Dead and Alive by Dean Koontz Page A

moments, which was why he included it in his biography that had been downloaded into Erika’s brain while she had been forming in the tank.
    Victor wanted his Erikas not merely to service himsexually and to be his gracious hostess to the world; he also intended that his wives, each in her turn, should admire his steadfast intent to have his way in all matters, his steely resolution never to bow or bend to the wishes of the intellectual pygmies, frauds, and fools of this world who sooner or later humbled all other great men whose accomplishments they bitterly envied.
    On the second floor of the mansion, the north wing remained unused, awaiting Victor’s inspiration. One day, he would discover some convenience or luxury he wanted to add to the house, and the north wing would be remodeled to accommodate his latest enthusiasm.
    Even here, mahogany floors had been installed and finished throughout all the wide hallways and rooms. In the halls, the floors were overlaid with a series of compatible antique Persian rugs, mostly late-nineteenth-century Tabriz and Bakhshayesh.
    She took Jocko to an unfurnished suite, where she switched on the overhead lights: a small sitting room, a bedroom, a bath. The space lacked carpeting. Heavy brocade draperies with blackout liners, which had come with the house, were closed over the windows.
    “The staff vacuums and dusts the north wing just twelve times a year,” Erika said. “The first Tuesday of every month. Otherwise, these rooms are never visited. The night before, we’ll move you to another location, and back again after they have finished and gone.”
    Still wearing the skirt fashioned from the checkered tablecloth, wandering from lounge to bedroom,admiring the high ceilings, the ornate crown moldings, and the Italian-marble fireplace, the troll said, “Jocko is not worthy of these refined quarters.”
    “Without furniture, you’ll have to sleep on the floor,” said Erika. “I’m sorry about that.”
    “Jocko doesn’t sleep much, just sits in a corner and sucks his toes and lets his mind go away to the red place, and when it comes back from the red place, Jocko is rested.”
    “How interesting. Nonetheless, you’ll sometimes want a place to lie down. I’ll bring blankets, soft bedding to make it comfortable.”
    In the bathroom, the black-and-white ceramic tile dated to the 1940s, but it remained in excellent condition.
    “You have hot and cold running water, a tub, a shower, and of course a toilet. I’ll bring soap, towels, toilet paper, a toothbrush, toothpaste. You don’t have hair, so you won’t need shampoo or a comb, or dryer. Do you shave?”
    The troll thoughtfully stroked his lumpy face with one hand. “Jocko doesn’t have even one nice hair anywhere—except inside his nose. Oh, and three on his tongue.” He stuck his tongue out to show her.
    “You still won’t need a comb,” Erika said. “What deodorant do you prefer, roll-on or spray-on?”
    Jocko squinched his face, which drew his features into a disturbing configuration.
    Once Erika knew him better and could be direct without seeming to insult, she would tell him never to squinch again.
    He said, “Jocko suspects his skin is hypersensitive to such caustic chemicals.”
    “All right then. I’ll be back shortly with everything you need. You wait here. Stay away from the windows and of course be as quiet as you can.” A literary allusion rose from the deep pool of them in Erika’s memory, and she added, “This is just like Anne Frank, hiding from the Nazis in the secret annex in Amsterdam.”
    The troll stared at her uncomprehendingly and smacked the flaps of his lipless mouth.
    “Or maybe not,” said Erika.
    “May Jocko say?” he asked.
    “Excuse me?”
    “May Jocko say?”
    Owlishly large, with huge irises as yellow as lemons, his eyes still struck her as mysterious and beautiful. They compensated for all the unfortunate facial features surrounding them.
    “Yes,” she said, “of