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

as he worked.

      All the appliances in his roomy kitchen boasted stainless-steel finishes, including the ovens, microwave, dishwasher, icemaker, Sub-Zero refrigerator, and two enormous freezers.

      In the first freezer he stored the parts of the perfect woman. He playfully referred to this as the love locker.

      The second freezer contained an assortment of dairy-free, soy-based ice creams, free-range chicken breasts, and quarts of rhubarb puree. In the event that a major act of terrorism led to a disruption in the distribution of vital nutritional supplements, he also stored five-pound packages of powdered saw palmetto, St. John’s wort, bee pollen, and other items.

      When he lifted the lid on the first freezer, a cloud of frosted air wafted past him, crisp with a faint scent vaguely like that of frozen fish. He saw at once that the freezer contained items that did not belong with his collection.

      His larger treasures—legs and arms—were tightly sealed in multiple layers of Reynolds Plastic Wrap. The smaller lovelies were sealed first in One-Zip bags and then in Tupperware containers with dependably tight lids.

      Now he found among his collection three containers that were not Tupperware. They were cheap knockoffs of that desired brand: opaque plastic bottoms with ugly green lids.

      This discovery mystified him. Although certain events in the more distant past might be blurry in his memory, these unacceptable containers were set atop the rest of his collection; they could have been placed here only recently. Yet he had never seen them before.

      Curious but not yet alarmed, he took the three containers from the freezer. He put them on a nearby counter.

      When he opened them, he found what might have been human organs. The first resembled liver. The second might have been a heart. With no real interest in things internal, he couldn’t guess whether the third item was a kidney, spleen, or something even more arcane.

      Pausing for some raisin muffin and apple juice, he could not avoid considering that these three specimens might be the souvenirs taken by the other killer currently making the news in New Orleans.

      Being a Renaissance man who had educated himself in a variety of disciplines, Roy knew more than a little about psychology. He could not help but give some consideration now to the concept of multiple personalities.

      He found it interesting to consider that he might be both the original killer and the copycat, might have murdered three men while in a fugue state, and that even now, confronted with evidence, he couldn’t remember popping or chopping them. Interesting…but in the end not convincing. He and himself, working separately, were not, together, the Surgeon.

      The true explanation eluded him, but he knew that it would prove to be more bizarre than multiple personalities.

      Instinct drew his attention to the second freezer.

      If the first had contained the unexpected, might not the second hold surprises, too? He might find gallons of high-fat ice cream and pounds of bacon among the herbs and health foods.

      Instead, when he opened the lid and blinked away the initial cloud of frosted air, he discovered Candace’s eyeless corpse jammed atop the supplements and foodstuffs.

      Roy was certain that he had not brought this cotton-candy person home with him.

       CHAPTER 44

      LIKE THE SOMEWHAT disheveled medical examiner himself, Jack Rogers’s private office was a classic example of managed chaos. The desktop overflowed with papers, notebooks, folders, photos. Books were jammed in the shelves everywhichway. Nevertheless, Jack would be able to find anything he needed after mere seconds of searching.

      Only partly because of sleep deprivation and too much coffee, Carson’s mind felt as disordered as the office. “Bobby Allwine’s gone?”

      Jack said, “The cadaver, the tissue samples, the autopsy video—all gone.”

      “What about the autopsy report and photos?” Michael asked. “Did you file them under ‘Munster, Herman’ like I suggested?”

      “Yeah. They found them, took them.”

      “They thought to look under ‘Munster, Herman?” Michael asked in disbelief. “Since when do grave robbers double as trivia mavens?”

      “Judging by the mess in the file room,” Jack said, “I think they just tore through all the drawers till they got what they wanted. We could have filed it under ‘Bell, Tinker,’ and they would have found it. Anyway, they weren’t grave robbers. They didn’t dig Allwine out of the ground. They took him from a morgue drawer.”

      “So they’re bodysnatchers,” Michael said. “Getting the term right doesn’t change the fact that your ass is in a sling, Jack.”

      “It feels like a barbed-wire thong,” Jack said. “Losing evidence in a capital case? Man, there goes the pension.”

      Trying to make sense of the situation, Carson said, “Did the city cut your security budget or what?”

      Jack shook his head. “We’re as tight as a prison here. It has to be an inside job.”

      Simultaneously, Carson and Michael looked at Luke, who sat on a stool in a corner.

      “Hey,” he said, “I never stole a dime in my life, let alone a dead guy”

      “Not Luke,” Jack Rogers assured them. “He couldn’t have pulled it off. He’d have screwed up.”

      Luke winced. “Thanks, I guess.”

      “Luke and I were here for a while after you two left, but not all night. We hit a wall, needed sleep. Because I’d sent home the night staff to keep the lid on this, the place was deserted.”

      “You forget to lock up?” Carson asked.

      Jack glowered at her. “No way.”

      “Signs of forced entry?”

      “None. They must’ve had keys.”

      “Somebody knew what you’d find in Allwine,” she said, “because maybe he’s not unique. Maybe there’re others like him.”

      “Don’t go off in the Twilight Zone again,” Michael half warned, half pleaded.

      “At least one other,” she said. “The friend he went to funerals with. Mr. Average Everything.”

      Almost simultaneous with a knock, the door opened, and Frye, Jonathan Harker’s partner, entered. He looked surprised to see them.

      “Why so glum?” he asked. “Did somebody die?”

      Weariness and caffeine sharpened Carson’s edge. “What don’t you understand about ‘buzz off?”

      “Hey, I’m not here about your case. We’re on that liquor-store shooting.”

      “Yeah? Is that right? Is that what you were doing yesterday at Allwine’s apartment—looking for clues in the liquor-store shooting?”

      Frye pretended innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. O’Connor, you’re wound as tight as a golf ball’s guts. Get a man, relieve some tension.”

      She wanted to shoot him accidentally.

      As if reading her mind, Michael said, ‘A gun can always go off accidentally, but you’d have to explain why you drew it in the first place.”

       CHAPTER 45

      COMFORTABLE IN HER ROBE, ensconced in a wing-back chair, Erika spent the night and the morning with no company but books, and even took