Dean Koontz by Frankenstein 1- Prodigal Son

Author:Frankenstein 1- Prodigal Son [Son, Frankenstein 1- Prodigal]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-01-16T23:36:58.440000+00:00

“I didn't say that. All I'm saying, in a friendly way, is you're using their vocabulary.”

“Don't drive so fast.”

Carson accelerated. “How many times did your mother warn you not to run with scissors in your hand?”

“Like seven hundred thousand,” he said. “But that doesn't mean you're fit to drive.”

“God, you're relentless.”

“You're incorrigible.”

“Where'd you get that word? The dialogue in Die Hard isn't that sophisticated.”

When Carson stopped at the curb in front of Michael's apartment house, he hesitated to get out. “I'm worried about you driving home.”

“I'm like an old dray horse. I know the route in my bones.”

“If you were pulling the car, I wouldn't worry, but you're gonna drive it at warp speed.”

“I've got a gun, but you aren't worried about that.”

“All right, all right. Drive. Go. But if you get behind a slow motorist, don't shoot him.”

As she drove away, she saw him in the rearview mirror, watching her with concern.

The question wasn't whether she had fallen in love with Michael Maddison. The question was how deeply, how irretrievably?

Not that love was a sucking slough from which a person needed to be retrieved, like a drowner from the wild surf, like an addict from addiction. She was all for love. She just wasn't ready for love.

She had her career. She had Arnie. She had questions about her parents' deaths. Her life didn't have room for passion right now.

Maybe she'd be ready for passion when she was thirty-five. Or forty. Or ninety-four. But not now.

Besides, if she and Michael went to bed together, departmental regulations would necessitate a new partner for each of them.

She didn't like that many other homicide detectives. The chances were that she'd be paired with a fathead. Furthermore, right now she didn't have the time or patience to break in a new partner.

Not that she always obeyed departmental regulations. She wasn't a by-the-book i-dotter and t-crosser.

But the rule against cops copulating with cops and then sharing an assignment struck Carson as common sense.

Not that she always deferred to her common sense. Sometimes you had to take reckless chances if you trusted your instinct and if you were human.

Otherwise you might as well leave the force and become a safety engineer.

As for being human, there was the fright figure in Allwine's apartment, who claimed not to be human, unless he believed that being cobbled together from pieces of criminals and being brought to life by lightning was not a sufficient deviation from the usual dad-makes-mom-pregnant routine to deny him human status.

Either the monster—that's what he called himself; she was not being politically incorrect—had been a figment of her imagination, in which case she was crazy, or he had been real, in which case maybe the whole world had gone crazy.

In the midst of this gruesome and impossible case, she couldn't just unzip Michael's fly and say, I know you've been dreaming about this. Romance was a delicate thing. It needed tender care to grow and mature into something wonderful. Right now she didn't have time for an orgasm, let alone for romance.

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