Dean Koontz - City of Night

As extraordinarily tough and resilient as she might be, Erika Helios was not Scarlett O’Hara.

Gone with the Wind had been set in an age before electrical service had been available to the home; consequently, Erika was not certain that this literary allusion was apt, but it occurred to her anyway. Of course she had not read the novel; but maybe it contained a scene in which Scarlett O’Hara had been struck by lightning in a storm and had survived unscathed.

Erika stepped cautiously across the threshold and paused, as she had done when entering the farther end of this passageway. As before, a blue laser speared from the ceiling and scanned her. Either the ID system knew who she was or, more likely, recognized what she was not: She was not the thing in the glass case.

The rods stopped humming, allowing her safe passage.

She quickly closed the massive steel portal and engaged the five lock bolts. In less than a minute, she had retreated beyond the next steel barrier and had secured it as well.

Her synchronized hearts nevertheless continued to beat fast. She marveled that she could have been so unsettled by such a small thing as a disembodied voice and a veiled threat.

This sudden, persistent fear, disproportionate to the cause, had the character of a superstitious response. She, of course, was free of all superstition.

The instinctive nature of her reaction led her to suspect that subconsciously she knew what was imprisoned in the amber substance within that glass case, and that her fear arose from this deeply buried knowledge.

When she reached the end of the initial passage, where she had originally entered through a pivoting section of bookcases, she found a button that opened that secret door from here behind the wall.

Immediately that she returned to the library, she felt much safer, in spite of being surrounded by so many books filled with so much potentially corrupting material.

In one corner was a wet bar stocked with heavy crystal glassware and the finest adult beverages. As a superbly programmed hostess, she knew how to mix any cocktail that might be requested, though as yet she had not been in a social situation requiring this skill.

Erika was having cognac to settle her nerves when from behind her, Christine said, “Mrs. Helios, pardon me for saying so, but I suspect that Mr. Helios would be distressed to see you drinking directly from the decanter.”

Erika had not realized that she had been committing such a faux pas, but on having it drawn to her attention, she saw that she was, as charged, guzzling Remy Martin from the exquisite Lalique decanter, and even dribbling some down her chin.

“I was thirsty,” she said, but sheepishly returned the decanter to the bar, stoppered it, and blotted her chin with a bar napkin.

“We’ve been searching for you, Mrs. Helios, to inquire about dinner.”

Alarmed, glancing at the windows and discovering that night had fallen, Erika said, “Oh. Have I kept Victor waiting?”

“No, ma’am. Mr. Helios needs to work late and will take his dinner at the lab.”

“I see. Then what shall I do?”

“We will serve your dinner anywhere you wish, Mrs. Helios.”

“Well, it’s such a big house, so many places.”

“Yes.”

“Is there somewhere I could have dinner where there’s cognac — other than here in the library with all these books?”

“We can serve cognac with your dinner anywhere in the house, Mrs. Helios — although I might suggest that wine would be more appropriate with a meal.”

“Well, of course it would. And I would like to have a bottle of wine with dinner, an appropriate bottle complementary to whatever the chef has prepared. Select for me a most appropriate bottle, if you will.”

“Yes, Mrs. Helios.”

Apparently, Christine had no desire for another conversation as intimate and intense as the one they’d shared in the kitchen earlier in the day. She seemed to want to keep their relationship on a formal footing henceforth.

Encouraged by this, Erika decided to exert her authority as the lady of the house, although graciously. “But please, Christine, also serve me a decanted bottle of Remy Martin, and save yourself the trouble by bringing it at the same time you bring the wine. Don’t bother making a later trip.”

Christine studied her for a moment, and said, “Have you enjoyed your first day here, Mrs. Helios?”

“It’s been full,” Erika said. “At first it seemed like such a quiet house, one might almost expect it to be dull, but there seems always to be something happening.”

Although the Q&A with Arnie’s mother starts well, Randal Six quickly exhausts his supply of conversational gambits. He eats nearly half a quart of strawberry-banana swirl ice cream before another question occurs to him.

“You seem to be frightened, Vicky. Are you frightened?”

“Yes. God, yes.”

“Why are you frightened?”

“I’m tied to a chair.”

“The chair can’t hurt you. Don’t you think it’s silly to be frightened of a chair?”

“Don’t do this.”

“Don’t do what?”

“Don’t taunt me.”

“When did Randal taunt you? Randal never did.”

“I’m not afraid of the chair.”

“But you just said you were.”

“I’m scared of you.”

He is genuinely surprised. “Randal? Why be scared of Randal?”

“You hit me.”

“Only once.”

“Very hard.”

“You aren’t dead. See? Randal doesn’t kill mothers. Randal has decided to like mothers. Mothers are a wonderful idea. Randal doesn’t have a mother or a father.”

Vicky says nothing.

“And, nooooo , Randal didn’t kill them. Randal was sort of made by machines. Machines don’t care like mothers do, and they don’t miss you when you leave.”

Vicky closes her eyes, as autistics sometimes do when there is just too much of everything to process, a daunting amount of stuff coming in.

She is not, however, an autistic. She is a mother.

Randal is surprised that he himself is coping so well with all these new developments, and talking so smooth. His mind seems to be healing.

Vicky’s appearance, however, is troubling. Her face is drawn. She looks ill.

“Are you ill?” he asks.

“I’m so scared.”

“Stop being scared, okay? Randal wants you to be his mother. All right? Now you can’t be scared of your own son, Randal.”

The most amazing thing happens: Tears spill down Vicky’s cheeks.

“That is so sweet,” says Randal. “You’re a very nice mother. We will be happy. Randal will call you Mother, not Vicky anymore. When is your birthday, Mother?”

Instead of answering, she sobs. She is so emotional. Mothers are sentimental.

“You should bake a cake for your birthday,” he says. “We’ll have a celebration. Randal knows about celebrations, hasn’t ever been to one, but knows.”

She hangs her head, still sobbing, face wet with tears.

“Randal’s first birthday is eight months away,” he informs her. “Randal is only four months old.”

He returns the remainder of the strawberry-banana ice cream to the freezer. Then he stands beside the table, gazing down at her.

“You are the secret of happiness, Mother. Randal doesn’t need Arnie to tell him. Randal is going to visit his brother now.”

She raises her head, eyes open wide. “Visit Arnie?”

“Randal needs to find out are two brothers okay or is that one brother too many.”

“What do you mean, one brother too many? What’re you talking about? Why do you want to see Arnie?”

He winces at the rush of her words, at the urgency of them; they seem to buzz in his ears. “Don’t talk so fast. Don’t ask questions. Randal asks questions. Mother answers.”