Victoria Frankenstein, III: Part 19

 

Sixteen

Nights go quickly when you stay asleep, so I couldn’t really believe it when I heard Father brushing his teeth. Hadn’t we just gone to bed?

But streaks of dawn sneaking below the curtains told me the night was over. And a day I feared, dreaded, and anticipated had already begun.

***

At a little restaurant not far from the motel, Father and I reviewed our plans one more time. I couldn’t eat—I merely nibbled at the bagel I’d ordered.

And then we drove off to the site where I’d arranged to meet Dr. Eastbrook and to tell him where he could find his device.

The place was on 114^th Street and 1^st Avenue in nearby Lansingsburgh, New York, right near the Hudson River. Father dropped me at the site and drove off with tears in his eyes, but he could not stay: He’d promised.

It was about 8:45 that morning when he drove off—Will I ever see him again? I wondered. But I could not let myself get emotional now. Too much depended on my calm, on my preparation for this encounter.

Dr. Eastbrook had agreed to arrive at 9, and I wondered what kind of car he would be driving. There was not much traffic on 1^st Avenue, and virtually none on 114^th Street, which came to an end where it hit 1^st. If you kept driving east, you’d end up, very quickly, in the Hudson River, which flows calmly along in parallel with 1^st Avenue.

A small patch of woods stood between 1^st and the river.

And across the street stood a very famous house once occupied by a very famous writer, Herman Melville. It’s not a museum, and the only clue to its significance is the historical marker outside. I walked over and read it:

HERMAN MELVILLE

AUTHOR OF “MOBY DICK”

FAMILY HOME 1838–1847

DID HIS EARLIEST WRITING AND

COMPLETED FIRST TWO BOOKS

HERE, “TYPEE” AND “OMOO”

But the house was empty now—with a For Sale sign in the front yard.

While I was waiting, I stared at that house, imagined the brilliant man who had lived there for nine years, who would write Moby-Dick.

As nine o’clock neared, I began to get a little worried. Did Dr. Eastbrook have some kind of plot he was about to execute? Was I about to discover what it feels like to underestimate an opponent?

But then I heard the sound of a motorboat out on the river. I moved through the few trees and saw something that nearly sent me running away. In the boat were Dr. Eastbrook and Blue Boyle … well, sort of. There were actually two Blue Boyles, one with a bandage on his forehead.

***

I’ll admit it: I was more than a little surprised, though; as I stood there, mesmerized, I quickly realized what had happened—and it confirmed something I’d thought of earlier. But as I saw Dr. Eastbrook arrive at the shore, I decided to play dumb. To act surprised—well, more surprised than I actually was.

He and the two Blues walked up into the trees, saw me, and grinned like three Cheshire Cats. He saw my (falsely) startled face and smiled with pride.

“I think I surprised you,” he said.

“Yes. You could say that.”

The two Blues just stared at me—though the one with the bandage on his forehead seemed a bit angry. What? Just because I knocked you out with a rock?! I silently joked.

“I thought we agreed this would be a private meeting—just the two of us,” I said.

Dr. Eastbrook shrugged. “Kids lie,” he said. “So I figured I’d better bring some back-up.”

I snapped back at him, “So it turns out that you’re the liar.”

“Guess so.” He smiled even more broadly. “Better to lie than to be lied to.”

“No wonder your wife left you,” I said.

Now that he did not like. “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, the smile vanishing from his face.

“Oh, don’t I?”

“You do not. And if you don’t stop this line of … conversation … these two friendly fellows”—he gestured back at the two Blues—“are going to have some fun this morning. One of them, especially, would really like some … alone time with you.”

“I’m sure he does,” I said, still trying to project some confidence—though I’ll admit it was getting harder to do so.

“Let’s get down to business,” he said. “Where’s the device?”

“Not yet,” I said. “I need some assurances from you—though since you’ve already declared yourself a proud liar, I’m not even sure what I’m doing here.”

“What assurances?”

“That you will vanish from my life, from Father’s life. Permanently.”

“That’s easy enough.”

“Not really,” I said. “You have to put it in writing. In this envelope.” I had taken some stationery and an envelope from the motel desk—as well as a stamp. “You’re going to write what I tell you. You’re going to put it in this envelope and seal it. You are going to give it back to me, and I am going to walk over there”—I pointed to a mail-drop out by the road—“and we are going to wait until the mailman comes by—which is in about five minutes—and picks it up. So … you’d better get to work.” I handed him the materials. Told him what to write. He did.

I took it over to the mail-drop, addressed it to John, back in Ohio, pulled the lever, put it inside. Returned to Dr. Eastbrook.

“And now we’ll wait,” I said.

Sure enough, in just a few minutes the mail Jeep came by, picked up the letters inside the drop, and drove off.

“You think you’re clever, don’t you?” said Dr. Eastbrook.

“Maybe,” I said. “But I’m just trying to protect my father—and myself.”

Dr. Eastbrook just smiled. I didn’t like the look of it.

***

“Well,” said Dr. Eastbrook, “are you ready to show me where you’ve concealed my property.”

I turned and pointed to the Melville house. “It’s in there,” I said.

“How could it be!” he barked. “That’s a private home—”

“Do you see the For Sale sign?” I asked.

He looked, then nodded.

“Well, I said, “the house is empty—and appears to have been that way for quite a while. And I have a … way … with locks.”

“I’ll bet you do,” he said.

We walked across 1^st Avenue, pretended to be looking the property over. We saw one motorist approach, so we pointed at the house, as if we were interested in buying it. Of course, I wondered what the motorist would think of those two giant Blues who were with us.

Once there was no traffic in sight, we quickly moved to the back door, which I had previously unlocked. We moved to the kitchen, and on the counter sat Dr. Eastbrook’s device.

“At last!” he said. And moved quickly toward it.

That was my clue to exit.

I didn’t get far.

“Stop her!” he cried. “Something is wrong here.”

And both Blues had my escape route blocked with their massive bodies.

***

The Blue-with-the-bandage picked me up as easily as I would pick up a doll (though I can’t be sure: I never owned one) and turned me around to face Dr. Eastbrook, whose face was tomato-red—with anger, I supposed.

“What have you done to this!” he demanded.

“Done to what?” I tried.

“To this!” And he shoved his device in my face.

“I can’t tell what it is,” I said. “Stop waving it around.”

He nodded to the other Blue, who slapped me in the face—so hard that I nearly passed out.

“I see,” I managed. “I see it clearly.”

“Then tell me what you’ve done to it! And no more games—I’m about to turn these two guys loose on you.”

“Your two sons?” I said as calmly as I could, my ears ringing, my cheek burning in pain.

That stopped him. He stared at me.

“What did you just say?”

“Your two sons,” I repeated. And then I added, “How many more of them are there?”

Now he was stuttering. “What are you—?”

“You know perfectly well what I’m talking about,” I said. “That ‘device,’ as you call it, is a part—a very key part—of your human cloning project.”

“How on earth—”

“I’ve had that ‘device’ since we left Green Island,” I said. “I’ve been looking at it carefully, and it didn’t take me all that long to figure out what it was—and what you were doing.

“And by the way,” I added, “it doesn’t work anymore—and won’t ever work again.”

I saw the fury surge in him like a flash flood.

“Blues!” he bellowed. “Finish her!”

Smiles formed on their faces like cracks in glass.

And then the door opened behind them, and in walked someone I recognized immediately, a young man in his mid-twenties.

“Who are you?” croaked Dr. Eastwood.

“I have a couple of more pressing questions,” replied the young man. “Who are you? And what are you doing in my house?”

“Your house? But I thought—”

“Well, sort of,” he said. “I haven’t actually lived here since 1847. But in other ways, I’ve really never left here.”

Silence.

“Who is this madman?” said a nervous Dr. Eastbrook.

I stepped forward, shaking off the hands of the Blues, who, too, were startled. “Allow me,” I said. “Dr. Eastbrook, this is Herman Melville.”

***

Those words sounded bizarre even to me. But in recent years—in recent days—I had become very accustomed to seeing and hearing things that made no sense.

And, as I discovered not too long ago (to my sorrow), some of those things I saw and some of those people I saw were but characters from my memory and imagination, people brought to life by the drugs that Dr. Eastbrook had secretly and successfully given me.

But this vision—or memory—or whatever it was—seemed surpassingly real. Herman Melville was dressed in nineteenth-century clothing and looked as he did when he published those first two books, Typee and Omoo, books based, somewhat, on his own adventures in the South Seas.

We all just stood there, looking at one another, our eyes moving from one person to the next. And then back again.

Finally, Melville broke the silence. “I’ve been listening a little while, and I don’t really understand what you were talking about. But I did hear the slap; I did hear the threat to do even more harm to this young girl,” he said. “And I want you to know that I will not allow it.”

A hint of a smile returned to Dr. Eastbrook’s face. “And just how do you propose to stop us?” he said. “A girl. A ghost … if that’s what you are … opposing an adult—and these two stalwart young men.” He pointed to the Blues.

“Your sons,” I repeated.

He whirled toward me. “Yes, my sons!” he cried. “But no one else will ever know about it.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” said Herman Melville calmly as he removed a whaling harpoon from behind him. And at that moment a couple of other doors opened, and in came William Godwin, Mary Shelley, James Fenimore Cooper, and (last of all) the huge nameless creature created by Victor Frankenstein, my ancestor. And that creature, I should remind you, was … is … always will be? … eight feet tall. And quite ugly. But at that moment he looked to me to be the most handsome man who ever lived.

The Blues apparently had seen enough. They both turned and sprinted, screaming, for outside. But the creature, who, as Mary Shelley tells us, could run extremely fast, quickly pursued and caught them, returning to the room, each one dangling like a shopping bag from his enormous hands. Neither bothered to resist.

The creature spoke: “These two rascals have had an alteration in their plans of escape, and have returned so you can do to them what you will.”

The Blue with the bandage yelped: “Frankenstein doesn’t talk like that!”

Mary Shelley stepped forward, her red hair gleaming under the overhead light. “His name is not Frankenstein,” she said. “In my book I gave him no name—and for a very specific reason.”

“Frankenstein was the name of the young man who created him,” I said. “Victor Frankenstein.” I looked over at Mary Shelley, who was smiling at me. “And,” I went on, “if you ever read the book—which doesn’t seem too likely right now, does it?—you’ll see that he does speak in long, complex sentences, not in the grunts and moans you have probably heard in the movies.”

Mary Shelley was now smiling even more radiantly.

“So now what?” asked Dr. Eastbrook. “Someone will call the police? And you’ll all live happily ever after?”

“Not a bad plan,” I began to say, when I heard the front door open again. And in walked Gil Bysshe, dear Gil who, just months ago, had died at Niagara Falls.

All my lights went out as I felt myself slump to the floor.

***

“How long have I been out?” I asked Father, who sat on the floor, holding me in his arms.

“Not all that long,” he said. “Maybe ten minutes.” I thought I heard a catch in his throat. “You had me very worried, Vickie.”

I felt some tears bubbling in my eyes.

So I struggled to sit up.

“How did you know?” I asked.

“I thought you’d been in here too long,” he said, “so I left the car and hurried over.”

“Was anyone else here?”

“No. Dr. Eastbrook and the others had left—in a big hurry, I’d guess.”

“Hmmm. Anyone else?”

“No.” He looked at me. “Was there someone else? I did think—”

“Think what?”

“I did think I felt some … movement … in the house. But I didn’t see anything. Why do you ask? Was someone else here?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. And I was being truthful. Had I had visions again? Were there actually ghosts in the house?

“Anyway,” said Father, “if you’re feeling up to it, we’d better get out of here.”

I said I was all right.

Father looked around. “What happened to the device.”

“That’s a long story—I’ll tell you when I get to the car.”

And so I did.

***

We were sitting in a McDonald’s parking lot, sipping soft drinks. Silent.

“So now what?” he asked.

“I have no idea, Father.” I sighed. “I think our only option is to head back home.”

“I was really hoping you’d say that,” he said. “This has become very, very weird.”

“Maybe we can figure out our next move there,” I said. “And—I don’t know—I just feel safer when I’m not in a cave or on a strange island being threatened by giant twins.”

Father looked at me and smiled.

“Me, too.”

From Blue Boyle

My head still hurts. Was that monster real?

Victoria Frankenstein, III, Part 18

Blue Boyle

I seen you. We ran. We couldn’t find you.

 

 

Fifteen

We couldn’t waste any time—not if Dr. Eastbrook was really experimenting with what I thought he was—no, what I was now sure he was. It explained so many things that had happened. I didn’t have the details figured out, but I certainly saw “the big picture.” And it was a dark, frightening one.

But we knew we needed a night’s sleep if we were going to have the energy to accomplish anything the next day. I didn’t think that I would sleep at all—my mind was spinning like a weathervane in a high wind. But I did drift off and awoke feeling pretty energized.

Father was already up and dressed. He waited for me to clean up, then we headed down to the motel’s breakfast room, quietly ate some toast, drank some orange juice, talked about only simple matters. Didn’t want to take a chance that any of the others in the room—and there were a few—would listen in and assume we were insane.

***

Out in the parking lot we sat in the car a little while and talked about our strategy. We agreed that what we’d planned was probably hopeless, but both of us knew we had to try.

We drove down to the riverside, rented a small motorboat and some fishing equipment—we were not going fishing, but we had to have some excuse for renting the boat! We also bought two floppy fishing hats—about the only disguise we could manage. We knew it wouldn’t fool Dr. Eastbrook up close—but it might convince him, for a while, that we really were fishing.

I climbed in—so did Father. He pulled the cord, started the small motor, and chugged out into the Hudson River, headed (somewhat indirectly) toward Stormy Island.

“I think I ought to pretend to be fishing,” I said.

“Good idea,” Father agreed.

I actually didn’t know very much about fishing—but I knew you dropped a line in the water and waited for some fish to bite the bait. I didn’t use any bait but just dropped in the line and tried to look like someone who knew what she was doing. I pulled the hat low over my brow after I saw that Father had just made that same move.

We slowly made our way around the island—the opposite way that Dr. Eastbrook had gone (he’d gone north; we went south). And as we turned and chugged up the eastern side of the island, we saw a small dock. And Dr. Eastbrook’s boat was tied up there.

As per our plan, I pretended something had gone wrong with my pole, so we pulled into the same little dock, Father stopped the motor, tied down the boat, and we acted as if we were having some small trouble.

We’d agreed to keep this up for a few minutes—in case anyone was watching us and came to check us out. But nothing happened. So we got out of the boat, stretched, hoping that if anyone was watching, Dr. Eastbrook would think we were just there for a rest—maybe a little hike or something.

No one came.

“There’s a path over there,” I said, pointing so Father would see it.

He did.

And we headed toward this entryway into a thick woods.

***

Inside the wood, it quickly felt as if we were in some sort of fairy tale. (Were the Grimm Brothers smiling somewhere? Or Tolkien?) The path was narrow, the woods were lovely, dark, and deep, but we had promises to keep, you know?

There was a very strange silence in the woods—no bird noises, even. Just the soft tread of our feet on the narrow path. Neither of us said a thing. Father was ahead of me, and I was glad of that, for each step seemed to increase my fear.

And then, ahead, we saw the trail widen a bit—and bend. We slowed even more, then stopped.

“Why don’t you wait here?” Father whispered. “And I’ll see if I can figure out what’s around that next bend.”

I had no problem agreeing with that—well, except, of course, for my worries about Father’s safety.

He crept carefully down the trail, then turned to look at me just before he turned the bend and disappeared.

Time passed. And more time. And more time.

When I couldn’t stand it any longer, I, too, edged forward, reached the bend, paused, then peeked around it to see …

… Dr. Eastbrook, who said to me, “Well, there you are! We’ve been expecting you.”

He grabbed me and dragged me around the bend, where I saw Father in the grip of Blue Boyle and wearing a gag around his mouth. Father seemed asleep. And, later, I realized why: Our gags included a chemical that knocked us out as surely as a fierce blow from Blue Boyle.

***

When I woke up, I was in a dark place—a very dark place. I could not see a thing.

“Father?” I whispered.

“Yes,” came a whisper so close I was startled.

“You frightened me,” I said.

“You frightened me,” he replied. “You’ve been still and quiet for a long time. I was so worried.”

“I think I’m all right,” I said. I stretched my arms and legs. No pain. “And how about you, Father?”

“I think I’m okay.”

We were both quiet for a moment or two.

Finally, I asked, “Do you know where we are?”

“No,” he said. “Dr. Eastbrook drugged us both, and the next thing I was here—but I could hear your breathing nearby.”

“How did you know it was my breathing?”

“Because I’ve heard it for all your life,” he said. I thought I detected a small catch in his voice.

Again, we were both silent for a few moments.

“Father, did you get much of a look at things before … before this?”

“A little,” he said. “There was some kind of primitive cabin near where he grabbed us—it didn’t look too large, though.”

“He’s probably got something beneath it,” I said, remembering. “Dr. Eastbrook is pretty good about concealing his operations in a place that looks totally ordinary.”

“You’re probably right,” said Father.

More silence.

“And now,” I said, “what do we do about it?”

“That’s the $64,000 Question,” he said.

“What?”

“Never mind—a popular old TV show.”[i]

“I didn’t know you ever watched TV.”

Father sounded embarrassed. “I didn’t. But my parents loved it. I think it was on Tuesday night,” he added.

“You don’t ever talk much about your parents,” I said.

“No, I don’t,” he replied in his end-of-discussion voice.

Silence.

I tried moving my legs and hands. And succeeded. “I don’t think we’re tied or chained here,” I whispered.

“I noticed that, too.” A friendlier tone from Father. I was guessing that he was a little tense because he felt responsible for the position we were in: his daughter—his only child—once again in deadly danger.

“Father,” I said. “You can’t blame yourself for any of this.”

I heard his sharp intake of breath. “How did you know what I’m thinking?”

“I’m your daughter,” I said—and felt my voice crack with emotion.

And then the room was ablaze with light.

***

A door opened near us while I tried to shield my eyes. I heard the voice of Dr. Eastbrook before I saw him.

“I trust you’re sufficiently recovered,” he said. Blue Boyle, beside him, grunted. I squinted at him. He seemed big enough now to play professional football. And in his hand he held a hockey stick that seemed as small as a toy in his glob of a hand.

And I noticed something else that surprised me: There was no sign on his forehead of any mark where I’d hit him with that rock back in Cooper’s Cave.

“We’re all right,” said Father. “No thanks to you.”

“Well, if you want to stay all right,” said Dr. Eastbrook, “it’s time to start cooperating. No, it’s nearly past the time for it.”

“You’re not going to hurt us,” I said.

“Vickie!” cried Father.

“Not until you get what you want,” I said, trying to sound far more confident than I actually was.

“You’ve got a lot of mouth for a child,” he said.

“And more brains in my big toe than you have in your entire body.”

Dr. Eastbrook took an angry step toward us, and I thought for a moment I’d misjudged the situation. Uh oh.

But, no, he stopped. Drew in his breath. “Okay,” he said, “I do need you. For now. But after I get what I want—”

“You won’t get what you want,” I said, “unless I’m certain you can not harm us.”

That seemed to stop him again. He seemed … puzzled. “But how can that be?” he finally said. “You’ll just tell the authorities—again—where I am. And once again I’ll have to move the entire thing.”

“What if I promise I won’t do that?” I said.

“Vickie!” cried Father.

I just turned and smiled at him—a smile that said, “Don’t worry.”

Then Dr. Eastbrook said, “How can I possibly trust you?”

“The same way I trust you,” I said. “Not very much.”

“Just what I thought,” he said.

“But here’s the thing,” I said. “We will meet alone—just the two of us in a place where we can both see for a long way around. And there,” I said, “I will give you what you want.”

I heard Father muttering. But I hoped he wouldn’t say anything aloud. Because I had a plan. And he had to be far, far away. And safe.

***

We settled on the arrangements, and Dr. Eastbrook took us in his boat back to our car. As we approached it, he muttered, “I was certain what I wanted would be in your trunk—or your room.”

“But it wasn’t, was it?” I said, perhaps a little too smugly.

“You can be very annoying,” said Dr. Eastbrook.

“So I’ve been told,” I said.

After he returned to the island, Father and I drove back to the motel and went inside.

“What was all that about?” he asked.

“I figured out what his device was,” I said, “and so I knew two things: don’t let him know that I know, and keep it hidden where he will not look.”

“And what is it for, Vickie?”

“I think it’s safer to tell you later.”

“Safer for whom?”

“For you,” I said quietly.

***

“Vickie, you know he’ll be waiting for us—he’s probably watching the motel doors right now.”

“I would expect no less from him. We’ll wait till dark,” I said.

Father’s look at me seemed to say, “Who is this girl?” Not a bad question, actually.

***

We sat in the motel lobby, Father sipping coffee—I, a Coke. Waiting.

We had already talked about the issue of “darkness.” Around a motel there is none—lights at the entrance, at the exits, all over the parking lot.

But I wasn’t worried.

Father was being, I have to say, very patient. In a way it was almost as if we’d exchanged places: He’d become the eighth grader; I, the parent. And I thought, too, that throughout my life we had become an odd kind of joint body—both with developing hearts and minds.

As a team—as a kind of merged human being—we each had an important role, a function. And each of us trusted the other to perform that function in the most effective way possible. So far, he had never disappointed me. I hoped only that he felt the same way about his daughter.

As the sky grew perfectly dark, I told Father: “When all the lights go out in and around here, I want you to head quickly for the car—and I will meet you there as soon as I can.”

He stared at me. “When all the lights go out …?”

“That’s right.”

He shrugged and sighed. But I knew he would do it.

Some more moments passed, then I gave him a little wave and headed back down one of the hallways. I’d noticed, not far from the little lounge, was the door to the equipment and maintenance room. And one thing I’d figured out long, long ago was how to pick a lock—especially a simple one.

When I reached the door, I tapped—hoping no one was inside.

No one was.

I quickly picked the lock, stepped inside, turned on the light, located the box with all the circuit breakers, opened it, saw the labels on the switches, looked for MAIN FLOOR and PARKING LOT. Found them. Took a deep breath. And flipped those switches.

Two things immediately happened: It was as dark as midnight when clouds shield us from the moon and stars. An emergency beeping sound began.

I hurried to the lounge, made a quick stop there, then out to the lot, out to the car, where Father was waiting for me. I jumped in beside him, and off we went—slowly, as quietly as possible—headlights off—out the main exit (we figured Dr. Eastbrook would be waiting by the other one, expecting us to try to sneak out—turns out we were right).

No lights at first until we turned the block and increased speed. I kept looking behind us.

I said, at regular intervals: “No one—no one—no one—no one.”

We relaxed. The first part of our plan was working.

***

It wasn’t until we pulled over into a McDonald’s—and parked in the back—out of sight—that Father noticed I had with me that little machine that I’d taken from the old Lake Erie lighthouse on Green Island.

“I see you found your little friend,” he said.

“Yes.”

“And where had you hidden it?”

“Well, as you can see, it looks a little bit like a toaster—”

“Yes.”

“So I hid it in the motel coffee room—under the counter near the ‘real’ toaster, shoved into the back with a bunch of other junk in front of it.”

“You must have had a very clever father,” he said.

“I did.” I paused. “No, I do!”

“And you figured any employee looking in there for, oh, extra napkins, would see it and think, ‘Well, at last they bought a spare toaster!’”

“Exactly.”

“So what’s it for?” he asked.

“Let’s get a little food first,” I said, “then find a place farther away to hide. We’re still a little too close to the motel.”

“Good idea,” said Father, and we headed into the back customer door of the place, knowing we’d better not risk the drive-thru. Too many lights.

***

Outside, munching and talking in the car, we agreed that we ought to find a place to spend the night. My meeting with Dr. Eastbrook was not until the following day—and we needed to rest, to freshen up.

We drove around until we found an old motel—out of the way—only a few cars in the lot. And—a very useful thing—some of the rooms were in the back, out of sight from the road. For someone driving by there would be no way to know that extra parking lot even existed.

We carried our few belongings inside, and Father drove off to find a drug store to get us some toothpaste, tooth brushes. The motel supplied soap and shampoo (in tiny bottles), so I arranged the few things we had and lay down on one of the double beds and waited. I didn’t bother with the TV. Somehow, it seemed … irrelevant.

I was asleep in seconds, and only Father’s return awoke me.

“Sorry,” he said when he saw me sitting bolt upright and my eyes full of alarm. “I tried to be quiet.”

“You were,” I said, “but I’m kind of … on edge.”

“Can’t say that I blame you.”

We rehearsed our plan for tomorrow—again—before we each showered and prepared for bed.

I wanted to sleep forever. But I wanted tomorrow to be over.

 

From Blue Boyle

That rock had hurt me. Alot. I saw me in a mirror. A big bump. I looked later. I did not like it.

---

[i] An actual show—a popular one—that was on the air from 1955–58.