Frankenstein Special Edition: Prodigal Son and City of Night. Dean Koontz

he could guide subtly into channels that would serve his interests long after the mayor, the district attorney, the university president, and the others had left his table. To Victor, every social occasion was primarily an opportunity to influence political and cultural leaders, discreetly advancing his agenda.

      Initially, of course, the talk was of frivolous things, even among such accomplished guests. But Victor fancied himself to be as capable of light chatter as anyone and could enjoy this witty froth because it sharpened his anticipation for meatier discussion.

      William and Christine served the soup, the butler holding the tureen while the maid ladled a creamy pink richness into the bowls.

      This was Erika’s third dinner party in the five weeks since she had risen from the tank, and she exhibited some improvement in her social skills, though less than he had hoped.

      He saw her frown as she noticed that the flower arrangements were different from those that she had painstakingly created. She possessed the good sense to say nothing of the change.

      When his wife glanced at him, however, Victor said, “The roses are perfect,” so she would learn from her error.

      District Attorney Watkins, whose once-patrician nose had begun subtly to deform as inhaled cocaine ate away supporting cartilage, used one hand to fan the rising aroma from the bowl to his nostrils. “Erika, the soup smells delicious.”

      John Watkins’s opponent in the next election—Buddy Guitreau—was one of Victor’s people. With all the dirt about Watkins that Victor could provide, Buddy would romp to victory at the polls. In the months until then, however, it was necessary to flatter Watkins with dinner invitations and to work with him.

      “I love lobster bisque,” said Pamela Watkins. “Is this your recipe, Erika?”

      “No. I found it in a magazine, but I added some spices. I doubt I’ve improved it, probably the opposite, but I like even lobster bisque to have a little bite.”

      “Oh, it’s divine,” the university president’s wife declared after her first taste.

      This compliment, at once echoed by others, brought a glow of pride to Erika’s face, but when she herself raised a spoonful to her mouth, she took it with a soft, protracted slurp.

      Appalled, Victor watched her dip the spoon into the bowl once more.

      Soup had not been on the menu at either of their previous dinner parties, and Victor had taken a meal with Erika only twice otherwise. Her faux pas surprised and unsettled him.

      She sucked in the second spoonful no less noisily than she had the first.

      Although none of the guests appeared to notice this ghastly play of tongue and lips, Victor took offense that as his wife she should risk being mocked. Those who might laugh at her behind her back would also laugh at him.

      He announced, “The bisque is curdled. William, Christine, please remove it at once.”

      “Curdled?” the mayor’s wife asked, bewildered. “Not mine.”

      “Curdled,” Victor insisted as the servants quickly retrieved the soup bowls. ‘And you don’t want to eat a lobster dish when it might be in any way off.”

      Stricken, Erika watched as the bowls were removed from the table.

      “I’m sorry, Erika,” Victor said, into an awkward silence. “This is the first time I’ve ever found fault with your cooking—or with anything about you.”

      John Watkins protested, “Mine was delicious.”

      Although she might not have understood the cause of Victor’s action, Erika recovered quickly. “No, John. You’ve always got my vote for district attorney. But in culinary matters, I trust Victor. His palate is as refined as any chef’s.”

      Victor felt his clenched jaw relaxing into a genuine smile. In part, Erika had redeemed herself.

       CHAPTER 25

      THE GRAY VINYL-TILE FLOOR squeaked under Carson’s and Michael’s shoes. Although subtle, the sounds seemed loud in the otherwise silent hallway.

      The forensic pathology unit appeared to be deserted. At this hour, staffing should have been reduced but not this drastically

      They found Jack Rogers where he said he’d be—in Autopsy Room Number 2. With him were the professionally fileted corpse of Bobby Allwine, supine upon a guttered steel table, and a lanky young assistant whom Jack introduced as Luke.

      “Trumped up an excuse to send the rest of the night staff home,” Jack said. “Didn’t want to take a chance of some chatterbox getting a glimpse of what we’ve got here.”

      “And what do we have?” Carson asked.

      “A miracle,”Jack said. “Except I get a squamous feeling, like it’s too dark a miracle to have anything to do with God. That’s why only Luke and I are here. Luke isn’t a gossiping jackass, are you, Luke?”

      “No, sir.”

      Luke’s slightly protuberant eyes, long nose, and longer chin gave him a scholarly look, as if books exerted such an attraction on him that they had pulled his features toward the contents of their pages.

      Potbellied, with a hound-dog face full of sags and swags that added years to his true age, Jack Rogers looked older now than he usually did. Although his excitement was palpable, his face had a gray tinge.

      “Luke’s got a good eye for physiological anomalies,” Jack said. “He knows his guts.”

      Luke nodded, taking pride in his boss’s praise. “I’ve just always been interested in viscera since I was a kid.”

      “With me,” Michael said, “it was baseball.”

      Jack said, “Luke and I completed every phase of the internal examination. Head, body cavities, neck, respiratory tract—”

      “Cardiovascular system,” Luke continued, “gastrointestinal tract, biliary tract, pancreas, spleen, adrenals—”

      “Urinary tract, reproductive tract, and musculoskeletal system,” Jack concluded.

      The cadaver on the table certainly appeared to have been well explored.

      If the body had not been so fresh, Carson would have wanted to grease her nostrils with Vicks. She could tolerate this lesser stench of violated stomach and intestines.

      “Every phase revealed such bizarre anatomy,” Jack said, “we’re going back through again to see what we might’ve missed.”

      “Bizarre? Such as?”

      “He had two hearts.”

      “What do you mean two hearts?”

      “Two. The number after one, before three. Uno, dos.”

      “In other words,” Luke said earnestly, “twice as many as he should have had.”

      “We got that part,” Michael assured him. “But at the library, we saw Allwine’s chest open. You could have parked a Volkswagen in there. If everything’s missing, how do you know he had two hearts?”

      “For one thing, the associated plumbing,” Jack said. “He had the arteries and veins to serve a double pump. The indicators are numerous. They’ll all be in my final report. But that’s not the only thing weird about Allwine.”

      “What else?”

      “Skull bone’s as dense as armor. I burnt out two electric trepanning saws trying to cut through it.”

      “He had a pair of livers, too,” said Luke, “and a twelve-ounce spleen. The average spleen is seven ounces.”

      “A more extensive lymphatic