Prodigal Son
SOMEONE NEW IS PLAYING GODThe Frankenstein story updated to the 21st century by the great American storyteller Dean Koontz.Created centuries ago by a madman, possessed of seemingly supernatural powers and a dogged drive for justice, the mysterious Deucalion arrives in New Orleans as the next generation of Dr Frankenstein's monsters are about to be unleashed by their deranged maker, now known as Victor Helios.Deucalion's path will cross with that of tough police detective Carson O'Connor and her partner, Michael Maddison, who are on the trail of a vicious serial killer stalking the city, a killer who selects his victims for the humanity that is missing in himself.Reluctantly, Carson will join forces with Deucalion against a far greater, terrifying threat: an entire race of killers who are much more - and less - than human …Deucalion seeks one final confrontation with the evil genius who created him, Dr Frankenstein.Dean Koontz, the master storyteller, creates a bold new legend.
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DEAN
KOONTZâS FRANKENSTEIN
BOOK ONE
PRODIGAL SON
Dean Koontz
For the power of man to make himself what hepleases means, as we have seen, the power of somemen to make other men what they please.
âC. S. LEWIS, The Abolition of Man
Contents
Although Iâm a chatty kind of guy, never before have I found it necessary to explain up front how a book came to be written. In the case of the series to be known as Dean Koontzâs Frankenstein, a few words of explanation seem necessary.
I wrote a script for a sixty-minute television-series pilot with this title. A producer and I made a deal for the pilot plus episodes to be broadcast on USA Network. Because he liked my script, Martin Scorseseâthe legendary directorâsigned on as executive producer. A hot young director, also enamored of the script, signed on as well. At the request of USA Network, I wrote a two-hour version. On the basis of this script, a wonderful cast was assembled.
Then USA Network and the producer decided that major changes must be made. I had no interest in the show in its new form, and I withdrew from association with it. I wished them wellâand turned to the task of realizing the original concept in book form. I hoped both versions would succeed in their different media.
Subsequently, Marty Scorsese also expressed the desire to exit the series. I am grateful to Marty for being so enthusiastic and insightful about the show we wanted to make. For a man of his accomplishments, he is refreshingly humble, the very definition of grace, and anchored to real-world values in a business where many are not.
I would also like to thank the late Philip K. Dick, great writer and nice man, who twenty-three years ago shared with me the story of asking for âsomething too exotic for the menuâ in his favorite Chinese restaurant. Iâve finally found a novel in which the anecdote fits. The entree that sent Phil fleeing makes Victor Frankenstein lick his lips.
DEUCALION SELDOM SLEPT, but when he did, he dreamed. Every dream was a nightmare. None frightened him. He was the spawn of nightmares, after all; and he had been toughened by a life of terror.
During the afternoon, napping in his simple cell, he dreamed that a surgeon opened his abdomen to insert a mysterious, squirming mass. Awake but manacled to the surgical table, Deucalion could only endure the procedure.
After he had been sewn shut, he felt something crawling inside his body cavity, as though curious, exploring.
From behind his mask, the surgeon said, âA messenger approaches. Life changes with a letter.â
He woke from the dream and knew that it had been prophetic. He possessed no psychic power of a classic nature, but sometimes omens came in his sleep.
IN THESE MOUNTAINS OF TIBET, a fiery sunset conjured a mirage of molten gold from the glaciers and the snowfields. A serrated blade of Himalayan peaks, with Everest at its hilt, cut the sky.
Far from civilization, this vast panorama soothed Deucalion. For several years, he had preferred to avoid people, except for Buddhist monks in this windswept rooftop of the world.
Although he had not killed for a long time, he still harbored the capacity for homicidal fury Here he strove always to suppress his darker urges, sought calm, and hoped to find true peace.
From an open stone balcony of the whitewashed monastery, as he gazed at the sun-splashed ice pack, he considered, not for the first time, that these two elements, fire and ice, defined his life.
At his side, an elderly monk, Nebo, asked, âAre you looking at the mountainsâor beyond them, to what you left behind?â
Although Deucalion had learned to speak several Tibetan dialects during his lengthy sojourn here, he and the old monk often spoke English, for it afforded them privacy.
âI donât miss much of that world. The sea. The sound of shore birds. A few friends. Cheez-Its.â
