her to decide upon the means to her end but also robbed Victor of some of the pleasure of administering corporal punishment. Nevertheless, he considered the resolution of the historic-preservation issue to have been one of his finer moments, which was why he included it in his biography that had been downloaded into Erika’s brain while she had been forming in the tank.
Victor wanted his Erikas not merely to service him sexually and to be his gracious hostess to the world; he also intended that his wives, each in her turn, should admire his steadfast intent to have his way in all matters, his steely resolution never to bow or bend to the wishes of the intellectual pygmies, frauds, and fools of this world who sooner or later humbled all other great men whose accomplishments they bitterly envied.
On the second floor of the mansion, the north wing remained unused, awaiting Victor’s inspiration. One day, he would discover some convenience or luxury he wanted to add to the house, and the north wing would be remodeled to accommodate his latest enthusiasm.
Even here, mahogany floors had been installed and finished throughout all the wide hallways and rooms. In the halls, the floors were overlaid with a series of compatible antique Persian rugs, mostly late-nineteenth-century Tabriz and Bakhshayesh.
She took Jocko to an unfurnished suite, where she switched on the overhead lights: a small sitting room, a bedroom, a bath. The space lacked carpeting. Heavy brocade draperies with blackout liners, which had come with the house, were closed over the windows.
“The staff vacuums and dusts the north wing just twelve times a year,” Erika said. “The first Tuesday of every month. Otherwise, these rooms are never visited. The night before, we’ll move you to another location, and back again after they have finished and gone.”
Still wearing the skirt fashioned from the checkered tablecloth, wandering from lounge to bedroom, admiring the high ceilings, the ornate crown moldings, and the Italian-marble fireplace, the troll said, “Jocko is not worthy of these refined quarters.”
“Without furniture, you’ll have to sleep on the floor,” said Erika. “I’m sorry about that.”
“Jocko doesn’t sleep much, just sits in a corner and sucks his toes and lets his mind go away to the red place, and when it comes back from the red place, Jocko is rested.”
“How interesting. Nonetheless, you’ll sometimes want a place to lie down. I’ll bring blankets, soft bedding to make it comfortable.”
In the bathroom, the black-and-white ceramic tile dated to the 1940s, but it remained in excellent condition.
“You have hot and cold running water, a tub, a shower, and of course a toilet. I’ll bring soap, towels, toilet paper, a toothbrush, toothpaste. You don’t have hair, so you won’t need shampoo or a comb, or dryer. Do you shave?”
The troll thoughtfully stroked his lumpy face with one hand. “Jocko doesn’t have even one nice hair anywhere — except inside his nose. Oh, and three on his tongue.” He stuck his tongue out to show her.
“You still won’t need a comb,” Erika said. “What deodorant do you prefer, roll-on or spray-on?”
Jocko squinched his face, which drew his features into a disturbing configuration.
Once Erika knew him better and could be direct without seeming to insult, she would tell him never to squinch again.
He said, “Jocko suspects his skin is hypersensitive to such caustic chemicals.”
“All right then. I’ll be back shortly with everything you need. You wait here. Stay away from the windows and of course be as quiet as you can.” A literary allusion rose from the deep pool of them in Erika’s memory, and she added, “This is just like Anne Frank, hiding from the Nazis in the secret annex in Amsterdam.”
The troll stared at her uncomprehendingly and smacked the flaps of his lipless mouth.
“Or maybe not,” said Erika.
“May Jocko say?” he asked.
“Excuse me?”
“May Jocko say?”
Owlishly large, with huge irises as yellow as lemons, his eyes still struck her as mysterious and beautiful. They compensated for all the unfortunate facial features surrounding them.
“Yes,” she said, “of course, say what you want.”
“Since tearing my way out of he who I was and becoming he who I am, Jocko, who is me, has lived mostly in storm drains and for a little while in a janitorial closet at a public restroom. This is so much better.”
Erika smiled and nodded. “I hope you’ll be happy here. Just remember — your presence in the house must remain a secret.”
“You are the kindest, most generous lady in the world.”
“Not at all, Jocko. You’ll be reading to me, remember?”
“When I was still he who was, I never knew any lady half as nice as you. Since the he who was became the I who am, Jocko, I’ve never met any lady a quarter as nice as you, not even in the restroom where I lived eleven hours, which was a ladies’ restroom. From the janitorial closet, Jocko listened to so many ladies talking out there at the sinks and in the stalls, and most of them were
“I’m sorry you’ve suffered so much, Jocko.”
He said, “Me too.”
CHAPTER 27
The presence approaching Carson, from her right and low to the ground, wasn’t Janet Guitreau, but the German shepherd, panting hard, tail wagging.
She with the great butt remained where she had been when Carson got out of the Honda: fifty feet farther along the road. Head high, shoulders back, arms out at her sides as if she were a gunfighter ready to draw down on a sheriff in the Old West, she stood tall and alert.
She was no longer jogging in place, which was probably a huge disappointment to Michael.
Interestingly, the Janet thing had watched their confrontation with the Bucky thing and had felt no obligation to sprint to his assistance. A small army of the New Race might inhabit the city, but perhaps there wasn’t sufficient camaraderie among them to ensure they would always fight together.
On the other hand, maybe this lack of commitment to the cause resulted solely from the fact that Janet’s brain train had jumped the tracks and was rolling through strange territory where no rails had ever been laid.
Out there in the scintillant silver rain, bathed in the Honda’s high-beam headlights, she appeared ethereal, as if a curtain had parted between this world and another where people were as radiant as spirits and as wild as any animal.
Michael held out a hand, cartridges gleaming on his palm.
Reloading, Carson said, “What’re you thinking — go after her?”
“Not me. I have a rule — one showdown with an insane superclone per day. But she might come for us.”
For the first time all night, a sudden light wind sprang up, trumping gravity, so that the rain angled at them, pelting Carson’s face instead of the top of her head.
As though the wind had spoken to Janet, counseling retreat, she turned from them and sprinted off the roadway, between trees, into the dark grassy mystery of the park.
At Carson’s side, the dog issued a low, long growl that seemed to mean
Michael’s cell phone sounded. His newest ring was Curly’s laugh, Curly being
“Life in the twenty-first century,” Carson said, “is every bit as stupid as it is insane.”
Michael took the call and said, “Hey, yeah.” To Carson, he said, “It’s Deucalion.”
“About freakin’ time.” She surveyed the darkness to the east and south, expecting Janet to come bouncing back in full killer mode.
After listening a moment, Michael told Deucalion, “No, where we are isn’t a good place to meet. We just had
