He enters the code: 368284.
The electric lock releases. He puts his hand on the door but cannot find the courage to open it.
Beyond, there is no Mercy. All is new and full of bewildering choices.
He delays so long that the electric lock engages once more.
He enters the code in the keypad. The lock releases:
He tells himself to open the door. He cannot.
The lock engages once more.
Trembling, he stands before the door, terrified to go through it, but also terrified to remain on this side.
Into his tortured mind comes the memory of the newspaper photo: Arnie O'Connor, autistic but smiling. Arnie is clearly happier than Randal has ever been or ever will be.
A bitter, caustic sense of injustice floods through Randal. This emotion is so intense that he fears it will dissolve him from the inside out if he does not take action to secure for himself the happiness that Arnie O'Connor enjoys.
The little snot. The hateful little worm, selfishly keeping the secret of happiness. What right does
Again he enters the code.
He pushes on the door. It opens.
Randal Six spells himself across the threshold, out of Mercy, into the unknown.
CHAPTER 61
Through the door, Carson heard scary-movie music. She rang the bell, rang it again before the first series of chimes quite finished echoing through the apartment beyond.
In undershirt, jeans, and stocking feet, Michael answered the door. Tousled hair. Puffy face. Eyes heavy- lidded from the weight of a sleep not fully cast off. He must have dozed in his big green-leatherette recliner.
He looked adorable.
Carson wished he was grungy. Or slovenly. Or geeky. The last thing she wanted to feel toward a partner was physical attraction.
Instead, he looked as cuddly as a teddy bear. Worse, the sight of him filled her with a warm, agreeable feeling consisting largely of affection but not without an element of desire.
Shit.
'It's just ten o'clock,' she said, pushing past him into the apartment, 'and you're asleep in front of the TV What're those orange crumbs on your T-shirt? Cheez Doodles?'
'Exactly,' he said, following her into the living room. 'Cheez Doodles. You
'Can I assume you're sober?'
'Nope. Had two diet root beers.'
He yawned, stretched, rubbed at his eyes with the back of one fist. He looked edible.
Carson tried to derail that train of thought. Indicating the massive green recliner, she said, 'That is the ugliest lump of a chair I've ever seen. Looks like a fungus scraped out of a latrine in Hell.'
'Yeah, but it's
Pointing to the TV, she said,
'The first remake.'
'You've seen it like what-ten times?'
'Probably twelve.'
'When it comes to glamour,' she said, 'you're the Cary Grant of your generation.'
He grinned at her. She knew why her curmudgeonly attitude did not fool him. He sensed the effect that he had on her.
Turning away from him as she felt her face flush, Carson picked up the remote control and switched off the TV 'The case is breaking. We've gotta move.'
'Breaking how?'
'Guy jumped off a roof, smashed himself into alley jam, leaving a freezer full of body parts. They say he's the Surgeon. Maybe he is-but he didn't kill them all.'
Sitting on the edge of the recliner, tying his shoes, Michael said, 'What-he's got a kill buddy or a copycat?'
'Yeah. One or the other. We dismissed that idea too easily.'
'I'll grab a clean shirt and a jacket,' he said.
'Maybe change the Cheez Doodle T while you're at it,' she said.
'Absolutely. I wouldn't want to embarrass you in front of some criminal scum,' he said, and stripped off the T-shirt as he left the room.
He knew exactly what he was doing: giving her a look. She took it. Good shoulders, nice abs.
CHAPTER 62
Erika roamed the silent mansion, pausing frequently to study Victor's collection of European and Asian antiques.
As they did every night, the nine members of the household staff-butler, maids, chef, cleaning crew, gardeners-had retired to their quarters above the ten-car garage at the back of the property.
They lived dormitory-style, the sexes integrated. They were provided with a minimum of amenities.
Victor seldom needed servants after ten o'clock-even on those nights when he was home-but he preferred not to allow his household staff, all members of the New Race, to lead lives separate from the mansion. He wanted them to be available twenty-four hours a day He insisted that the only focus of their lives should be his comfort.
Erika was pained by their circumstances. They were essentially hung on a rack, like tools, to await the next use he had for them.
The fact that her circumstances were not dissimilar to theirs
As her relationship with Victor matured, she hoped to be able to gain influence with him. She might be able to use that influence to improve the lot of the household staff.
As this concern for the staff had grown, she found herself less often despairing. Following her interests-and thus refining herself-was fine, but having a
In the main drawing room, she paused to admire an exquisite pair of Louis XV ormolu-mounted boulle marquetry and ebony
The Old Race could create objects of breathtaking beauty unlike anything the New Race had done. This puzzled Erika; it did not seem to square with Victor's certainty that the New Race was superior.
Victor himself had an eye for the art of the Old Race. He had paid two and a quarter million for this pair
He said that some members of the Old Race excelled at creating things of beauty because they were inspired by anguish. By their deep sense of loss. By their search for meaning.
Beauty came at the expense, however, of certitude, efficiency. Creating a beautiful piece of art, Victor said, was not an admirable use of energy because it in no way furthered mankind's conquest of itself or of nature.
A race without pain, on the other hand, a race that was
