth in her, the secret, the thing I’m missing.”

      The renegade hung up.

      As before, Victor pressed *69. Also as before, the call had come from a number that blocked automatic call-backs.

      His special dinner had not been ruined by this development, but his bright mood had dimmed. He decided to switch from tea to wine.

      Beer often went with Chinese food better than wine did. Victor was not, however, a beer man.

      Unlike many Chinese restaurants, Quan Yin had an extensive