Frankenstein

brightens. The replicant of Reverend Kelsey Fortis has placed video cameras at four places in the main room of the roadhouse. The family social has not yet become the family slaughter.

    
chapter
65

    According to Tori, the waitress at the Andy Andrews Café, Denise and Larry Benedetto lived two blocks away, around the corner from Beartooth Avenue, on Purcell Street. Tori wasn’t certain, but she thought Denise taught third grade at Meriwether Lewis Elementary.
    That Victor’s newest enterprise must be headquartered somewhere along the End Times Highway was known. That he might be using Rainbow Falls as a testing ground the way he had used New Orleans had been suspected; and as far as Carson was concerned, this too was now known.
    As they hurried on foot to the address that Tori had given them, Michael said, “‘Tell my baby’ doesn’t necessarily mean a baby baby.”
    “What kind of baby is there besides a baby baby?”
    “You know, like sometimes I call you baby, sometimes you call me baby. A baby can be a lot of things.”
    “She meant baby baby.”
    “If she
did
mean baby baby, how are we going to talk to a baby when babies only understand things like
ga-ga-wa-wa-ba-ba?”
    “This doesn’t have to be an infant baby. It could be old enough to talk, and she’d still call it her baby. Scout is always going to be our baby, even when she’s seventy and we’re a hundred, wearing diapers again.”
    “But what are we going to tell the baby? Correct me if I’ve got it wrong, but Denise said, ‘She took me. She was me. But not me.’ Exactly what does that mean?”
    Carson huffed with impatience, and her warm breath plumed white in the cold night. “She also said, ‘Me isn’t me.’ That couldn’t be any clearer.”
    “‘Me isn’t me’ isn’t clear to me,” he disagreed.
    “You’re in denial, Michael.”
    “I am not in denial.”
    “Now you’re in denial that you’re in denial. It’s happening again. Replicants, like in New Orleans. That was the real Denise in the restaurant, and there’s a replicant of her somewhere.”
    “But what was that thing in her temple, the face jewelry? We never saw anything like that in New Orleans.”
    “I don’t know what it was, but it was totally Victorish.”
    “Victorish?”
    “We’re dealing with Victor’s clone now, and he’s going to be full of the same crap that Victor was full of, but he’s going to have his own ideas, too. He’s going to do some things differently. We’re going to see all kinds of stuff we never saw in New Orleans.”
    The Benedetto residence was a white Greek Revival house with a square-columned portico under a second-floor balcony, overhung by a tree with furrowed bark and scarlet leaves.
    Stepping onto the portico, they looked through the pair of six-above-six French windows that flanked the door, but there was no one to be seen.
    “Let’s think about this,” Michael said.
    Carson rang the doorbell.
    He said, “I wish I hadn’t ordered the meat loaf. The way this night is unfolding, I’m going to have killer acid reflux.”
    Carson pressed the bell again.
    The chimes were still ringing when the door opened, and Denise Benedetto stood before them. She said coolly, “Yes? What is it?”
    She wasn’t the Denise Benedetto with the silver face jewelry or the blood or the thick speech.
    “Does Larry Benedetto live here?” Carson asked.
    “He’s my husband.”
    “Well,
my
husband and your husband went to college together. We happened to be in town, and Michael—this is Michael—he said maybe we should look up Larry, he was such a great guy. Tell her yourself, Michael.”
    “Larry was a great guy,” Michael said. “He was so smart and witty and thoughtful, and he had real style. And he was funny. Oh, man, nobody could make me laugh like Larry did, he could make me bust a gut.”
    “My husband isn’t here now,” she said. “He’s busy at … work.”
    “He works evenings, huh?” Michael said. “Darn. And we’re leaving first thing in the morning. Would you tell him Michael McMichaels stopped by with his wife, Myrtle? We might be in town again in a few months. Next time I’ll call ahead, if that’s all right.”
    “Yes,” she said. “That would be better. Good evening.” She closed the door.
    Walking away from the house, casually kicking a couple of times at the drift of fallen scarlet leaves as though she were carefree, Carson said, “She’s sure a charmer. Don’t look back. In case