Chapter Fourteen
They both knew their hours together were limited, but they ignored the future and reveled in the present. When they awoke in the morning, limbs entangled, they made love, took turns showering, and then made love again, leaving Harry famished and exhilarated. The weather was fine, and after dressing they decided to walk to Harry’s breakfast.
John smiled up at the bright sky as they traversed the route. “The sun is generous to me.”
“Yeah?”
“I think it’s shining today on purpose—just to make us happy.”
That was a pretty thought. Harry, who’d never been gifted with a fertile imagination, could now almost picture a dazzling goddess smiling down at them.
They went to the Hotcake House, where Harry ordered an enormous meal. Although John had nothing at all, he enjoyed the aromas of Harry’s food and was fascinated by the morning bustle.
Afterward they went for a long stroll. They watched the river flow by, a few moored boats bobbing near the banks and cars crawling over the bridges. They wandered through a supermarket, where John exclaimed over the bright colors and myriad scents. They went downtown and sat in a coffee shop, watching men and women go by on their way to lunch and, later, back to the office. They found a school and observed children running and yelling on the playground. They passed through parks, John pausing to fondle leaves and admire tree bark.
Although none of this was extraordinary to Harry, John treated every experience as if it were a miracle, and Harry couldn’t help but echo his joy. John had such capacity for wonder and delight—what if nobody had ever discovered that? Not even John.
Eventually they returned home. John sat at the table and read one of his books while Harry made dinner. Afterward they huddled together on the couch and listened to the radio. They discovered that John couldn’t sing, but his attempts made them laugh. When it grew late, they undressed and climbed into bed and made love again.
It had been a perfect day, and Harry wished he could save it in a box to treasure forever.
Despite himself, he fell asleep. And then it was morning.
They didn’t go anywhere that final day. They didn’t make love, but they spent almost all their hours close together on the couch. John read, and Harry mostly watched him, memorized him.
Night fell too soon.
Harry changed from jeans into trousers. Then he looked at John. “You need to leave, and—”
“No.” John’s gaze was even. “Don’t waste time arguing the impossible.”
Although Harry clenched his jaw, he obeyed and then put on his coat.
John liked riding in the passenger seat of the car. The rain had returned, and the windshield wipers played a song as they swished back and forth. Raindrops on the windows, refracting the streetlights, looked like jewels. But it wasn’t a long journey, and soon Harry pulled to a stop in front of a grand house. He turned off the engine but didn’t get out right away. His hands clenched the steering wheel hard enough to make the plastic creak.
John set a hand on his knee. “Did you ever read the book you gave me? Frankenstein?”
“Just part. It’s…. I’m not good at reading.”
“But you know the monster went on a rampage.”
Harry nodded. “Look, if you want to run or hurt someone or—”
“I don’t. Listen to me. This is important. Do you know why he became violent?”
“Not really.”
“The monster wanted—needed—friendship. Companionship. Love. But he realized he’d never have those things because even his creator viewed him with hatred and disgust. And Harry, the author was exactly right about that.”
“You’re not disgusting,” Harry protested.
“Not now. Because you were kind to me from the very beginning. I crave the same things as Frankenstein’s monster, but unlike that poor creature, I received them. From you. Don’t you see? That’s why I’ve grown so strong—because you’ve given me what I needed to survive. To flourish.” John’s voice sounded urgent, but he was smiling.
“I did that?”
“Yes. And that’s why whatever happens to me next doesn’t matter. You’ve saved me from that monster’s fate and made me a real person. Thank you, Harry.”
John kissed him, right there in the car. If Harry shed a few tears, neither of them mentioned it, and as they got out of the car, the rain washed away any bit of evidence.
The walk to the front door took forever and yet was too short. Harry’s mind churned helplessly. If he were smarter, he’d surely find a way out of this mess, but nothing came to him. John stayed close, his thoughts opaque but his stride steady; in fact, he led the way. But when they reached the house, he stationed himself slightly behind Harry and subserviently bowed his head.
Harry swore at himself, took a deep breath, and rang the bell.
Swan answered the door, which took Harry by surprise. He expected that a place this swanky would have a servant. After a quick look at Harry, Swan turned his sharp attention to John, who didn’t look up.
“Who’s this?” Swan demanded.
“My inheritance.”
Swan’s eyes widened. “But it looks so—” He shook his head. “Come in, come in.” He held the door as they entered, looking behind them as if to make sure nobody followed.
Other than in the movies, Harry had never seen such a fancy house. He’d certainly never been in one. They walked through the vestibule on marble floors, past landscape paintings in gilded frames. Despite a coatrack, Swan didn’t offer to take their coats or Harry’s hat. Instead he led them through a vast room with several long low couches, wall-to-wall carpeting, heavy draperies, and a crystal chandelier. All it lacked were film stars standing around with cocktails and cigarettes, chatting wittily. From there they went down a short hall into a kitchen bigger than any of the restaurants where Harry had occasionally worked. Everything gleamed and sparkled as if brand-new, and he wondered if Swan ever cooked. Maybe he ate all his meals out.
At the far end of the kitchen, they reached a door. Swan pulled a key from his pocket, unlocked and opened the door, and gestured downstairs. Harry almost balked—he didn’t like the idea of descending into unknown darkness—but John was close behind him, silently urging him on. When they were all in the stairwell, Swan pulled the door closed. Only a single bare bulb lit the way, hanging from a cord overhead. It seemed to Harry that Swan could have afforded a better light fixture.
Two closed doors were at the bottom of the stairs. One had a neglected air, scuffed and somewhat battered. Swan pushed past Harry to unlock the other, which swung open smoothly.
Fluorescent lights flickered on overhead, illuminating an office that contained an enormous desk covered in books and papers. Stepping inside, they saw bookshelves and filing cabinets along the cream-painted walls, and several small tables held ashtrays and more books. Although a few Oriental rugs lay scattered over the linoleum floor, there was nothing particularly elegant or grand about the space, which was clearly well used.
Swan spoke for the first time since admitting them into the house. “All right. Let me see what you’ve brought.”
“That wasn’t the deal. You have to show me—”
“Mutual disclosure. Of course.” Swan gave John another long look before striding to the desk and picking up a heavy book that looked ancient. He carried it over and showed Harry the cover. It wasn’t in English. German maybe? Harry wasn’t sure.
“Did your Mr. Lord possess this volume?”
“I don’t know.”
“He must have had an extensive library.”
“I guess. I wasn’t allowed into the parts of the house where he did his work. Nobody was.”
Swan raised his eyebrows. “That didn’t bother you?”
“Wasn’t my business. Anyway, I didn’t really care. It was a big house. I had my own room and I got to use the pool.” The part about the pool was his own addition to the Bureau’s fiction. He was proud of it.
“So after he died, you didn’t have access to his materials?”
“Just the notes I told you about, because they were at his bedside. He used to read there sometimes.”
Swan looked thoughtful. “I wonder what happened to those materials.”
“He had a lawyer who took care of the estate. I’m sure he knows.”
“This attorney’s name?”
Harry attempted a calculating smile. “I’d be happy to tell you—for an extra fee.”
If this annoyed Swan, he didn’t show it. “Of course. We can discuss that later, when we negotiate terms.” He tapped the book. “As far as I’m aware, this contains the only complete written account of a successful experiment—of the sort that interests me.”
“Which is?”
“The only experiment that matters in the end.”
He returned the book and remained standing behind the desk. “Do you know how many people were killed during World War Two?”
“A lot.”
Swan laughed. “Yes, quite a lot. Perhaps upwards of fifty million, if you count civilians. A significant portion of the world’s population, in fact. And how many American losses were there?”
Frowning, Harry felt as if he were back in school. At least nobody was making fun of his inability to answer. “Don’t know.”
“Over four hundred thousand. Also a lot, wouldn’t you agree? Did you lose any family in the war?”
“My Uncle Jimmy.” It felt like a betrayal to share that information with Swan.
“Your Uncle Jimmy. A shame. I lost my brother, which was not a shame because he and I never got along at all. But I also lost a very close friend. My lover, in fact.”
“I’m sorry,” Harry mumbled.
Swan strolled out from behind the desk and crossed to a large wooden cabinet. He swung down a door and, with his back to Harry and John, spent some time pouring things from bottles into glasses. When he turned back, he held a tumbler of what looked like bourbon in one hand and a tall glass of orange liquid in the other. He handed the orange one, with its yellow plastic straw, to Harry. “You’ll forgive me if I’ve forgotten the ice.”
“I don’t want—”
“You’ll like this one. It’s quite sweet.” He grinned. “It’s called a Zombie.”
Although Harry didn’t want a drink, he did want to move things along without an argument. As Swan waited expectantly, Harry took a long sip from the straw. The beverage was sweet and tasted of pineapple and other fruit, but the alcohol was so strong that he coughed.
“Just a little rum,” Swan said with a chuckle. “It’ll put hair on your chest.”
Scowling, Harry took another swig. “Look, we—”
“I was telling you a story. I had a beloved. We went to school together, he and I. We were planning to go into business together—pharmaceuticals. When the war broke out, I urged him to get a medical deferment, as I did.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“With sufficient funds given to the right physician, whatever I want.” Swan drank his bourbon in one long swallow but didn’t put the glass down. “My paramour refused my pleas. He wanted to be a patriot, a hero. I told him he was foolish—the country he’d be fighting for would happily put him in prison if we were open about our relationship. It wasn’t our war. But he wouldn’t listen. He became an Air Force pilot. And he was shot down over Germany. His remains were never recovered.”
Harry took another burning drink. “I’m sorry.”
“Yes. Very unfortunate. But those events gave me the impetus for my studies. Money means nothing, Harry—not in the end. I’m sure it doesn’t feel that way to you, given your… rather impecunious status, but it’s true. My love was wealthier than I, but his money won’t bring him back from the dead. But what if I could?” He said the last part with nonchalance, but it was clearly important. He waited for Harry’s response.
Harry decided not to tell him that according to John, the dead stayed dead; their bodies simply got new tenants. “That’s what you’re working on? Bringing the dead back to life?”
Swan smiled. “Yes.”
“Have you actually done it?”
“I am quite close, but no. Small difficulties remain.” For the first time since the conversation began, Swan glanced at John, who remained motionless with his head bowed. “Which is why your offer interests me—if it’s genuine, of course.”
“It is.”
“I need to see.”
Although Harry felt sick to his stomach, he didn’t stop Swan from approaching John. Instead, he finished his drink and set the glass on the table. He thought he had enough information to satisfy Townsend, so he and John could just leave. Surely Swan couldn’t stop them if they tried.
Swan began to unbutton John’s shirt, and Harry blinked at them blearily. The Zombie had been stronger than he expected, and fog had crept into his skull. “Look, Swan—”
“Follow me,” Swan said sharply. Abandoning John’s buttons, unfastened enough to reveal the scars on his chest, Swan hurried to a small door Harry had barely noticed. He assumed it led to a closet.
But as he shambled inside with John at his heels, Harry entered a space considerably larger and more sinister than a closet. It was a laboratory, just like he’d seen in the movies, with steel tables and metal cabinets and glass bottles and jars full of… things. Some of the things looked like body parts. The room smelled of decay and formaldehyde.
Harry turned to leave, but Swan had already shut the door, locked it, and pocketed the key. “Excuse the smell. Unavoidable, I’m afraid.”
Stomach roiling, Harry shook his head in a vain attempt to clear it. “I need to…. We need to….” The words fled his tongue.
“Harry?” It was the first word John had uttered since leaving the car.
Swan looked startled but then moved quickly, pushing John against a wall. Harry cried out but couldn’t seem to get his legs to work, and as he stumbled into a table, he saw Swan shove John’s neck into a metal collar attached to the wall, then lock the collar in place.
“Harry! Run!” John shouted.
But Harry couldn’t even stand; his knees wobbled and he fell heavily onto his ass. John kept shouting his name as Swan struggled to jam John’s wrists into manacles beside his head. Harry tried to crawl to them, but the floor heaved under him like a stormy ocean beneath a ship, and no matter how hard he tried to focus his eyes, everything doubled and tripled.
He tried to call out to John, but he wasn’t sure if he made any noise at all.
His arms gave out and the floor came rushing at his face.
Failed at this too.
Then blackness.