Frankenstein: The Complete 5-Book Collection. Dean Koontz

      He sits with his back to a corner, cushioned by paper refuse, his world reduced to manageable dimensions, and works one crossword puzzle after another in the book that he brought with him from his room in the Hands of Mercy.

      Frequently traffic passes through the alleyway. And people on foot. Initially he pauses in his puzzle at each possibility of an encounter, but eventually he realizes that they are not likely to disturb him.

      If a sanitation truck comes to empty the Dumpster, he is not sure how he will cope. This possibility didn’t occur to him until he had already taken sanctuary in the container. His hope is that trash is not collected every day.

      Having missed breakfast and then lunch, he grows hungry as the day progresses. Considering his accomplishments to this point, he can endure a little hunger.

      At Mercy, Randal’s untouched meals will alert the staff to his absence, though perhaps not for a while. Sometimes, when particularly deep in autistic detachment, he leaves a meal untouched for hours. He has been known to eat both breakfast and lunch an hour before dinner – then leave his dinner until near midnight.

      Before departing Mercy, he closed his bathroom door. They may think that he is in there.

      From time to time, people toss bags of trash and loose objects into the bin. The top of the big Dumpster is over their heads, so they cannot easily look in and see him.

      Sometimes the trash strikes him, but it’s never a problem. When the people leave, Randal pushes the new stuff away and reestablishes his cozy nest.

      Midafternoon, a man singing “King of the Road” approaches along the alley. He can’t carry a tune.

      Judging by the sound, he’s pushing some kind of cart. The wheels clatter on the cracked pavement.

      Between lines of the song, the cart-pusher grumbles incoherent chains of four-letter words, then resumes singing.

      When this man stops at the Dumpster, Randal Six puts aside his puzzle book and pen. Instinct tells him that there may be trouble.

      Two grimy hands appear at the rim of the bin. The singer takes a grip, grunts and curses as he clambers up the side of the Dumpster.

      Balanced on the edge of the big container, half in and half out, the man spots Randal. His eyes widen.

      The guy is perhaps in his thirties, bearded, in need of a bath. His teeth are crooked and yellow when he reveals them to say “This here’s my territory, asshole.”

      Randal reaches up, grabs the man by his shirtsleeves, pulls him into the Dumpster, and breaks his neck. He rolls the dead body to the farther end of the container and covers it with bags of trash.

      In his corner once more, he picks up the puzzle book. He turns to his page and finishes spelling derangement.

      The dead man’s cart stands near the Dumpster. Eventually someone might notice it and wonder about its owner.

      Randal will have to deal with the problem if and when it arises. Meanwhile, crosswords.

      Time passes. Clouds darken the sky. Although still warm, the day grows cooler.

      Randal Six is not happy, but he is content, at ease. Later, he will be happy for the first time.

      In his mind’s eye is the city map, his route to happiness, the O’Connor house at the end of the journey, his guiding star.

       CHAPTER 87

      BECAUSE OF THEIR fine-tuned metabolism, members of the New Race did not easily become drunk. Their capacity for drink was great, and when they did become inebriated, they sobered more quickly than did those of the Old Race.

      Throughout the day, Father Duchaine and Harker opened bottle after bottle of communion wine. This use of the church’s inventory troubled the priest both because it was in effect a misappropriation of funds and because the wine, once blessed, would have become the sacred blood of Christ.

      Being a soulless creature made by man but charged with religious duty, Father Duchaine had over the months and years grown ever more torn between what he was and what he wished to be.

      Regardless of the moral issue of using this particular wine for purposes other than worship, the alcoholic content of the brew was less than they might have wished. Late in the afternoon, they began to spike it with Father Duchaine’s supply of vodka.

      Sitting in armchairs in the rectory study, the priest and the detective tried for the tenth – or perhaps the twentieth – time to pull the most troubling thorns from each other’s psyches.

      “Father will find me soon,” Harker predicted. “He’ll stop me.”

      ‘And me,” the priest said morosely.

      “But I don’t feel guilty about what I’ve done.”

      “Thou shalt not kill.”

      “Even if there is a God, His commandments can’t apply to us,” said Harker. “We’re not His children.”

      “Our maker has also forbidden us to murder … except on his instructions.”

      “But our maker isn’t God. He’s more like … the plantation owner. Murder isn’t a sin … just disobedience.”

      “It’s still a crime,” said Father Duchaine, troubled by Harker’s self-justifications, even though the plantation-owner analogy had a measure of truth in it.

      Sitting on the edge of his armchair, leaning forward, tumbler of vodka-spiked wine clasped in both hands, Harker said, “Do you believe in evil?”

      “People do terrible things,” the priest said. “I mean, real people, the Old Race. For children of God, they do terrible, terrible things.”

      “But evil,” Harker pressed. “Evil pure and purposeful? Is evil a real presence in the world?”

      The priest drank from his glass, then said, “The church allows exorcisms. I’ve never performed one.”

      With the solemnity of both profound dread and too much booze, Harker said, “Is he evil?”

      “Victor?” Father Duchaine felt that he was on dangerous ground. “He’s a hard man, not easy to like. His jokes aren’t funny.”

      Harker rose from his chair, went to a window, and studied the low, threatening sky that impressed an early dusk upon the day.

      After a while, he said, “If he’s evil … then what are we? I’ve been so … confused lately. But I don’t feel evil. Not like Hitler or Lex Luthor. Just … incomplete.”

      Father Duchaine slid to the edge of his chair. “Do you think … by living the right way, we might in time develop the souls that Victor couldn’t give us?”

      Returning from the window, adding vodka to his glass, Harker said with serious demeanor, “Grow a soul? Like … gallstones? I’ve never thought about it.”

      “Have you seen Pinocchio?”

      “I’ve never had patience for their movies.”

      “This marionette is made of wood,” Father Duchaine said, “but he wants to be a real boy.”

      Harker nodded, downed half his drink, and said, “Like Winnie the Pooh wants to be a real bear.”

      “No. Pooh is delusional. He already thinks he’s a real bear. He eats honey. He’s afraid of bees.”

      “Does Pinocchio become a real boy?”

      Father Duchaine said, ‘After a lot of struggle, yes.”

      “That’s inspiring,” Harker decided.

      “It is. It really is.”

      Harker