Chapter Seven
Harry didn’t want to think about the creature in his motel room. About John. About how, back in his cell, John had looked like a prop from one of the Saturday matinees Harry had snuck off to see as a kid, the ones his mother forbade because they were the Devil’s work. But as part of that long-ago audience—surrounded by screaming girls held tightly by their boyfriends—Harry had imagined himself as the hero who defeated the monsters.
He also didn’t want to think about how John now looked different from when he was in the cell. More human. Maybe a human who’d been ill for a long time, but now his bones carried more flesh and his movements were stronger. His eyes looked brighter too, tracking Harry’s every move, and the rustiness was fading from his voice.
Harry most definitely didn’t want to think about the questions this situation raised. What was John? What would become of him when this Swan guy was caught?
Fortunately Harry had plenty of other matters to occupy his brain. He drove around Portland for a time, getting a feel for the place. It wasn’t a big city—LA could have swallowed it whole—but it was much larger than his hometown. A wide river bisected it, and a range of green hills rose to the west, behind the bulky brick and concrete buildings downtown. Heavy mist hung in the air, making everything soft and gray. Harry wasn’t sure if he preferred it to LA’s smoggy sun, but at least it was a change.
Townsend had given him Swan’s address, so Harry stopped at a gas station to buy a map, then went for a quick peek at the house. Reconnaissance work, right? But his delight at feeling like a real agent dimmed when he saw where Swan lived: a sweeping stone mansion with an expansive front lawn adorned with an enormous sculpture of a mermaid. Throw in a couple of palm trees and the house would have looked at home in Beverly Hills. How the hell was he supposed to impress a guy who lived in a place like that?
Frowning, he pulled away from the curb and went in search of a place to eat. Not in this neighborhood, though—it was far too rich for his blood.
He ended up at a turquoise-and-yellow diner advertising all-day breakfasts and special hamburgers. Not many customers at this time of day. He bought a newspaper from the box outside, then sat in a Naugahyde booth and perused it while eating hotcakes and sausage. He’d never had much interest in current events; they’d seemed irrelevant to his life, even after he moved to LA. But he figured he ought to have some idea what was going on in the world. Swan might expect him to know things. So Harry read the headlines and scanned the articles before moving to the classified ads.
There were a lot of Help Wanted listings. Good-paying jobs he was qualified for, like working on the docks or in a warehouse. Maybe if he applied for some of them, his bad luck from California wouldn’t dog him. He could forget about the Bureau and start fresh. Yeah, he’d have to pay back the cash Townsend had fronted him, and he’d have to hand in the car, but with a decent salary he could manage well enough. The Bureau could find someone else to go after Swan.
But then what about John? The good meal suddenly tasted like cardboard, and Harry pushed his plate away.
What happened to John was none of Harry’s damn business. John was just a prop, like Harry’s fancy new suit—a way to get into Swan’s good graces. It’s not like John was a person.
Right?
Growling softly at himself, Harry shook the newspaper. He would find an apartment, finish this fucking thing for the Bureau, and then make a real life for himself. John might not be any of his business, but it sickened Harry to think that Swan might right now be making more creatures like him. Creatures with ugly scars and big, scared eyes.
***
The place was half of a duplex, a modest yellow one-story with lace curtains and a tiny shared front porch. It stood on a quiet street in the southeast part of town, between a stucco apartment building and a laundromat. Having seen the ad in the newspaper, Harry had called from a pay phone in the diner, so the landlady was ready for him when he rang the bell. She was a squat, gray-haired woman with a sweet smile. “Mr. Lowe? I’m Mrs. Reynolds. Come in, come in.”
There wasn’t much to see: a living room with built-in bookshelves, a kitchen and bathroom—both small—and a bedroom. Although not fancy, the furnishings looked comfortable, and the entire place was spotless. Not only was the place nicer by far than the March Hotel, but it was cozier and in better repair than the dilapidated old farmhouse where Harry had grown up.
“Well, what do you think?” asked Mrs. Reynolds. While he inspected, she’d waited for him in the kitchen.
“It’s great.”
“I’ve recently rented the other unit as well, to a very nice young man. He’s quiet. You’ll hardly know he’s there.” She tilted her head slightly. “It’s just you?”
Cue some of the Bureau’s cover story. “No, my cousin will be living here too. He’s been sick. I’m taking care of him.”
She tsked. “What a shame! But how kind of you to look out for family. If he’s convalescing, you won’t be noisy, right?”
“Not at all, ma’am.”
“Good. I expect quiet, cleanliness, and prompt rental payments.”
Harry didn’t plan to be here long enough to pay more than a month’s rent, but he nodded. “Of course. Forty-five dollars, right?”
“Yes, with lights and heat included.”
He paid her, signed some papers, and listened patiently to her descriptions of when to put out the trash and where he should buy groceries and household goods. She also tried to angle for information from him, but Harry stuck to his bare-bones tale. He and his cousin had come to Portland on the advice of a doctor. The cousin had a little money, enough to pay their way for now. If the cousin regained his health, Harry planned to look for a permanent job nearby. Although Mrs. Reynolds seemed disappointed not to gather any juicier details, she eventually handed over the keys and wished Harry a good evening.
After she left, Harry collapsed into an armchair in the living room. His life suddenly felt too complicated, his burdens too heavy. But after a moment of self-pity, he shook his head. “At least you ain’t in Missouri, Lowe. And you ain’t being evicted from the March.”
He’d already paid for the Portland motel, so he decided to stay the night there. He needed to pick up a few things for the house anyway—some linens, food, a few cleaning supplies. And some clothing for John. After a last look around his new home, he headed for the car.
***
As it turned out, Mrs. Reynolds had given an excellent shopping recommendation. Located just a couple of miles away, the store had everything Harry needed. He filled his cart with groceries, sheets and towels, and a few shirts and trousers that he hoped would fit John. When he passed an aisle with books and magazines, Harry impulsively grabbed a few paperbacks. Nothing about monsters, though.
He had to swing by the new house to drop everything off, and by the time he pulled into the parking lot at the Totem Pole, he felt exhausted. He knew he should be thinking about ways to meet Swan but couldn’t concentrate on anything except wanting a long soak in the bathtub.
When he stepped inside the room, John looked solemnly at him from the bed. Frankenstein lay on the mattress beside him. “That is what I am?” John asked in a tiny voice.
Harry couldn’t face him now. Just couldn’t. Without saying anything, he marched into the bathroom and slammed the door.
The house in Missouri had only a single bathroom, which the whole family shared. When he was little, he and his brothers used to bathe together, and the huge clawfoot had been plenty big enough for all of them. The motel tub was much smaller, but at least he had it to himself. He filled it as deep as possible with the hottest water he could stand. Then he leaned his head back against the porcelain, closed his eyes, and tried to think of nothing at all.
Wrinkled, warm, and pleasantly melty-feeling, he eventually emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. Although Harry had been in the tub forever, it looked as if John hadn’t moved a muscle. Harry gave him a weary smile and dug through his suitcase for something to wear to bed.
“It’s not my name,” John whispered.
Harry looked over at him. “What?”
“I call myself John, but it’s not my name. I don’t have a name.”
“If that’s what you call yourself, I reckon you do have a name, and it’s John.”
But John shook his head and pointed at the book. “He—it—was nameless.”
“Yeah, maybe, but that’s just a story. You’re real. If you want to be John, fine with me.”
John seemed to relax a little, and Harry grabbed underwear and a T-shirt. He almost removed the towel right there, but John kept staring at him, and that was… uncomfortable. So Harry returned to the bathroom long enough to dress and brush his teeth, and after he came back to the main room, he climbed into bed and switched off the light.
He hoped that would signal John to go to sleep, but no such luck. Even though Harry couldn’t see him—couldn’t hear him either, since John seemed to breathe only when he spoke—Harry could sense John’s alert presence. He sighed. “Found us a nice place to stay. We’ll move in tomorrow morning. There’s a big park only a block away, so we can go there if you get strong enough.” He hadn’t meant to add that last part; it just slipped out.
John’s response sounded wistful. “A park. With trees and grass?”
“I guess.”
“I’d like to see that. Please.” A long silence. “Harry?”
“Yeah?”
“You knew from the start that I’m a monster.”
“Yeah. Townsend told me.”
“You haven’t treated me like one.”
Harry had to think that over. “I don’t know how a monster’s supposed to be treated. You’re the only one I ever met. I mean, in the movies the good guys are supposed to kill ’em, but Townsend said you ain’t dangerous.”
“What if I am? What if I get strong and…. Frankenstein’s monster killed everyone he loved.”
“I don’t love nobody, so no problem there. Anyway, you don’t seem like you want to go around killing folks. Do you?”
“No.”
“Okay then. We’re settled.” Harry rearranged the pillow beneath his head and pulled the blankets up higher. Portland was colder than LA.
He was almost asleep when John whispered once more. “Thank you, Harry.”