Frankenstein Special Edition: Prodigal Son and City of Night. Dean KoontzЧитать онлайн книгу.
for glory hogs.”
“Envy,” Harker said dismissively “We close more cases than anyone.”
“Sometimes by popping the suspect,” Michael said, referring to a recent officer-involved shooting for which Harker had narrowly avoided being brought up on charges.
Harker’s smile was contemptuous. “You want my theory about the library security guard?”
Michael said, “Do I want pancreatic cancer?”
“The black rooms are a death wish,” Harker conjectured.
“Damn,” Carson said.
“He tried to slash his wrists with each of those razor blades in the bathroom wall,” Harker continued. “But he just couldn’t find the courage.”
“You and Frye went to Allwine’s apartment?”
“Yeah. You two,” Harker said, “you’re our babies, and we sometimes feel the need to burp you.”
He pushed between them, walked away, glanced back after a few steps. “When you have a theory, I’ll be happy to listen to it.”
To Carson, Michael said, “I’ve got a short list of hearts I’d like to cut out.”
AFTER VICTOR LEFT the master suite, Erika slipped into a St. John dress that managed to be sensational yet respectable, subtly sexy but classy
Standing in front of a full-length mirror in her enormous walk-in closet, which was as big as most master bedrooms, she knew that she looked enchanting, that she would leave an indelible impression on every man at the dinner. Nevertheless, she felt inadequate.
She would have tried other dresses if the first guests had not been scheduled to arrive in mere minutes. Victor expected her to be at his side to greet each arrival, and she dared not fail him.
All of her clothes were behind doors or in drawers along three aisles. She owned literally hundreds of outfits.
She hadn’t shopped for any of them. Having created her to his ideal measurements, Victor had purchased everything while she had still been in the tank.
Perhaps he’d bought some of these things for the previous Erika. She didn’t like to think about that.
She hoped that someday she would be allowed to shop for herself. When Victor allowed that, she would know she had at last met his standards and earned his trust.
Briefly, she wondered what it would be like not to care what Victor—or anyone—thought of her. To be herself. Independent.
Those were dangerous thoughts. She must repress them.
At the back of the closet, perhaps two hundred pairs of shoes were stored on canted shelves. Although she knew that time was of the essence, she dithered between Gucci and Kate Spade.
Behind her in the closet, something rustled, something thumped.
She turned to look back at the center aisle but saw only closed cherrywood doors behind which hung some of her seasonal wardrobe, and pale yellow carpet. She peeked into the right-hand aisle, then into the left, but they were also deserted.
Refocusing on her dilemma, she finally resolved it by choosing the Kate Spades. Carrying them in one hand, she hurried out of the closet into her dressing room.
Entering, she thought she saw movement from the corner of her eye, on the floor at the open doorway to the bedroom. When she turned her head, nothing was there.
Curious, she went into the bedroom nevertheless—just in time to see the silk spread flutter behind something that had just slipped under the king-size bed.
They had no house pets, no dog, no cat.
Victor would be furious if it turned out that a rat had gotten into the house. He had zero tolerance for vermin.
Erika had been made to be cautious of danger but to fear nothing in the extreme—although her programmed respect for her maker came close to fear at times.
If a rat had gotten into the house and if now it hid under the bed, she would not hesitate to snare it and dispose of it.
She set aside the Kate Spades and dropped to her knees beside the bed. She had no doubt that her reflexes were quick enough to snatch a scurrying rat.
When she lifted the spread and looked under the bed, her superb vision required no flashlight. But nothing lurked beneath the boxed springs.
She got to her feet and turned, surveying the room. She sensed that something was here, but she didn’t have time to search behind every piece of furniture.
Conscious of time racing rat-fast, she sat on the edge of an armchair, near the fireplace, and pulled on her shoes. They were beautiful, but she would have liked them more if she had bought them herself.
She sat for a moment, listening. Silence. But this was the kind of silence that suggested something might be listening to her as she listened for it.
When she left the master suite for the upstairs hall, she closed the door behind her. It fit tight. Nothing could get under it. If a rat was loose in the bedroom, it couldn’t get downstairs to spoil the dinner party.
She descended the grand staircase, and as she reached the foyer, the doorbell rang. The first guests had arrived.
AS ROY PRIBEAUX dressed in black slacks, a pale-blue silk sport jacket, and a white linen shirt for his date with Candace—those eyes!—an all-news channel on TV did a segment about the Surgeon.
What an absurd name they had given him. He was a romantic. He was an idealist from a family of idealists. He was a purist. He was many things, but he was not a surgeon.
He knew they were talking about him, though he did not closely follow the media response to his harvests. He hadn’t begun his collection of female perfection with the hope that he would become a celebrity. Fame had no appeal for him.
Of course his quest generated public interest for all the wrong reasons. They saw violence, not art. They saw blood, not the work of a dreamer who sought perfection in all things.
He had only contempt for the media and for the audience to which they pandered. Knaves speaking to fools.
Having come from a prominent family of politicians—his father and grandfather had served the city of New Orleans and the state of Louisiana—he had seen with what ease the public could be manipulated by the clever use of envy and fear. His family had been expert at it.
In the process, the Pribeauxs had greatly enriched themselves. His grandfather and father had done so well in public service that Roy himself had never needed to work and never would.
Like great artists during the Renaissance, he had patrons: generations of taxpayers. His inheritance allowed him to devote his life to the pursuit of ideal beauty.
When the TV reporter mentioned the most recent two victims, Roy’s attention was suddenly focused by the coupling of an unknown name—Bobby Allwine—with that of Elizabeth Lavenza. He had harvested Elizabeth’s lovely hands before consigning the depressingly imperfect remainder of her to the City Park lagoon.
The heart had been removed from this Allwine person.
Roy had no interest in hearts. He wasn’t about internals. He was about externals. The kind of beauty that moved Roy was skin deep.
Furthermore, this Allwine person was a man. Roy had no interest in the ideal beauty of men—except in the constant refinement and perfection