Prodigal Son (Dean Koontz's Frankenstein 1)

As Carson picked up the book on psychotherapy, Deucalion said, “He’s more desperate than ever. And when the desperation increases, so does the obsession.”

One of the bookmarks was not a Post-it. Carson discovered an appointment card for Harker’s third session with Kathleen Burke, the appointment that he didn’t keep.

She turned and looked at the mural of stapled images.

Where they had peeled at the collage, the fourth layer had been revealed below the demons and devils. Freud, Jung. Psychiatrists …

In memory, Carson heard Kathy as they had stood talking with her the previous night in front of this very building: But Harker and I seemed to have such… rapport.

Reading her as he always could, Michael said, “Something?”

“It’s Kathy She’s next.”

“What’d you find?”

She showed him the appointment card.

He took it from her, turned with it to Deucalion, but Deucalion was gone.

CHAPTER 91

A fraction of the day remains, but filtered through the soot-dark clouds, the light is thin, gray, and weaves itself with shadows to obscure more than illuminate.

For hours, the supermarket shopping cart-piled with garbage bags full of salvaged tin cans, glass bottles, and other trash—has stood where the vagrant left it. No one has remarked upon it.

Randal Six, fresh from the Dumpster, means to push the cart to a less conspicuous place. Perhaps this will delay the discovery of the dead man in the bin.

He curls both hands around the handle of the cart, closes his eyes, imagines ten crossword squares on the pavement in front of him, and begins to spell shopaholic. He never finishes the word, for an amazing thing happens.

As the shopping cart rolls forward, the wheels rattle across the uneven pavement; nevertheless, the motion is remarkably, satisfyingly smooth. So smooth and continuous is this motion that Randal finds he can’t easily think of his progress as taking place letter by letter, one square at a time.

Although this development spooks him, the relentless movement of the wheels through squares, rather than from one square to another in orderly fashion, doesn’t bring him to a halt. He has . . . momentum.

When he arrives at the second o in shopaholic, he stops spelling because he is not any longer sure which of the ten imagined squares he is in. Astonishingly, though he stops spelling, he keeps moving.

He opens his eyes, assuming that when he no longer visualizes the crossword boxes in his mind’s eye, he will come to a sudden stop. He keeps moving.

At first he feels as if the cart is the motive force, pulling him along the alleyway. Although it lacks a motor, it must be driven by some kind of magic.

This is frightening because it implies a lack of control. He is at the mercy of the shopping cart. He must go where it takes him.

At the end of a block, the cart could turn left or right. But it continues forward, across a side street, into the next length of the alleyway. Randal remains on the route that he mapped to the O’Connor house. He keeps moving.

As the wheels revolve, revolve, he realizes that the cart is not pulling him, after all. He is pushing the cart.

He experiments. When he attempts to increase speed, the cart proceeds faster. When he chooses a less hurried pace, the cart slows.

Although happiness is not within his grasp, he experiences an unprecedented gratification, perhaps even satisfaction. As he rolls, rolls, rolls along, he has a taste, the barest taste, of what freedom might be like.

Full night has fallen, but even in darkness, even in alleyways, the world beyond Mercy is filled with more sights, more sounds, more smells than he can process without spinning into panic. Therefore, he looks neither to the left nor the right, focuses on the cart before him, on the sound of its wheels.

He keeps moving.

The shopping cart is like a crossword-puzzle box on wheels, and in it is not merely a collection of aluminum cans and glass bottles but also his hope for happiness, his hatred for Arnie O’Connor.

He keeps moving.

CHAPTER 92

IN THE BUNGALOW of the seashell gate with the unicorn motif, behind the windows flanked by midnight-blue shutters decorated with star shapes and crescent moons, Kathy Burke sat at her kitchen table reading a novel about adventure in a kingdom ruled by wizardry and witchery, eating almond cookies and drinking coffee.

From the corner of her eye, she saw movement and looked up to discover Jonathan Harker standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the dark hall.

His face, usually red from the sun or from anger, was whiter than pale. Disheveled, sweating, he looked malarial.

Although his eyes were wild and haunted, although his nervous hands plucked continually at his stretched and saturated T-shirt, he spoke in a meek and ingratiating manner weirdly out of sync with his aggressive entrance and his appearance: “Good evening, Kathleen. HowVe you? Busy, I’m sure. Always busy”

Taking her lead from his tone, Kathy calmly put a bookmark in her novel, slid it aside. “It didn’t have to be this way, Jonathan.”

“Maybe it did. Maybe there was never any hope forme.”

“It’s partly my fault that you are where you are. If you’d stayed in counseling—“

He took a step into the room. “No. I’ve hidden so much from you. I didn’t want you to know . . . what I am.”

“I’ve been a lousy therapist,” she said by way of ingratiation.

“You’re a good woman, Kathy A very fine person.”

The weirdness of this exchange—her self-effacement, Harker’s flattery—in light of his recent crimes, was impossible to sustain, and Kathy thought furiously about where the encounter might lead and how best to manage it.

Fate intruded when the phone rang.

They both looked at it.

“I’d prefer you didn’t answer that,” said Harker.

She remained seated and did not challenge him. “If I’d insisted that you keep your appointments, I might have recognized signs that you were … heading for trouble.”

A third ring of the phone.

He nodded. His smile was tortured. “You would have. You’re so insightful, so understanding. That’s why I was afraid to talk with you anymore.”

“Will you sit down, Jonathan?” she asked, indicating the chair across the table from her.

A fifth ring.

“I’m so tired,” he acknowledged, but he made no move toward the chair. “Do I disgust you . . . what I’ve done?”

Choosing her words carefully, she said, “No. I feel… a kind of grief, I guess.”

After the seventh or eighth ring, the phone fell silent.

“Grief,” she continued, “because I so much liked the man you were . . . the Jonathan I knew.”

“There’s no going back, is there?”

“I won’t lie to you,” she said.

Harker moved tentatively, almost shyly toward Kathleen. “You’re so complete. I know if only I could look inside you, I’d find what I’m missing.”

Defensively, she rose from her chair. “You know that makes no sense, Jonathan.”

“But what else can I do but… keep looking?”

“I only want what’s best for you. Do you believe that?”

“I guess . .. Yes, I do.”

She took a deep breath, took a risk: “Then will you let me call someone, make arrangements to turn you in?”

For an anguished moment, Harker looked around the kitchen as if he were trapped. He might have snapped then, but his tension subsided into anxiety Sensing that she was winning him over to surrender, Kathy said, “Let me call someone. Let me do the right thing.”

He considered her offer for a moment. “No. No, that wouldn’t be a good thing.”

He looked across the kitchen, intrigued by something.

When Kathy followed the direction of his gaze, she saw the knife rack filled with gleaming blades.

leaving HARKER’S apartment, Michael hadn’t made any attempt to get behind the wheel. He tossed the keys to Carson.

He rode shotgun—literally, holding the weapon between his knees, the muzzle toward the ceiling.

By habit, as they rocketed through the night, he said, “Stop trying for the land-speed record. The dispatcher will have someone there ahead of us, anyway”

Accelerating, Carson came back at him: “Did you say something, Michael? ‘Yes, Carson, I said, Faster, faster’ Yeah, that’s what I thought you said, Michael.”

“You do a lousy imitation of me,” he complained. “You’re not nearly funny enough.”

WITH ONE hand on his abdomen, as if suffering a stomachache, Harker prowled the kitchen, moving toward the knife rack and then away, but then toward it once more. “Something’s happening,” he said worriedly “Maybe it’s not going to be like I thought it would.”

“What’s wrong?” Kathy asked warily “Maybe it’s not going to be good. Not good at all. Something’s coming.”

Abruptly his face wrenched with pain. He let out a strangled cry and clasped both hands to his abdomen.

“Jonathan?”

“I’m splitting.”

Kathy heard tires squeal and brakes bark as a fast car pulled to a stop in her driveway.

Looking toward the sound, terror trumping his pain, Harker said, “Father?”

instead OF THE WALK-in unicorn gate, Carson favored the driveway and slid to a stop so close to the garage door that even a wizard couldn’t have charmed himself thin enough to fit between the building and the sedan’s bumper.

She pulled her piece from her paddle holster as she exited the car, and Michael chambered a shell in the shotgun as he came around the back of the car to join her.

The front door of the house flew open, and Kathy Burke ran onto the porch, down the steps. “Thank God,” Carson said. “Harker went out the back,” Kathy said. Even as she spoke, Carson heard running footsteps and turned, seeking the sound.

Harker had come along the farther side of the garage. He was off the lawn, into the street, before Carson could draw down on him.

By now he was in too public an area—houses across the street— to allow her to take a shot. The risk of collateral damage was too high.

Michael ran, Carson ran, Harker ahead of them, down the middle of the residential street.

In spite of the doughnuts and the grab-it dinners eaten on their feet, in spite of the ass-fattening time spent at desks filling out the nine yards of paperwork that had become the bane of modern police work, Carson and Michael were fast, movie-cop fast, wolf-on-a-rabbit fast.

Harker, being inhuman, being some freak brewed up in a lab by Victor Frankenstein, was faster. Along Kathy’s block to the corner and left into another street, along another block and right at the next corner, he opened up his lead.

Lightning tore the sky, magnolia shadows jumped across the pavement, and a blast of thunder rocked the city so hard that Carson thought she could feel it rumbling in the ground, but the rain did not fall at once, held off.

They traded the neighborhood of bungalows for low-rise office and apartment buildings.

Harker ran like a marathon man on meth, moving away, away—and then mid-block he made the mistake of veering into an alleyway that proved to dead-end in a wall.

He came to the eight-foot-high brick barrier, flung himself at it, scrambled up like a monkey on a stick, but abruptly screamed as if torn by horrendous pain. He fell off the wall, rolled, sprang at once to his feet.

Carson shouted at him to freeze, as if there were a hope in hell that he would, but she had to go through the motions.

He went at the wall again, leaped, grabbed the top, too fast for her to sight on him, and clambered over.

“Get out in front of him!” she shouted to Michael, and he raced back the way they had come, looking for a different route into the street beyond the wall.

She holstered her pistol, dragged a half-filled garbage can to the end of the alley, climbed onto it, gripped the top of the wall with both hands, levered up, got a leg over.

Although she was sure that Harker would have escaped, Carson discovered that he had fallen again. He was lying faceup in the street, wriggling like a snake with a broken back.

If their kind could turn off pain in a crisis, as Deucalion claimed, either Harker had forgotten that option or something was so wrong with him that he had no control of it.

As she came off the wall, he got to his feet again, staggering toward an intersection.

They were near the waterfront. Ship-chandlers’ offices, ship brokerages, mostly warehouses. No traffic at this hour, businesses dark, streets silent.

At the intersection, Michael appeared in the street ahead.

Trapped between Carson and Michael, Harker turned toward the alleyway on the left, which led toward the waterfront, but it was fenced to twelve feet, with a wide padlocked gate, so he veered toward the front of a warehouse.

When Michael closed on him with the shotgun, Carson held back, giving him a clear approach.

Harker built speed toward the man-door at the front of the warehouse, as if he didn’t see it.

Following the usual protocol, Michael shouted for Harker to stop, to drop, to put his hands behind his head.

When Harker hit the door, it held, and he screamed, but he didn’t bounce off and go down as he ought to have done. He seemed to stick to it.

The crash of impact was followed at once by Harker’s cry of rage and the shriek of tortured metal.

Michael shouted again, five steps from point-blank position.

The warehouse door sagged. Hinges snapped with reports as loud as gunshots. The door went down, and Harker disappeared inside just as Michael halted and brought the 12-gauge into firing position.

Carson joined him at the entrance. “He’s going to try to get out the back.”

Once Harker was on the waterfront—the docks, the boats, the cargo esplanade—there were a thousand ways for him to disappear.

Offering Michael her pistol, grip first, she said, “You two-gun him at the back when he comes out. Gimme the shotgun, and I’ll move him through to you.”

This made sense because Michael was taller than she, stronger, and therefore could scale the twelve-foot alleyway fence faster than she could.

He took her pistol, gave her the shotgun. “Watch your ass. I’d hate for anything to happen to it.”

The mantle of the black sky cracked. Volcanic blaze of light, volcanic boom. At last the pent-up rain fell in a volume to inspire ark builders.

CHAPTER 93

TO THE RIGHT of the broken door, Carson found switches. Light revealed a reception area. Gray-tile floor, pale-blue walls. A few chairs. Low railings to the left and right, desks beyond.

Directly ahead was a service counter. At the left end, a gate stood open.