Prodigal Son

private investigators, and the amateur detectives who populated the pages of his favorite genre.
        In these mutual silences, Deucalion's reading consisted of the articles about Victor Helios, alias Frankenstein, that Ben had accumulated. He pored through them, trying to accustom himself to the bitter, incredible truth of his creator's continued existence, while also contemplating how best to destroy that pillar of arrogance.
        Again and again, he caught himself unconsciously fingering the ruined half of his face until eventually Jelly could not refrain from asking how the damage had been done.
        "I angered my maker," Deucalion said.
        "We all do," Jelly said, "but not with such consequences."
        "My maker isn't yours," Deucalion reminded him.
        A life of much solitude and contemplation accustomed Deucalion to silence, but Jelly needed background noise even when reading a novel. In a corner of the projection booth, volume low, stood a TV flickering with images that to Deucalion had no more narrative content than did the flames in a fireplace.
        Suddenly something in one of the droning newscast voices caught his attention. Murders. Body parts missing.
        Deucalion turned up the volume. A homicide detective named Carson O'Connor, beseiged by reporters outside the city library, responded to most of their questions with replies that in different words all amounted to no comment.
        When the story ended, Deucalion said, "The Surgeon…How long has this been going on?"
        As a mystery novel aficionado, Jelly was interested in true crime stories, too. He not only knew all the gory details of the Surgeon's murder spree; he also had developed a couple of theories that he felt were superior to any that the police had thus far put forth.
        Listening, Deucalion had suspicions of his own that grew from his unique experience.
        Most likely, the Surgeon was an ordinary serial killer taking souvenirs. But in a city where the god of the living dead had taken up residence, the Surgeon might be something worse than the usual psychopath.
        Returning the clippings to the shoe box, rising to his feet, Deucalion said, "I'm going out."
        "Where?"
        "To find his house. To see in what style a self-appointed god chooses to live these days."

CHAPTER 23
        
        ILLEGALLY PARKED IN Jackson Square, the hood of the plainwrap sedan served as their dinner table.
        Carson and Michael ate corn-battered shrimp, shrimp etouffee with rice, and corn maque choux from take-out containers.
        Strolling along the sidewalk were young couples, hand-in-hand. Musicians in black suits and porkpie hats hurried past, carrying instrument cases, shouldering between slower-moving older Cajun men in chambray shirts and Justin Wilson hats. Groups of young women showed more skin than common sense, and drag queens enjoyed the goggling of tourists.
        Somewhere good jazz was playing. Through the night air wove a tapestry of talk and laughter.
        Carson said, "What pisses me off about guys like Harker and Frye-"
        "This'll be an epic list," Michael said.
        "-is how I let them irritate me."
        "They're cheesed off because no one makes detective as young as we did."
        "That was three years ago for me. They better adjust soon."
        "They'll retire, get shot. One way or another, we'll eventually have our chance to be the old cranks."
        After savoring a forkful of corn maque choux, Carson said, "It's all about my father."
        "Harker and Frye don't care about what your father did or didn't do," Michael assured her.
        "You're wrong. Everyone expects that sooner or later it'll turn out I carry the dirty-cop gene, just like they think he did."
        Michael shook his head, "I don't for a minute think you carry the dirty-cop gene."
        "I don't give a shit what you think, Michael, I know what you think. It's what everyone else thinks that makes this job so much harder for me than it ought to be."
        "Yeah, well," he said, pretending offense, "I don't give a shit that you don't give a shit what I think."
        Chagrined, Carson laughed softly. "I'm sorry, man. You're one of a handful of people I do care what they think of me."
        "You wounded me," he said. "But I'll heal."
        "I've worked hard to get where I am." She sighed. "Except where I am is eating another meal on my