Prodigal Son

"Where would you expect him to set up shop-Baton Rouge, Baltimore, Omaha, Las Vegas?"
        "Somewhere in Europe."
        "Why Europe?"
        "He's European."
        "Once was, yeah, but not now. As Helios, he doesn't even speak with an accent."
        "The whole creepy Frankenstein shtick-it's totally European," Michael insisted.
        "Remember the mobs with pitchforks and torches storming the castle?" Carson asked. "He can't go back there ever."
        "That was in the movies, Carson."
        "Maybe they're more like documentaries."
        She knew she sounded crazy The bayou heat and humidity had finally gotten to her. Maybe if you cut open her skull, you'd find Spanish moss growing on her brain.
        She said, "Where is the most recombinant-DNA work being done, the most research into cloning? Where are the most discoveries in molecular biology taking place?"
        "According to the tabloids I read, probably in Atlantis, a few miles under the surface of the Caribbean."
        "It's all happening here in the good old USA, Michael. If Victor Frankenstein is alive, this is where he'd want to be, right where the most science is being done. And New Orleans is plenty creepy enough to please him. Where else do they bury all their dead in mausoleums aboveground?"
        The porch light came on. A deadbolt turned with a rasp and a clack, and the door opened.
        Taylor Fullbright stood before them in red silk pajamas and a black silk robe on the breast of which was appliqued an image of Judy Garland as Dorothy.
        As convivial as ever, Fullbright said, "Why, hello again!"
        "I'm sorry if we woke you," Carson apologized.
        "No, no. You didn't. I finished embalming a customer half an hour ago, worked up an appetite. I'm making a pastrami and tongue sandwich, if you'd like one."
        Michael said, "No thanks. I'm full of Cheez Doodles, and she's full of inexplicable enthusiasm."
        "We don't need to come in," Carson said, showing him first the silver-framed photo of Roy Pribeaux. "Have you ever seen him before?"
        "Quite a handsome fellow," said Fullbright. "But he looks a bit smug. I know the type. They're always trouble."
        "More trouble than you can imagine."
        "But I don't know him," Fullbright said.
        From a nine-by-twelve manila envelope, Carson extracted a police-department file photo of Detective Jonathan Harker.
        "This one I know," said the funeral director. "He was Allwine's funeral buddy"

CHAPTER 68
        
        JENNA PARKER, party girl, not for the first time naked in front of a man, but for the first time unable to excite sexual interest, wept. Her sobs were more pathetic for being muffled by the rag in her mouth and the lip-sealing duct tape.
        "It's not that I don't find you attractive," Jonathan told her. "I do. I think you're a fine example of your species. It's just that I'm of the New Race, and having sex with you would be like you having sex with a monkey."
        For some reason, his sincere explanation made her cry harder. She was going to choke on her sobs if she wasn't careful.
        Giving her a chance to adjust to her circumstances and to get control of her emotions, he fetched a physician's bag from a closet. He put it on a stainless-steel cart, and rolled the cart to the autopsy table.
        From the black bag he extracted surgical instruments -scalpels, clamps, retractors -and lined them up on the cart. They had not been sterilized, but as Jenna would be dead when he was done with her, there was no reason to guard against infection.
        When the sight of the surgical instruments excited the woman to greater weeping, Jonathan realized that fear of pain and death might be the sole cause of her tears.
        "Well," he told her, "if you're going to cry about that, then you're going to have to cry, because there's nothing I can do about it. I can't very well let you go now. You'd tell."
        After emptying the bag, he set it aside.
        On the bed lay a thin but tough plastic raincoat, one of those that could be wadded up and stored in a zippered case no larger than a tobacco pouch. He intended to wear it over his T-shirt and jeans to minimize cleanup when he had finished with Jenna.
        As Jonathan shook the raincoat to unfurl it, a familiar throb, a shifting and turning within him, made him gasp with surprise, with excitement.
        He threw aside the