“Convenient.”
“And a couple of suicides.”
Castillo nodded against the phone, focusing his thoughts. A “couple” didn’t sound too bad, not when each year more vets killed themselves than died in actual combat. “How many?” he said.
“Three. Over the last twelve years. Above average for a company that size, statistically.”
“Suspicious otherwise?”
“Aren’t they always?”
“No.” Castilllo had heard enough. “That it?”
“Most recent suicide was a Dr. Chatterjee, Sanjay Chatterjee. Hung himself two years ago. Family started a fuss, wouldn’t believe he’d do such a thing, but then they vanished back into India. Need more?”
“Might later. Is that cool?”
“ ‘Tis. You want the names of the other dead employees?”
“Email ’em to me. Thanks, Pete.” Castillo ended the call.
He watched Jeff again. The teen looked remarkably peaceful. Castillo couldn’t remember ever being that young.
He checked his phone for the time. Kristin had sent a text message midday that she would call him back directly before ten. An hour from now.
No response yet from Ox. Probably never would be. It’d been a long shot anyway.
Ox was another war pal he’d first met in the field almost fifteen years ago. If Erdman and Stanforth didn’t know who or what SharDhara was, Ox was an hombre who just might. He was a notorious enthusiast and purveyor of government cover-ups and conspiracies and one of those individuals who always knew a guy who knew another guy who knew . . . and so on. Always good for the latest bit of military gossip, even as paranoid as some of his musing often got. The real trouble with Ox was getting hold of him. When he’d retired, he’d more or less vanished with a bunch of other survivalist whackballs into the hills of Tennessee, or West Virginia, or someplace. Castillo hadn’t seen him in years, and they’d only spoken on the phone once since his own return to the States. He did still have specific directions on how to contact the man using a special nym server with an untraceable email address, PGP key pairs, and some anonymous remailer based in Norway. Insane. His email to Ox had probably gone straight to Santa’s workshop in the North Pole. As he’d hit Send in the Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot, only one thing had been for sure: If he did somehow actually get hold of the guy, only he and Ox would ever know it. Anything less, and the man would never contact him back. Part of his charm, Castillo supposed.
He checked the FBI feed again for any new crimes, made some unproductive notes, and then rummaged back through the images of Jacobson’s journals for another hour before his phone rang as promised. He rushed for the door.
“Hey,” Castillo said, stepping outside quietly. It was surprisingly warm, the day’s heat still lurking on the night’s breeze. He surveyed the mostly vacant lot. His perusal widened to the traffic on the bordering streets, no direction seeming any more promising than another beneath the reddened moon. “Thanks for getting back so—”
“I’ve looked at the files you sent,” she said. Paused.
“Thanks, I . . .” Too many thoughts folded in on him again, and nothing he could say to her. He cast his eyes back to the ground. “What can you tell me?”
There was another pause. Enough that he knew she was still deciding if she should lecture him, hang up, or just give him the info he’d asked for and continue on with her life. “How much of the situation can you share?” she asked, choosing Option Three. “Any?”
“Just know I gotta find these guys.”
“OK, look: All six are classic loners, with documented sociopathic tendencies ranging from just-above common all the way to full-blown psychopathic monster. Three are lacking almost every benchmark of ordinary human social development. And some of these numbers, to be honest, don’t even make sense to me. How well do you understand the terms?”
“Sociopath? Psycho? Assumed they were the same thing.”
“They’re similar but different disorders, especially in the way they manifest. Which could help you know what to look for. Even though they’re always lumped together, you should probably understand the two beyond some vague Webster’s definition before you go much further.”
“It’s why I called you.” He’d found the outside stairs leading to the motel’s second and top floor. He took them unhurriedly, stretching his legs, relishing the feeling of warm air against his skin. Yet somehow still cramped, chilled. Nervous.
“All right. About one half of one percent of Americans could be diagnosed as sociopaths or psychopaths. So says the National Institute of Mental Health.”
“Two million psycho killers?”
She laughed softly, the sound tender and familiar. “Not at all. There are degrees to everything. Ninety-eight percent of that two million are only sociopaths, and most sociopaths are little more than flaming assholes.”
“Skip the technical jargon, please.”
“Guys with no regard for the feelings and rights of others. Care only about Number One, steal for the hell of it, moody guys who screw over coworkers, start bar fights out of boredom, won’t talk to their kids . . . that kind of thing. True psychopaths are much, much rarer. The difference is important, and also horrible.”
“Go on.”
“First how they’re the same. They both manipulate to get what they desire with no true sense of right or wrong. See people as targets, opportunities, and believe the cliché that the end always justifies the means. And so lie with almost every breath. And steal. And sometimes even rape or kill. Both are unable to empathize with their victims’ pain, and even hold contempt for their victims’ distress. Oblivious to the devastation they cause, lacking remorse, shame. Both usually surface by age fifteen; often cruel to animals, have an inflated sense of self, no awareness of personal boundaries. Feel entitled, spoiled. Shallow emotions, incapacity for love. Need stimulation and enjoy living on the edge, and believe they are all-powerful, all-knowing, and warranted in every wish. Both carry a deep rage.”
“Copy. How different?”
“Sociopaths have a life history of behavioral and academic difficulties. They’re less organized; they struggle in school and work. They’ll often appear nervous and easily agitated. They act spontaneously in inappropriate ways without thinking through the consequences. So, they typically live on the fringes of society, without solid or consistent economic support. They have problems making friends, keeping jobs, tend to move around a lot. Since they disregard most rules and social mores, their crimes are typically spontaneous because they don’t give one damn and don’t care if you know it. The prisons are filled with these guys. Most of us would not be comfortable with a sociopath in the room. You would totally know he was there.”
“But not so Mr. Psychopath.”
“You got it. Mr. Psychopath, as you say, is extremely organized, secretive, and manipulative. While he also has no regard for society’s rules, he understands them. He’s studied them for years like it’s a job, and he can mimic the right behaviors to make himself appear normal, even charismatic and charming. He’s often well educated, can maintain a family and steady work. He’s learned The Game, and he’s playing it to win using our own rules against us. You would be comfortable with a psychopath in the room because you would never know he was even there.”
© 2013 BY JASON SCHLOTMAN
GEOFFREY GIRARD is an award-winning dark fiction author. Born in Germany and shaped in New Jersey, Geoffrey graduated from Washington College with a literature degree and worked as an advertising copywriter and marketing manager before shifting to high school English teacher. Since then he’s earned an MA in creative writing from Miami University and is the department chair of English at a famed private boys’ school in Cincinnati. None of his students, he believes, are clones, though he suspects one of his two teenage sons could be. For more information, please visit GeoffreyGirard.com.
SIMON & SCHUSTER, NEW YORK
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Girard, Geoffrey.
Project Cain / Geoffrey Girard. — First edition.
pages cm
Summary: Fifteen-year-old Jeff Jacobson learns that not only was he cloned from infamous serial killer Jeffrey Dahmer’s blood as part of a top-secret government experiment, but there are other clones like him and he is the only one who can track them down before it is too late.
ISBN 978-1-4424-7696-7 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4424-7701-8 (eBook)
[1. Murder—Fiction. 2. Serial murderers—Fiction. 3. Biological weapons—Fiction. 4. Cloning—Fiction. 5. Science fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.G43948Pro 2013
[Fic]—dc23
2013002672
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Acknowledgments
‘Cain’s Blood’ Excerpts
About Geoffrey Girard
Project Cain (Project Cain) Page 28