Frankenstein: The Complete 5-Book Collection. Dean Koontz

“Where is the most recombinant-DNA work being done, the most research into cloning? Where are the most discoveries in molecular biology taking place?”

      ‘According to the tabloids I read, probably in Atlantis, a few miles under the surface of the Caribbean.”

      “It’s all happening here in the good old USA, Michael. If Victor Frankenstein is alive, this is where he’d want to be, right where the most science is being done. And New Orleans is plenty creepy enough to please him. Where else do they bury all their dead in mausoleums aboveground?”

      The porch light came on. A deadbolt turned with a rasp and a clack, and the door opened.

      Taylor Fullbright stood before them in red silk pajamas and a black silk robe on the breast of which was appliquéd an image of Judy Garland as Dorothy.

      As convivial as ever, Fullbright said, “Why, hello again!”

      “I’m sorry if we woke you,” Carson apologized.

      “No, no. You didn’t. I finished embalming a customer half an hour ago, worked up an appetite. I’m making a pastrami and tongue sandwich, if you’d like one.”

      Michael said, “No thanks. I’m full of Cheez Doodles, and she’s full of inexplicable enthusiasm.”

      “We don’t need to come in,” Carson said, showing him first the silver-framed photo of Roy Pribeaux. “Have you ever seen him before?”

      “Quite a handsome fellow,” said Fullbright. “But he looks a bit smug. I know the type. They’re always trouble.”

      “More trouble than you can imagine.”

      “But I don’t know him,” Fullbright said.

      From a nine-by-twelve manila envelope, Carson extracted a police-department file photo of Detective Jonathan Harker.

      “This one I know,” said the funeral director. “He was Allwine’s funeral buddy.”

       CHAPTER 68

      JENNA PARKER, party girl, not for the first time naked in front of a man, but for the first time unable to excite sexual interest, wept. Her sobs were more pathetic for being muffled by the rag in her mouth and the lip-sealing duct tape.

      “It’s not that I don’t find you attractive,” Jonathan told her. “I do. I think you’re a fine example of your species. It’s just that I’m of the New Race, and having sex with you would be like you having sex with a monkey.”

      For some reason, his sincere explanation made her cry harder. She was going to choke on her sobs if she wasn’t careful.

      Giving her a chance to adjust to her circumstances and to get control of her emotions, he fetched a physician’s bag from a closet. He put it on a stainless-steel cart, and rolled the cart to the autopsy table.

      From the black bag he extracted surgical instruments – scalpels, clamps, retractors – and lined them up on the cart. They had not been sterilized, but as Jenna would be dead when he was done with her, there was no reason to guard against infection.

      When the sight of the surgical instruments excited the woman to greater weeping, Jonathan realized that fear of pain and death might be the sole cause of her tears.

      “Well,” he told her, “if you’re going to cry about that, then you’re going to have to cry, because there’s nothing I can do about it. I can’t very well let you go now. You’d tell.”

      After emptying the bag, he set it aside.

      On the bed lay a thin but tough plastic raincoat, one of those that could be wadded up and stored in a zippered case no larger than a tobacco pouch. He intended to wear it over his T-shirt and jeans to minimize cleanup when he had finished with Jenna.

      As Jonathan shook the raincoat to unfurl it, a familiar throb, a shifting and turning within him, made him gasp with surprise, with excitement.

      He threw aside the raincoat. He pulled up his T-shirt, exposing his torso.

      In his abdomen, the Other pressed against the caging flesh, as if testing the walls of its confinement. It writhed, it bulged.

      He had no concern that it would burst out of him and perhaps kill him in the process. That was not how the birth would occur. He had studied various methods of reproduction, and he had developed a theory that he found convincing.

      Seeing this movement within Jonathan, Jenna stopped crying in a blink – and started to scream into the rag, the duct tape.

      He attempted to explain to her that this was nothing to fear, that this was his ultimate act of rebellion against Father and the start of the New Race’s emancipation.

      “He denies us the power to reproduce,” Jonathan said, “but I am reproducing. It’s going to be like parthenogenesis, I think. When the time comes, I’ll divide, like an ameba. Then there will be two of me – I the father, and my son.”

      When Jenna thrashed, desperately but stupidly trying to wrench loose of her restraints, Jonathan worried that she would tear out the IV drip. Eager to proceed with her dissection, he didn’t want to have to waste time reinserting the cannula.

      He carefully pressed the plunger of the syringe in the drug port and delivered a couple ccs of the sedative.

      Her thrashing quickly quieted to a trembling. She grew still. She slept.

      Inside Jonathan, the Other grew still, as well. His stretched torso regained its natural shape.

      Smiling, he slid one hand down his chest and abdomen. “Our time is coming.”

       CHAPTER 69

      TURNING AWAY FROM the front door of Fullbright’s Funeral Home, Michael wanted to sprint to the car and climb in behind the wheel. He would have done it, too, would have seized control – if he’d had a key.

      Mere possession of the driver’s seat would mean nothing to Carson. She wouldn’t give him her key. Unless she chose to ride shotgun, she’d walk before she’d give up the wheel.

      The plainwrap came with two sets of keys. Carson had both.

      Michael had frequently considered requisitioning another set from the motor pool. He knew she’d consider that betrayal.

      So she drove again. Clearly, there were no safety engineers in her family.

      At least he was distracted from consideration of their speed by the need to get his mind around the cockamamie story she wanted him to believe. “Man-made men? Science just isn’t that far along yet.”

      “Maybe most scientists aren’t, but Victor is.”

      “Mary Shelley was a novelist.”

      “She must’ve based the book on a true story she heard that summer. Michael, you heard what Jack Rogers told us. Not a freak. Bobby Allwine was designed.”

      “Why would he be creating monsters to be security guards like Bobby Allwine? Doesn’t that seem goofy?”

      “Maybe he creates them to be all kinds of things – cops, like Harker. Mechanics. Pilots. Bureaucrats. Maybe they’re all around us.”

      “Why?”

      “Deucalion says – to take our place, to destroy God’s work and replace it with his own.”

      “I’m not Austin Powers, and neither are you, and it’s hard to swallow that Helios is Dr. Evil.”

      Impatiently, she said, “What happened to your imagination? Have you watched so many movies, you can’t imagine for