“We don’t trust anyone in the PD,” Carson revealed. “There’s police corruption involved. Liane, can you take Vicky out of town somewhere, for a few days?”
Addressing her sister, Liane said, “We could go stay with Aunt Leelee. She’s been wanting us to come.”
“I like Aunt Leelee,” Vicky said, “except when she goes off about the planetary pole shift.”
“Aunt Leelee believes,” Liane explained, “that because of the uneven distribution of population, the weight imbalance is going to cause a shift in the earth’s magnetic pole, destroying civilization.”
Vicky said, “She can go on for hours about the urgent need to move ten million people from India to Kansas. But otherwise, she’s fun.”
“Where does Leelee live?” Carson asked.
“Shreveport.”
“You think that’s far enough, Michael?”
“Well, it’s not Tibet, but it’ll do. Vicky, we need to borrow your car.”
Vicky frowned. “Who’s going to drive it?”
“I will,” Michael said.
“Okay, sure.”
“It’ll be a hoot spending a few days with Aunt Leelee,” Liane said. “We’ll drive up there first thing in the morning.”
“You’ve got to leave now,” Carson said. “Within the hour.”
“It’s really that serious?” Vicky asked.
“It really is.”
When Carson and Michael left, the four of them did the hugs-all-around thing, but the humiliated cat remained in seclusion.
In the street, on the way to the car, Carson tossed the keys to Michael, and he said, “What’s this?” and tossed them back to her.
“You promised Vicky that you’d drive,” she said, and lobbed the keys to him.
“I didn’t promise, I just said ‘I will.’”
“I don’t want to drive anyway. I’m sick about Arnie.”
He tossed the keys to her again. “He’s safe, he’s fine.”
“He’s
“He doesn’t think you’ve abandoned him. Deucalion has some kind of connection to Arnie. You saw that. Deucalion will be able to make him understand.”
Lobbing the keys to him, she said, “Tibet. I don’t even know how to get to Tibet.”
“Go to Baton Rouge and turn left.” He stepped in front of her, blocking access to the Honda’s passenger door.
“Michael, you always moan about me driving, so here’s your chance. Take your chance.”
Her surrender of the keys suggested despondency. He had never seen her despondent. He liked her scrappy.
“Carson, listen, if Arnie was here, in the middle of the New Race meltdown — if that’s what’s happening — you’d be ten times crazier with worry.”
“So what?”
“So don’t get yourself worked up about Tibet. Don’t go female on me.”
“Oh,” she said, “that was ugly.”
“Well, it seems to be what’s happening.”
“It’s not what’s happening. That was way ugly.”
“I call ‘em as I see ‘em. You seem to be going female on me.”
“This is a new low for you, mister.”
“What’s true is true. Some people are too soft and vulnerable to handle the truth.”
“You manipulative bastard.”
“Sticks and stones.”
“I may get around to sticks and stones,” she said. “Gimme the damn keys.”
She snatched them out of his hand and went to the driver’s door.
When they were belted in, as Carson put the key in the ignition, Michael said, “I had to punch hard. You wanting me to drive — that scared me.”
“Scared me, too,” she said, starting the engine. “You’d draw way too much attention to us — all those people behind us blowing their horns, trying to make you get up to speed limit.”
Chapter 70
Deucalion stepped into Father Patrick Duchaine’s kitchen from the Rombuk Monastery, prepared to release the priest from this vale of tears, as he had promised, even though he had already learned of the Hands of Mercy from Pastor Laffite.
The priest had left lights on. The two coffee mugs and the two bottles of brandy stood on the table as they had been when Deucalion had left almost two hours ago, except that one of the bottles was now empty and a quarter of the other had been consumed.
Having been more affected by assisting Laffite out of this world than he had expected to be, prepared to be even more deeply stirred by the act of giving Duchaine that same grace, he poured a generous portion of brandy into the mug that previously he had drained of coffee.
He had brought the mug to his lips but had not yet sipped when his maker entered the kitchen from the hallway.
Although Victor seemed to be surprised, he didn’t appear to be amazed, as he should have been if he believed that his first creation had perished two centuries ago. “So you call yourself Deucalion, the son of Prometheus. Is that presumption… or mockery of your maker?”
Deucalion might not have expected to feel fear when coming face-to-face with this megalomaniac, but he did.
More than fear, however, anger swelled in him, anger of that particular kind that he knew would feed upon itself until it reached critical mass and became a rage that would sustain a chain reaction of extreme violence.
Such fury had once made him a danger to the innocent until he had learned to control his temper. Now, in the presence of his maker, no one but he himself would be endangered by his unbridled rage, for it might rob him of self-control, make him reckless, and leave him vulnerable.
Glancing at the back door, Victor said, “How did you get past the sentinels?”
Deucalion put down the mug so hard that the untasted brandy slopped out of it, onto the table.
“What a sight you are, with a tattoo for a mask. Do you really believe that it makes you less of an abomination?”
Victor took another step into the kitchen.
To his chagrin, Deucalion found himself retreating one step.
“And dressed all in black, an odd look for the bayou,” Victor said. “Are you in mourning for someone? Is it for the mate I almost made for you back then — but instead destroyed?”
Deucalion’s huge hands had hardened into fists. He longed to strike out, could not.
“What a brute you are,” said Victor. “I’m almost embarrassed to admit I made you. My creations are so much more elegant these days. Well, we all have to begin somewhere, don’t we?”
Deucalion said, “You’re insane and always were.”
“It talks!” Victor exclaimed with mock delight.
“The monster-maker has become the monster.”
“Ah, and it believes itself to be witty, as well,” said Victor. “But no one can blame your conversational skills on me. I only gave you life, not a book of one-liners, though I must say I seem to have given you rather more life than I realized at the time. Two hundred years and more. I’ve worked so hard on myself to hang on this long, but
