been done for her before the biowizard came along. He had just provided some polish for a machine that was already a miracle of design.
When the mask came off, she knew she had reached the Fourth Level.
Hawk built a fire in the courtyard, and kept it burning for a week, producing dried wood from God knows where. Jesse sat and stared into the flames, seeing faces in the patterns.
There was Seth, and Doc Threadneedle, and Hawk-That-Settles and her father. There was Mrs Katz, impossibly animated, chopping at her mind. And others she didn't recognize: a young woman from over the sea, sometimes dressed in a nun's habit, sometimes holding a clear-handled gun; a foreign man, dark-complexioned and dangerous, his hands red with blood; a beautiful young-old man with generous lips, picking up a guitar and smiling; and a man in a tropical suit, with a deathshead skull behind his smile. But, most of all, there was the crocodile, full moons in its eyes…
The faces twisted, and scenes were played out. Some, she recognized: the NoGo walk-up she had shared with her Dad, Spanish Fork, the Katz Motel, Dead Rat. Others were obscure, yet-to-come images that meant nothing to her. A gathering darkness over a white plain. Graves opening to spew the dead. An ocean as smooth as glass closing over things vast, alive and hateful.
When the fires burned down, Jesse was afraid. She had reached the Fifth Level, and she could no longer go back. She could not turn from the destiny that had been alotted to her.
She looked and looked at the place where the fire had been, searching for the future, but could only see ashes.
IV
To get him from his 'confinement space' to the conference room involved leading him down Monsters' Row. This was where the United States of America put the Worst of the Worst. Hector Childress, the Albuquerque Chainsaw Killer, considered so dangerous that he was
And somewhere in the facility, thanks to the Donovan Treatment, scientists could poke at the disembodied brains of the Great Names of the Past: Gacy, Bundy, DaSalvo, Gein, Berkowitz, Sutcliffe, Starkweather, Scorpio, Krueger. This was where they kept Dillinger's dong, too.
If there were ever a Serial Killers' Hall of Fame, it would have to be in the Sunnydales Rest Home for the Incurably Antisocial. The monsters had a name for the Home, Uncle Charlie's Summer Camp. It was officially classifed as a private research institute, and Dr Proctor knew from his government contacts that the care and upkeep of the monsters did not come from the public purse but from a corporate subsidiary with interests in mental abnormalities. It sounded high-toned in the reports, with the odd announcement that there might be a cure for homicidal mania, but Sunnydales added up to a zoo-cum-freakshow for rich scientists.
Sergeant Gilhooly's bulls had held him against the wall with the threat of cattle-prods as Officers Kerr and Bean shackled his hands, feet, knees, elbows and neck. He had about 200 pounds of chain over his dress whites. He gave them no trouble. He didn't need to. He enjoyed this monthly ritual.
Sometimes, to amuse himself, Dr Proctor would break the chains. To look at him, people could never see the Devil inside. His strength was in his brain, he knew, but he had not neglected the cultivation of his body. He needed an instrument to carry through his schemes. As they clapped the manacles around his thick wrists, he remembered the sharp snaps of the spines he had broken. It was a good, clean method. In Tulsa, he had taken out the linebackers of the local pro ball team, one after another. All it took was a little dexterity, a little pressure, and a lot of muscle. He smiled at Gilhooly, imagining how little it would take to break him.
As he was led down Monsters' Row, the chanting began. It was McClean who began it.
Then Staig, Brosnan and Mizzi joined in.
He smiled, and did his best to take a bow.
They were all at it, Voorhees in his sub-mongoloid gargle, the silent Myers with a nod of his usually immobile head.
A man should be king of something, Dr Ottokar Proctor thought, even if it was only King of the Monsters.
Etchison rattled a plastic cup against the bars.
The serial murderers punched the air. Kerr, the officer in charge of the block, snapped out an order. Guards hurried up and down the row, administering reprimands, waving cattle prods. That just encouraged them.
'Enjoying this, aren't you. Otto?' said Gilhooly. 'Makes you feel like Colonel of the Nuts?'
'I don't like to be called Otto, Sergeant. My name is Ottokar.'
'Shaddup, yah goddamn freakin' looneys,' yelled Officer Kerr. 'No privileges, no visits, no lawyers, no nothin'!'
In his cell, Herman Katz refrained from harming a fly.
He nodded to Dr Proctor as the nice man was led past. He didn't join in the chanting, but he approved.
Childress rumbled like a chainsaw as Dr Proctor was led past his cell. They didn't call them 'confinement spaces' on Monsters' Row.
'If you ask me. Otto, this is where you ought to be, not in that luxury room out back. You should be with all the rest of the whackos.'
'I told you, Sergeant. My name is not Otto.'
'Otto-
Gilhooly muttered to himself, something about finding another route from Dr Proctor's quarters to the conference room.
Voorhees shook his bars, and the whole row vibrated. He strained against the hardcrete-rooted durium, and plaster fell from the ceiling. He had taken his machete to over a hundred teenagers before they caught him.
'Good morning, Jason,' Dr Proctor said, 'how's your sciatica?'
Voorhees roared, and Gilhooly flinched, his hand twitching towards his gun.
'I don't think shooting him would do any good, Sergeant. They tried that back in '82. They also tried drowning, stabbing, burning and electrocution. Nothing doing. It's a tribute to the endurance of the human spirit, don't you think?'
They were nearly at the end of the row.
