by Apex Authors
Becker nodded, made a note of it, and moved slowly across the room to look at the files strewn behind Jacobson's desk. “You guys keep daily log files,” he asked, “or any way to know for sure if something's missing? This room seems even more trashed than the others. Could be hiding something."
"If I may..."
"Speak freely."
"Is this really necessary? Every minute we wait—"
"Measure twice, cut once, Doctor."
"What's that?"
"Measure twice, cut once. Something my dad always said.” He picked up and sorted a stack of papers.
"Was your father an Army assassin as well, Captain?"
Becker looked up and smiled. Christ, these guys are cocky. With the accountability in this massive fuckup, you'd think they'd just want to keep their heads down awhile. “No,” he said. “He just sells shit. Regardless, the point is, I can run outta here right now with my proverbial dick in my hand to track down six people in a world that's got some fifty-seven million square miles to play in. Or, I can do my homework, as it were, to start narrowing the boundaries down a bit.” Becker's thoughts had turned again to Uzbekistan and the hills of northern Pakistan. “You're a smart guy, Doctor. Which course do you think affords the highest probability for success?"
"Fair enough,” Erdman nodded. “I meant no disrespect."
"None taken. I also need all of Jacobson's phone and email records, as soon as possible. Any cell phones, too."
"Dr. Jacobson? May I ask why?"
"Sure.” Becker set the papers on the edge of an upturned table. “Take a look at your preliminary crime scene report. Something's not there. Something that should be, based on everything else we've found."
"And what's that?” He held out the clipboard.
"Blood,” Becker said. “You'd think we've got enough here, right? But we're still a little short."
"Jacobson."
"Right.” Becker smiled. “Where's Jacobson's blood? Kidnapped by a pack of raving lunatics and you don't have one drop. While everyone else is slaughtered. How's that?"
"I don't know,” Dr. Erdman said. “Tell me."
"How are you guys with the idea that Jacobson's the one who let them out? That this was intentional. Explains the trouble-free escape, the transmitters, the missing security tapes."
He could tell from Erdman's expression they'd considered this already. Maybe from the very beginning.
"But why?” Erdman asked. “Why would a man do something like that?"
"Who knows, Doctor. Maybe the same reason you guys do a lot of the shit you do."
"And why is that?"
"Maybe just to see what would happen."
The geneticist looked directly at him, folded his report back together. Cleared his throat. “So,” he said, “what will you do now?"
Becker eyed the fish tank again.
I'll do what I've done fifty times before, he thought, watching the cerulean and gold angelfish float through the milky strands of dissolving blood. I'll hunt them, find them and then...
"I'll do my job,” he said.
* * * *
Albert could not sleep again.
His head bubbled over with just too many thoughts, each idea and image leading to another as he stared up at the shadow-lined ceiling.
Quiz in Spanish. Gym first bell. Why bother getting dressed? Never understand a word the asshole teacher says anyway ‘cause the guy's from Honduras or something. Don't ever go anywhere. Never even been on a plane. Albert McCarty. Who cares? Stupid class anyway. Wetbacks should all just go home. Marian Wren and her quarter-sized nipples. Two rows back where he could watch her. Her mouth. Loved to watch her mouth. “De dónde venéis?” it said. “De dónde venéis?” Sometimes, she ran the pen along her lips and he knew what she was really thinking about. Probably had stinky breath anyway. Ashtray-breath like his lame mother. Cock tease. Heard Mike Gaffney was looking for him after school. Wanted to kick his ass or some shit. Asshole. I need a car. Go somewhere. Jacobson. Anywhere. Take Mrs. Nolan somewhere and suck on her nipples.
He'd already jacked off three times.
Trying to relax. To get tired.
Just want to sleep.
No more thoughts.
Had to keep busy or they just came back again. Every night. Sick of the shitty pictures in his Gallery magazines. The one girl had dark hair on her arms. Like an animal. Ripped those pages out and flushed ‘em down the john with his stuff all over them. Sick. Freak.
Mrs. Nolan.
Right next door. No more than a hundred feet away.
He turned onto his side and looked out the window towards her. Her bedroom. She probably jerks off sometimes too, he knows. She's, like, thirty but even old people jerk off. Lies in bed and puts two deep inside. Probably tired of that dopey husband. Chris. Faggot. Bet she'd love...
Noise from the living room. Something breaking. His drunk mother stumbling over the end table again. No doubt pouring herself a last round of Jack and Diet Coke before bed. If he were lucky, she'd go straight to bed. Sometimes she'd come in and just start laying into him. Stupid shit about his grades or friends or playing Warcraft too much or other stupid shit. Like she was just starting shit to start shit. Drunk bitch. Just talk to Jacobson. He's got something to make it go away.
Mrs. Nolan walks around in her black thong underwear. Seen it. Just last week. When she bent over to pick up the newspaper. Just pull those panties aside and suck her nipples. Stupid virgin. I should have done that fat chick with Kevin when she was passed out. I could kill Mike Gaffney. Just shoot him in the head with the gun in mom's closet. Or Mr. Nolan. Whatever. Or me. She thinks I'm a loser anyway. Freak. Who'd fuckin’ care? She would.
He'd reached into his shorts. Fourth time would ache a little but it was worth it. Pictured her beneath him with her arms over her head, tied to something. A bedpost, he guessed. Those rail things. Keeps saying ‘no’ but that's just because she doesn't want to take the blame when they get caught. Squirming beneath him while he's sticking her good. Sticking it in. Can't make out the face. Marion. Mrs. Nolan. Shit!
Someone standing just outside his room.
Heard the creak.
If his mom caught him again ... He remembered that ordeal well enough, she'd vanished for awhile and then come back to tease him about it for hours. He quickly pulled his hands away.
"What?” he snapped into the dark. Tried to sound tough with his heart thumping halfway out his chest.
The door opened a crack and someone's silhouette stepped into the den television's ghostly light.
Kenny? No. Too tall. Some other guy who'd come by to screw his mom. Another asshole who'd probably end up laying into him some afternoon for looking at ‘im wrong.
"Who is it?” he asked, sitting up. “Who's—"
The man now stepped into his room.
Didn't make sense. Not at all. Why is he here?
"Dr. Jacobson?"
"Hello, Albert. I'm sorry if I scared you."
Almost as if he'd willed him here with his very thoughts like some kinda genie. The boy climbed from his bed. “I don't—"
"Nothing to fear, son,” the man said, his face half lost in shadows. “Not any more. Everything's going to be fine now."
Several darker shapes moved in the living room behind him, but Albert couldn't make them out. “Where's ... where's my mom?"
"First, we need to talk,” the doctor said.
"Why? Why are you here?” Albert found he'd pulled the blanket close to his chest as some childish protection. “We're not supposed to meet again for weeks. What's that?"
"This, Albert, is a folder with all the information we have about who you are.” He'd taken a seat at the end of Albert's bed. Casually crossed one leg. “Who you really are."
"What do ... you mean, like, those tests and stuff?"
"Some of that. Bit more of where you truly come from."
"My birth parents."
"In a way.” He'd lain the thick folder on the bed. �
�Go ahead. Have a look."
The boy reached out carefully and took the folder.
ALBERT/5.
Just inside: Albert Henry DeSalvo. (11/3/1931—11/25/1973), and a picture.
"Is this my dad?"
The black and white photo so very familiar.
As if he'd seen it before when he knew that he had not.
"Not exactly,” the doctor smiled.
Photocopied newspaper headlines.
'Boston Strangler Escapes From State Mental Ward,’ ‘Boston Strangler Murdered at Walpole Prison.'
Pictures of old ladies.
Anna Slesers (55), Mary Mullen (85), Nina Nichols (68), Helen Blake (65), Ida Irga (75).
Faded shots of their dead bodies. Then, the younger ones.
Sophie Clark (20), Patricia Bissette (23), Beverly Samans, (23), Joann Graff (23), Mary Sullivan (19).
The Sullivan woman had gay hair but was still kind of cute. Blonde. Pretty eyes. Looked a little like Mrs. Nolan.
Albert kept reading.
How much time passed he did not know. He ignored all the noises from the other room. And Jacobson, who sat quietly watching him throughout. Eventually, he looked back up.
"Albert Desalvo.” He tried the name aloud on his lips. Not McCarty, his adoptive name.
But Desalvo.
His real name.
"The ‘Boston Strangler,'” he whispered into the darkness.
His real name.
The words like magic. He'd never felt...
Better?
The boy looked at the doctor and noticed for the first time there was blood on the man's pants. It did not change his overwhelming emotion.
Peace.
"Thank you,” Albert said.
The doctor patted the boy's knee and stood. “Every person should know who they truly are,” he said.
Jacobson moved towards the bedroom door and Albert trailed slowly after him. No clue where his mother was, but there were several other figures shuffling into the hall and out the front door. He wondered if they were the other students he'd sometimes met in group counseling sessions. The doctor retreated just behind them.
"What do I do now?” Albert called after them.
Jacobson did not pause or answer. He didn't need to.
As their cars backed away, Albert understood that the front door had been left wide open.
Into the night.
Where Mrs. Nolan was probably still wide awake, too.
And waiting for him.
* * * *
Jacobson's house sat alone atop a high hill in a pricier section of Haddonfield, New Jersey. Wooded, private. Old vines, new construction. The country club no more than a mile away. Aesthetic security lights glowed at every turn, the inside of the small estate remained dark. Those inside moved about only in shadows.
Becker had confirmed there were at least two men upstairs. Listened to and followed their distinct steps. Heard their muffled and clipped conversation. Could be more. He could now see their flashlights sweeping the darkness upstairs. The voices clearer. Anxious. Rushed.
Becker calmly waited for them just outside the room.
One of the voices had grown more familiar.
When the two figures stepped into the hallway, each carrying a box, he switched on his own flashlight.
One of the men actually screamed.
"Mohlenbrock?” He cast the light directly in the doctor's face.
"God damnit, Becker,” he squinted into the light. “You scared the shit out of me."
"Shut up. You guys don't waste any time, do ya? Hey,” he pointed his 9mm. at the other form. “You move another step and you will die. Understood? Good. Who else is in the house?"
"No one,” Mohlenbrock replied, the box trembling with the shaking of his arms. Becker refocused his gun. “No one, just us. Shit,” the doctor groaned. “This fucking box is heavy, Becker."
Becker put on the hall light.
The other guy was a kid. Thirty-something with a bad complexion and a worse goatee. Didn't look like any of the pictures he'd studied back at DSTI.
"Back into the other room,” Becker said. “Keep a nice hold on those boxes until I say otherwise. Got it?"
The younger guy looked at Mohlenbrock, who nodded, and the two moved slowly back into the other room. An office of dark leather and more books than Becker had ever seen outside of a library. “Put the boxes down on that table. Sit down over there.” He turned on the office light and switched off his flashlight. “Move.” He directed with the gun.
"Just take it easy, Becker,” Mohlenbrock said, sitting down with grunt. “Cut the Delta Force act for a minute, will you?"
"You guys on some kinda scavenger hunt, Mohlenbrock?” Becker flipped a hand through one of the boxes. File folders. Books. CDs. A laptop. “Myself, I'm supposed to find six genetically-mutated serial killers."
Mohlenbrock started to speak, then saw the look on Becker's face and merely waited.
"Call him,” Becker said. When Mohlenbrock just sat there, Becker pulled the cell from the man's front pocket and pushed it against his chubby face. “Call him."
The doctor took the cell, selected a number. “It's me."
"Give it here.” Becker took the phone. “Hey."
"What is it?” Erdman barked on the other end.
"If you guys are gonna play detective, Erdman, I'd prefer if you let me know upfront. Otherwise, it's a good way of getting one of your guys shot."
"Captain Becker.” Erdman paused. “Where's Mohlenbrock?"
"Sitting here beside some other nerd and two boxes filled with evidence."
"I see."
Becker eyed the rest of the room. Didn't look as if anything had been disturbed. “I gotta admit, Doctor, our working relationship hasn't gotten off to the greatest start. I'm beginning to suspect a trust issue."
"I understand how it looks."
"So, I'm now asking myself, am I really supposed to find these guys or not? If so, continuing to hide information from me probably won't help. And, if I'm not, just tell me so I can spend three weeks looking for them at Hilton Head."
"Find them. We absolutely must find them. But ... we just, Richard Jacobson heads DSTI's entire genetics program, from Development to Applications. Applications, as you already know, is into some pretty advanced ventures and Development is light years ahead of that. Military programs are involved, and Jacobson is privy to matters and information of—"
"'National security.’ Got it. Look, Erdman, these boxes stay with me until I'm done with them or I walk now."
"Then walk, Captain."
Becker laughed and tossed the cell to Mohlenbrock.
* * * *
He was halfway to the Philly airport before the call came in.
"Good evening, sir,” he picked up. “Always nice to hear from you."
"Like Hell,” Major General Durbin laughed on the other end. “How you doing, kiddo?"
"Fine, sir. Just fine."
"Just got off the phone with our new friends."
"I can imagine. Total screw job, sir. These guys don't—"
"Pick up everything you need back at the house. I explained some things to them and the matter cleared up rather quickly. Just let ‘em know when you're done with it."
"Everything?"
"Everything. I've been assured of that, and they know better than to fuck with me."
"Request more men on this one, sir. Need a full team."
"No can do. This one needs to be fast and quiet, kiddo. That's you. FOX News goes apeshit when some drunk teenager gets lost in Aruba. What do you think they'd do with this?"
And if something goes wrong ... tough shit, kiddo. You're gone and this never happened. Becker considered that inherent threat, even more so now with this mission, with his next words.
But, was it really fair to doubt Durbin?
It was Durbin, and Durbin alone, who'd come back for him in Iran. Got him out of that ‘jam’ when most others would have scrubbed the whole thing
with a tidy M.I.A. and just left him to suffer.
Becker knew he owed the Major General a hell of a lot more trust than that. Only problem was, Becker figured, the Major General knew it too.
"There's a key,” Becker said. “I think Jacobson left it in the fish tank as some kinda clue. Guy wants to get caught. The key probably fits to his house somewhere."
"I'll make sure its there too. But Captain..."
Not ‘kiddo’ or ‘Sting’ he noticed, but something much more official. “Yes, sir."
"I'm boosting your clearance for this. Whole new ballpark now."
"Understood, sir."
"I sure hope so. ‘Cause it gets ugly in a hurry."
"How ugly?"
"Hell's still uglier."
"Yes, sir."
"And there ain't no going back. Not ever."
That I know.
"Keep me informed, kiddo. Keep smart."
"Yes, sir,” Becker said, and pulled into a gas station to turn his rental around.
The boxes were waiting for him in the empty house as the Major General had promised. And the key to Jacobson's private safe, which had already been emptied into the boxes.
Becker spent the next four hours skimming through the files and Jacobson's private diaries, watching the video CDs. By morning he had more questions than answers.
But he knew this.
If hell was uglier, it probably wasn't by much.
* * * *
When she saw the clown, she knew for sure.
Before that, it had only been a suspicion. That inimitable nervous tickle in the stomach that hints you might now be in a dangerous situation, that something ‘Bad’ could happen. Could. Not nearly enough to make you grab your two children and run screaming for the car. That'd be too embarrassing. No, not Fear. Not yet. But an emotion more akin to Nervous or Anxious.
The two cars pulled in slowly beside each other on the gravel parking lot. Both filled with kids, teenagers.
Mostly boys.
Ashley checked her watch. It was only one in the afternoon. Too soon for school to be out. Maybe the schools were off for some kind of in-service day, or the kids were college-aged. A couple looked older. Maybe they were just skipping school. God knew she'd done so a couple times in her day. It was a nice enough day for it.
But why come to a playground?
She turned back to find Cassie, her daughter, still winding through the top of the park's small wooden castle.