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

pursuit. Even without dropping to his knees, Michael could see that some of the pursuit involved sexual fondling.

      Only in New Orleans would either of these elements have seemed suitable to a funeral home. The house had probably been built around 1850 by nou-veau riche newcomers who hadn’t been welcome in the Creole sections of town. In this city, time eventually conferred dignity on what had once been outrageous as well as on what had been classic from the day it had been erected.

      Studying a photo of Bobby Allwine that Carson had given him, Taylor Fullbright said, “This is the very gentleman, yes. I felt sorry for the poor soul—so many of his friends were dying. Then I realized he didn’t know any of the deceased.”

      Carson said, “He—what?—just got a thrill being around dead people?”

      “Nothing that kinky,” said Fullbright. “He just…seemed to be at peace around them.”

      “That’s what he said—he was at peace?”

      “The only thing I can remember he said was ‘Death can be as much a gift as a curse,’ which is often true.”

      “Did you confront him about coming to all these viewings?”

      “Confrontation isn’t my style, Detective. Some funeral directors are solemn to the point of seeming stern. I’m more of a hugger and a consoler. Mr. Allwine and his friend, they were never a problem. More melancholy than weird.”

      Carson’s phone rang, and when she stepped away to answer it, Michael said to Fullbright, “He came with a friend? Can you give us a description?”

      Smiling, nodding, as affable as a cartoon bear, the mortician said, “I can see him as clear in memory as if he were standing here. He was ordinary to a fault. Average height. A little heavier than average weight. Middle-aged. Brown hair—or maybe blond. Blue or green eyes, maybe hazel.”

      With a sarcasm that sounded like earnest praise, Michael said, “Amazing. That’s as good as a photo.”

      Pleased, Fullbright said, “I’ve got a sharp eye for detail.”

      Putting away her phone, Carson turned to Michael: “Jack Rogers wants to see us at the morgue.”

      “You might mention to the coroner,” Fullbright said, “that while I don’t extend commissions to those who send us business, I do offer discounts for referrals.”

      “I can’t wait to tell him,” Michael said. Pointing to the marble marquetry at their feet, he asked, “Who’s that figure?”

      “The one with the winged feet? That’s Mercury.”

      “And that one next to him?”

      “Aphrodite,” said Fullbright.

      ‘Are they…?”

      “Engaged in sodomy?” the mortician asked jovially. “Indeed they are. You’d be amazed how many mourners notice and are cheered by it.”

      “I am amazed,” Michael agreed.

       CHAPTER 43

      THE LONGER ROY PRIBEAUX roamed his expansive loft apartment, gazing out of the tall windows, brooding about his future, the more troubled he became.

      When a brief midmorning shower pelted the panes, blurring the city, he felt as if his future also blurred further, until it was a meaningless smear. He might have cried if crying had been his thing.

      Never in his young—and getting steadily younger—life had he been without a purpose and a plan. Meaningful work kept the mind sharp and the heart uplifted.

      Meaningful work, having a worthwhile purpose, was as crucial to longevity and to enduring youthfulness as were megadoses of Vitamin C and Coenzyme Q10.

      Without a purpose to inspire him, Roy feared that in spite of a perfect diet, ideally balanced nutritional supplements, an array of exotic emollients, and even purified lamb’s urine, he would begin to grow old mentally. The more he brooded, the more it seemed that the path to senility loomed before him, as steep as a luge chute.

      Mind and body were inextricably linked, of course, so a year of mental senescence would inevitably lead to lines at the corners of his eyes, the first gray hairs at his temples. He shuddered.

      He tried to muster the desire to take a walk, but if he spent the day in the Quarter, among the throngs of celebratory tourists, and if he failed to encounter the radiant goddess of his destiny, his uneasiness would deepen.

      Because he himself was very close to perfect, perhaps now that he had collected all the parts of an ideal woman, he should make it his goal to refine himself that final degree. He could now focus on achieving the perfect metabolism until he ceased to excrete wastes.

      Although this was a noble undertaking, it didn’t promise as much fun as the quest he had recently completed.

      Finally, out of desperation, he found himself wondering—indeed hoping—that he had erred when he concluded that he had completed his collection. He might have overlooked an anatomical feature that, while minor, remained essential to beauty’s jigsaw.

      For a while he sat at the kitchen table with da Vinci’s famous anatomical charts and several old Playboy centerfolds. He studied the female form from every angle, looking for a morsel that he might have overlooked.

      When he made no discovery that allowed him to cry Eureka, he began to consider the possibility that he had not been sufficiently specific in his collecting. Was it possible that he had collected from too macro a perspective?

      Were he to take Elizabeth Lavenza’s lovely pale hands from the freezer and review them critically, he might be surprised to find that they were perfect, yes, in every detail but one. Perhaps she had a single thumb that fell short of perfection.

      Perhaps the lips he had harvested were not both perfect as he had remembered. The upper might be perfect, the lower not quite.

      If he needed to set out on a search for the perfect left thumb to marry to Elizabeth’s otherwise faultlessly fair hands, if he must find a bee-stung lower lip to match the exquisite upper already in his possession, then his quest had not been completed, after all, and he would for a while have meaningful…

      “No,” he declared aloud. “That way lies madness.”

      Soon he would be reduced to harvesting one toe per donor and killing for mere eyelashes. A thin line separated serious homicidal purpose from buffoonery.

      Realizing that a blind alley lay before him, Roy might at that moment have fallen into a swoon of despair, even though at heart he was an optimistic person. Fortunately, he was saved by a new thought.

      From his nightstand he retrieved his original list of wanted anatomical delights. He had drawn a line through every item as he acquired it, concluding with EYES.

      The list was long, and perhaps early in the quest he had crossed off an item out of wishful thinking, before he had taken possession of it. His memory of certain periods in his past was somewhat hazy, not because of any mental deficiency, but solely because he was such a tomorrow-oriented person, focused on the future in which he would grow younger and closer to perfection.

      He vaguely recalled, over the years, killing a woman or two for an ideal feature, only to discover, in the intimate presence of the corpse, that the wanted item was minutely flawed and therefore not worth harvesting. Perhaps more than a woman or two. Maybe as many as four had disappointed him. Maybe five.

      He supposed it was possible that he had crossed off an item or two on his list only to discover, after the kill, that he had been too easy in his judgment—and then in his busyness had forgotten to restore the needed item to the list.

      Either to confirm or eliminate this possibility, he needed to compare the