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  And, as a third condition, there were times when she remembered that she had been living here as Christine, a Beta, housekeeper to Mr. Helios, but also remembered the other and more exciting identity into which she now and then entirely submerged.

  Being one or the other, she could cope. But when aware of both existences, she became confused and anxious. As she was now.

  Only a short while ago, she had been in the staff dormitory, at the back of the property, where she belonged at this hour.

  But a few minutes ago, she found herself here in the library, not attending to any chore that was her responsibility, but browsing as though the book collection were hers. Indeed, she thought: I must find a book that Mrs. Van Hopper might like and send it to her with a warm note. It’s not right that I seldom correspond with her. She’s a difficult person, yes, but she was also kind to me in her way.

  She felt comfortable in the library, choosing a book for Mrs. Van Hopper, until she realized that she wore a maid’s uniform and rubber-soled work shoes. Under no circumstances could this be proper attire for the wife of Maxim de Winter and the mistress of Manderley.

  If members of the staff encountered her in this costume, they would think Maxim’s predicament had overstressed her. Already, some thought she was too young for him and not of a suitable social class.

  Oh, and she would be mortified if Mrs. Danvers discovered her in this outfit, and not merely mortified but finished. Mrs. Danvers would whisper “mental breakdown” to anyone who would listen, and all would listen. Mrs. Danvers, the head housekeeper, remained loyal to the previous Mrs. de Winter and schemed to undermine the new wife’s position in the house.

  Head housekeeper?

  Christine blinked, blinked, surveyed the library, blinked, and realized that she was the head housekeeper, not Mrs. Danvers.

  And this wasn’t Manderley, not a great house in the west country of England, but a big house without a name in the Garden District of New Orleans.

  Her identity confusion had begun when the New Race’s primary mechanism for the release of stress—urgent, violent, multi-partner sex—ceased to provide her with any relief from her anxiety. Instead, the brutal orgies began to increase her anxiety.

  The staff dormitory had television, which in theory could distract you from your worries, but the programming produced by the Old Race was so relentlessly stupid that it had little appeal to any member of the New Race above the level of an Epsilon.

  In the dormitory, they could also download movies from the Internet. Most were no better than the TV shows, though once in a while you found a gem. The magnificent Hannibal Lecter could bring the entire staff to their feet, cheering till they were hoarse. And his nemesis, FBI agent Clarice Starling, was such an officious little meddling busybody that everyone enjoyed hissing at her.

  Nine days ago, desperate for distraction from anxiety and despair, Christine downloaded Alfred Hitchcock’s Rebecca. The film mesmerized her. Ostensibly, it was a romance, even a love story.

  Love was a myth. Even if it wasn’t a myth, it was stupid. Love represented the triumph of feeling over intellect. It distracted from achievement. It led to all kinds of social ills, such as family units to which people pledged greater allegiance than to their rulers. Love was a myth and it was evil, love was evil.

  The film mesmerized her not because of the romance, but because everyone in the story had deep, dark secrets. The insane Mrs. Danvers had secrets. Maxim de Winter had secrets that might destroy him. Rebecca, the first Mrs. de Winter, kept secrets. The second Mrs. de Winter started out as an idiot goody-goody, but by the end of the movie, she had a dark secret, because she collaborated to conceal a crime, all in the name of—no surprise—love.

  Christine related to the movie because, like all of the New Race, she had secrets. Actually she was a deep, dark secret, walking among the Old Race, appearing innocent, but waiting impatiently to be told that she could kill as many of them as she wished.

  The movie enchanted her also because the first Mrs. de Winter deserved to die, like all the Old Race deserved to die. Crazy Mrs. Danvers deserved to die—and burned to death in Manderley. Even the Old Race thought they deserved to die, and they were so right.

  In spite of the reasons the movie enthralled Christine, it might not have led her into identity confusion if she had not been almost a twin to Joan Fontaine, the actress playing the second Mrs. de Winter. The resemblance was uncanny. Even on the first viewing, Christine at times seemed to be experiencing the story from inside the movie.

  She watched Rebecca five times that first night. And five times the following night. And five times the night after that.

  Six days previously, after fifteen viewings, Christine began to experience identity confusion. She immersed herself in the film six times that night.

  One thing that was so wonderful about being the second Mrs. de Winter was that by the time Manderley burned to the ground, all the woman’s problems were gone. Her life with Maxim would be troubled by no further drama or worry; and ahead were years of cozy routine….

  How wonderful. Lovely, peaceful years. Tea every afternoon with little sandwiches and biscuits …

  Manderley would be lost, and that was sad, but knowing that all would be well eventually, she should enjoy Manderley now as much as possible with Mrs. Danvers always scheming.

  She selected a suitable volume for Mrs. Van Hopper, Jamaica Inn, which seemed to be a work of fiction, a light entertainment.

  In a library-desk drawer, she found a selection of stationery for a variety of special occasions. She chose a cream-colored linen paper with a nosegay of colorful ribbons at the top.

  She wrote a lovely note to Mrs. Van Hopper, signed it “Mrs. Maxim de Winter,” inserted it in a matching envelope, sealed the flap, and put the envelope with Jamaica Inn. She would ask Christine to wrap and mail the package first thing in the morning.

  CHAPTER 35

  AT THIS HOUR, only a battered Mustang, a pristine but forty-year-old Mercedes, and a Ford Explorer occupied the fourth floor of the public parking garage.

  Carson let the Honda idle beside each vehicle, while Michael got out to determine if anyone might be sleeping in it. No, no, and no. They had the fourth floor to themselves.

  Through the open sides of the building, a growing wind flung glassy beads of rain to shatter on the concrete floor. Carson parked the Honda in an empty row in the dry center of the garage.

  Let out of the car, Duke trotted around the immediate area, investigating a discarded candy wrapper, a half-crushed Starbucks cup, an empty Big Mac container….

  They left the Urban Snipers in the Honda. They still had their service pistols in shoulder rigs, the .50 Magnums in belt scabbards.

  As Michael fished his phone out of a coat pocket and keyed in Deucalion’s number, Carson watched for movement among the forest of concrete columns, listened for footsteps. She recognized the danger of prudence sliding into paranoia; nevertheless, she stood with her right arm across her body, thumb hooked on her belt, which brought her gun hand within inches of the Desert Eagle under her blazer, on her left hip.

  For anyone drawn into an orbit around Victor Helios, the word impossible no longer had any meaning. So maybe in his spare time, the Transylvanian transplant scored some pterodactyl DNA, combined it with a sociopathic homeboy’s genes, and cooked up a man-reptile cop killer that would swoop in from the storm. Chances were she wasn’t going to die from a heart attack or from anything else that would leave a neat corpse, but she was for damn sure not going to be torn apart in the jaws of a gangbanger-dragon hybrid wearing a do-rag and a gold nose ring.

  Deucalion must have taken the call, because Michael said, “Hey, it’s me. We’re in a parking garage. Fourth floor.”

  After giving the address, Michael hung up.

  As the phone produced an end-call beep, Deucalion stepped into the garage about twenty feet away, as though he’d come out of Narnia through a wardrobe, except there wasn’t even a wardrobe.

>   Carson always forgot how big he was until she saw him again. In his long black coat, as he approached them, he looked like Darth Vader on a steroids-only diet.

  “You’re wet,” Deucalion said.

  “We were in a monster mash at Audubon Park,” Michael said. “One of them had a nice butt.”

  Duke padded around the car, saw the tattooed newcomer, halted, and cocked his head.

  “Whose dog?” Deucalion asked.

  “He belonged to the district attorney,” Michael said, “then to the district attorney’s replicant, but the replicant walked smack into a bunch of shotgun slugs, so now Duke belongs to us.”

  “Things are going to get apocalyptic soon,” Deucalion said. “A dog will get in your way.”

  “Not this dog. He’s one of those highly trained service dogs. When we switch from shotguns to .50 Magnums, he can reload the empty weapons for us.”

  To Carson, Deucalion said, “I’m never sure I understand half the things he says.”

  “Eventually you don’t care,” Carson assured him. “Michael has hyperactive disorder, but he talks fast enough to keep himself entertained, so he’s not a lot of trouble.”

  Duke approached Deucalion, tail wagging.

  Holding one of his hands down to allow the dog to lick his fingers, Deucalion stared so intently at Carson that she felt X-rayed, and then he turned the same stare on Michael.

  “It was not an accident that I crossed your path rather than that of other detectives. You’re different from most who carry a badge, and I am different from everyone. Our difference is our strength. We have been chosen for this, and if we fail—the world fails.”

  Michael grimaced. “That wouldn’t look good on my résumé.”

  “Earlier, at the Luxe,” Carson said, referring to the just shuttered movie theater where Deucalion lived, “you said Victor has progressed doggedly for so long, in spite of his setbacks, he has no fear of failure, he believes his triumph is inevitable. So he’s blind to the rot in his empire. At the time, I thought the rot might not be as extensive as you hoped. But after our lark in the park with those replicants … maybe collapse is coming even sooner than you think.”

  Pulses of inner light passed through the giant’s eyes. “Yes. The clock is ticking.”

  After listening to Deucalion’s one-minute abridged version of his discoveries in the Hands of Mercy, Carson was left with stomach acid burning in the back of her throat and a clutching chill in the pit of her stomach.

  “When does the place melt down?” Michael asked.

  “In fifty-five minutes. When Victor hears about the fire, he’ll know I did it, but he won’t know how out of control things were in there tonight. He’ll continue to trust his New Race to defend him. But he won’t risk staying in the Garden District. He’ll fall back to the farm.”

  Carson said, “The creation-tank farm, the New Race factory Pastor Kenny told you about?”

  “As I learned tonight, it’s farther along than Kenny thought. The first crop begins rising from the tanks tomorrow night—five hundred a day for four days.”

  Michael said, “We way underestimated our ammo needs.”

  “Victor owns large tracts of land north of Lake Pontchartrain.” From an inside coat pocket, Deucalion withdrew a packet of papers. “I retrieved the information from his computer. There’s a place called Crosswoods Waste Management, owned by a Nevada corporation, which is owned by a holding company in the Bahamas, which is held by a trust in Switzerland. But in the end, it’s all just Victor.”

  “Waste management?” Carson said. “Is that a dump?”

  “It is a very large dump.”

  “What would he want with a dump?”

  “A graveyard for his failures and for the people his replicants replace.”

  Michael said, “It must have a more memorable smell than your average dump.”

  “The tank farm is on a twenty-acre property adjacent to the dump. We’re going to be there well ahead of Victor. In fact, I will be there in ten minutes.” Deucalion handed the packet of papers to Carson. “Addresses, background, a little reading for the road. If you take Interstate 10 east to Interstate 12 west, then the state route north as I’ve marked, it’s about seventy miles, less than an hour and a half.”

  “A lot less if she’s driving,” Michael said.

  “When you’re getting near, call me,” Deucalion said. “We’ll join forces there.”

  “And then what?” Carson asked.

  “And then … whatever’s necessary.”

  CHAPTER 36

  ERIKA FIVE LOADED a stainless-steel cart with everything Jocko needed, and took it to the second floor in the service elevator.

  After Victor had joined the original two residences, there were three hallways. At the south end of the house, the south-wing hall ran east-west. At the north end, the hall also ran east-west. Each measured eighty feet. Those corridors were connected by the main hall, which extended 182 feet.

  In the south wing, the service elevator was not far from the kitchen. Once upstairs, Erika had to push the cart the length of the main hall to the north wing, where the troll waited in his new quarters toward the back of the house.

  The double doors to the master suite were at the midpoint of the main hall, on the left, opposite the head of the grand staircase. She thought Victor remained in the suite, but she couldn’t be sure. If by chance he stepped into the hall and saw her pushing the cart stacked with bedding, towels, toiletries, and food, he would want to know where she was going and to what purpose.

  The nine-foot-wide hallway featured a series of Persian rugs, as in the north and the south halls, and the cart rolled silently across them. Where mahogany flooring lay exposed between rugs, the rubber wheels made only a faint noise.

  When, with relief, Erika entered the unfurnished north-wing suite, the troll was standing on the points of his toes, pirouetting.

  She rolled the cart into the living room. Closing the door to the hall, she said, “Where did you learn to dance?”

  “Is Jocko dancing?” he asked, continuing to spin.

  “That’s ballet.”

  “It’s just … a thing … Jocko does,” he said, and pirouetted into the bedroom.

  Following with the cart, Erika said, “Don’t you get very dizzy?”

  “Sometimes … Jocko vomits.”

  “Well then, you better stop.”

  “No control.”

  Putting the bedding on the floor, in a corner, Erika said, “You mean you’re compelled to pirouette?”

  The troll spun to a stop, came off pointe, and weaved a few steps before regaining his equilibrium. “Not so bad that time.”

  “You poor thing.”

  He shrugged. “Everybody’s got problems.”

  “That’s very philosophical.”

  “Most worse than mine.”

  Erika was pretty sure there weren’t many fates worse than being a grotesque troll with three hairs on your tongue, penniless, living mostly in storm drains, with a compulsion to spin until you threw up. But she admired the little guy’s positive attitude.

  In the bathroom, Jocko helped her unload the cart and distribute the items to cabinets and drawers. He was delighted with the supply of snack foods that she had brought.

  “Jocko likes salty, Jocko likes sweet, but never bring Jocko any hot sauce, like with jalapeños, because it makes Jocko squirt funny-smelling stuff out his ears.”

  “I’ll be sure to remember that,” Erika said. “Of course, I’ll bring you healthy meals whenever I can, not just snack foods. Is there anything you don’t like besides hot sauce?”

  “Jocko’s been living mostly in storm drains, eating bugs and rats. And hot sauce on corn chips that one time. Anything you bring is delicious enough for Jocko.”

  “This is very exciting, isn’t it?” Erika said.

  “What is?”

  “Having a secret friend.”

  “Who does?”

  “I do.”

 
“What friend?”

  “You.”

  “Oh. Yes. Jocko is excited.”

  Putting away the last of the towels, she said, “I’ll be back in the morning, in just a few hours, after Victor has gone to the Hands of Mercy, and then you can read to me.”

  Sitting on the edge of the tub, Jocko asked, “Is this good to eat?”

  “No, that’s bath soap.”

  “Oh. Is this good to eat?”

  “That’s another bath soap.”

  “So it’s good to eat?”

  “No. Soap is never good to eat.”

  “Is this good to eat?”

  “That’s also bath soap. It’s a four-pack.”

  “Why soap, soap, soap, soap?”

  “I brought extras of several things. You’re going to be here awhile…. Aren’t you?”

  “As long as you say Jocko can.”

  “Good. That’s very good.”

  “Now go away,” said Jocko.

  “Oh, of course, you must be tired.”

  “Must be,” he agreed, following her into the living room. “Go away.”

  Erika left the stainless-steel cart, intending to return it to the kitchen in the morning, after Victor went to the lab.

  Cracking the door, she scoped the hallway, which was deserted and quiet. Glancing back at the troll, she said, “Don’t be afraid.”

  “You either.”

  “You’re safe.”

  “You too.”

  “Just lie low.”

  “Go away.”

  Stepping into the hall, Erika quietly pulled the door shut behind her.

  CHAPTER 37

  THE INSTANT THE DOOR CLOSED, Jocko scampered into the bathroom. Snatched up a bar of soap. Tore the wrapper off. Took a bite.

  Erika was wrong. Soap looked delicious, and it was.

  She was wrong or … she lied.

  How sad she would lie. She seemed so different from others. So pretty. So kind. Such delicate nostrils. But a liar.