Pain. Fear. Death.
The detached freedom to do whatever they wanted, while also imprisoned by some Other inside that angrily demanded they act upon those same freedoms. It was a contradiction—an enslaved freedom.
This little monster sat on the couch where Castillo found him, waiting. Waiting for what, exactly, the boy had no clue. Neither did Castillo. He’d simply make the phone call. “Found one. He’s not one of the six.” And then give the kid’s address. DSTI would send people. After that . . . After that, who knew? Castillo only needed to get through the next couple hours.
He studied the boy. Cropped, dirty hair. The kid looked tired, like he’d done a couple weeks fighting beside the 7th Cavalry Regiment in Fallujah. His glossy eyes staring at ESPN on the television with little or no recognition of what they were really seeing.
For Ed Gein, aka Edward Albaum, it had been four days A.C.
After Cain.
After the others had arrived in his driveway, as they had elsewhere before, as they would somewhere again. After they’d burst from their car like trolls breaking free from beneath some bridge and raced up the steps into his family’s house. Smashed his father’s face with a golf club as teeth bounced and pinged off the living room wall. After they’d dragged his mother and big brother upstairs.
In an hour, Castillo’d managed to piece together most of what had happened.
After Cain.
Five boys. One of them dressed like a clown. A single carload of the most infamous serial killers in history on the ultimate road trip: Bundy, Lucas, Fish, Gacy, and Dahmer. But not the Dahmer waiting for Castillo back at the hotel room. The fifteen-year-old kid with glasses and a kind voice, another kid altogether. Cloning was funny that way. And these others had let this boy in on their little joke. They’d told young Ed—as they, themselves, had recently been told—who he was. How he’d been born. Built. That the man who’d been visiting him every six months for “games and tests” as an “education specialist” was actually a geneticist named Jacobson who’d been paying his parents fifty grand a year to keep their mouths shut about their nontraditional adoption and his visits. They’d even showed him the bloody naked woman they’d had in the trunk.
The five boys had left him with that information and then, as they’d been finished with the rest of his family, had gotten back into their car and driven off. Leaving him, for the first time, it seemed, to decide his own fate.
The first thing the boy had done was to cover his family’s faces with open notebooks to hide their vacant, glassy gazes, the steadily graying skin. He’d emptied the pantry for food. Found cash in his mother’s purse. Gotten himself up each morning for the last week of school. Afraid, he’d told Castillo, of where the police would put him if they knew his parents were dead. Afraid he’d be blamed. Afraid they’d make him live with strangers.
Afraid.
Castillo couldn’t worry about that today. He wouldn’t. He’d make the call, and in a couple of hours, the good doctors from DSTI would arrive. What happened then, where those men decided to reshuffle their eleven-year-old lab rat, was not his concern. It wasn’t his mission. His mission was explicitly to apprehend these boys, them and their genetic brothers. To bring them back to DSTI. Back to the test tubes and computers. The neurochemical testing and mind games. Back to the lab where they’d each been made. And how long before they authorized other options if capture proved too problematic? He remembered his empty threats to Erdman about reporting them all if he suspected any mistreatment.
My mission.
What would they really do with these kids?
Make the phone call. I found one.
Me and Jeff.
After Cain.
AFTER MRS. NOLAN
JUNE 07, TUESDAY—MIDDLETOWN, CT
Albert McCarty didn’t really know what to do.
He was at a rest stop somewhere halfway up the New York turnpike. After Mrs. Nolan, he’d taken his mom’s car and driven to Mike Gaffney’s house to shoot him and his parents. But they weren’t home. He’d waited for almost an hour, but he’d gotten bored and left. He didn’t know where Adrienne Haller lived. And he sure as fuck hadn’t felt like waiting for school the next day.
So he got on the highway and drove. North. He figured he’d go to Boston. Home of his father, the “Boston Strangler.” Except Dr. Jacobson said the Boston Strangler guy wasn’t his father at all. The Boston Strangler was him. Him him. It didn’t make any sense really. No more sense than what he’d done to Mrs. Nolan, he supposed. Or what those kids Jacobson brought over had done to his mother. To his fake mother. Whatever.
Getting to Boston somehow did make sense. The question now was HOW. He wasn’t stupid. The police would be looking for his mom’s car eventually. There’d be, like, announcements up on the highway signs any minute. MISSING TEEN. DELAWARE LICENSE. TRE542. KILLED THE NOLANS. GOT FREAKY WITH THE MILF TOO!
He needed another car. A car the police wouldn’t be looking for. He’d never hitched a ride before. Seemed like it’d be easy enough. But he didn’t want some pervert trucker picking him up. Making him suck dick or something weird. He had fifty-five dollars for gas and food and the gun with seven bullets. Should be enough to get anywhere, he figured. But who to approach? A family was probably best. His mom told him if he ever got lost, he should go to a family. It was safest. The irony was really fucking funny. But which one?
Albert sat atop one of the picnic tables, his feet up on the seat. The rest stop lights fully lit the night. He had a cold Mountain Dew and a half-eaten package of peanut M&M’s he’d bought from the vending machines. Everyone assumed he was with one of the other families. Everywhere he looked was another to choose from. All afternoon and into the night, they kept coming in. Every shape and size. Some with babies. Some with a couple of teens who looked no different than he did. People on early summer vacations. Driving to the shore, or Grandma’s, or whatever. Now all I have to do is pick the right one and . . . and what? Ask for a ride? Say I’m lost? Ask for help? Take the car at gunpoint? Wait for a single mom and stick the gun in her right tit and say Drive, bitch, or I shoot your ugly kids? Then he could do to her what he’d done with Mrs. Nolan. It wasn’t as easy as it sounded.
He gulped down the rest of his Dew and tucked the candy in his pocket for later. He needed to drop a deuce. Or take a piss. Or something. Something not this. Albert trudged to the bathrooms again. He’d been trying to take a dump all day, couldn’t. Ended up just beating the bishop every time. He looked over the other travelers again as he crossed the picnic area. By the time he got out, there’d be a whole new batch to pick from. He’d find a good one then. This time, for sure. He’d figure it all out then. He passed an old guy on his way into the bathroom. Even held the door open for him to let him pass by. “Thank you, sir,” the old guy said. “Sure,” Albert said, and smiled. He wanted to bust out laughing so bad. Inside, there were two guys taking a piss. They were talking like they knew each other, and Albert went past them to the second stall.
He got in and turned to lock the door. Dropped his pants and sat down. He hadn’t taken a shit in almost three days. Too nervous or something. Or maybe too fucking pumped. Whatever. He listened as the other guys cleaned up outside by the sink, started the hand dryer, and laughed about something. He heard the bathroom door open and close again. The dryer kept going. Then silence. Peace and quiet. He tried to relax. Thought about jacking off again.
Then Albert saw the feet. The toes of two black boots in the space beneath the door, standing directly in front of his stall. Just stood there, still, lifeless. They could have been empty, like someone placed them there as a joke. . . . A pair of pale green boots with no one inside them! Like that Seuss book one of his day-care teachers had always read. He wondered if—
The guy outside was still staring straight at Albert’s stall door.
Albert unfurled a handful of toilet paper and shifted in the seat to let the guy know someone was inside. Still the boots did not move.
“Busy,” Albert cried out.
Nothing. The boots did not move. And the door was shaking again. And now the bolt on the inside was clattering against the latch.
“Busy! Occupado! ” Albert said more loudly. “Sorry, man.”
Freaky. He could hear the guy breathing. Sniffing, almost. Like he had a cold or something. Like he was trying to smell what was inside. Albert felt for the gun in his jacket pocket. “Look, sorry, man,” he said. “There are like three more stalls . . .” He’d decided to shoot the guy if he shook the door one more fucking time.
Still the black boots did not move. Albert fumbled in his jacket to free the gun.
The boots were gone.
He hadn’t even seen them leave. He’d looked away for a second to mess with his jacket, and by the time he’d looked back, nothing.
Albert pulled his hand away from his jacket. Leaned back in the toilet seat. His eyes scanned the floor for the boots. He didn’t see them anywhere. Didn’t hear the guy moving around either. Didn’t hear that weird breathing. “Screw this,” he mumbled. Reached down to grab his pants.
That’s when he noticed the shadow against the inside of the bathroom stall. And, only then, recognized the sensation of someone standing close to him.
Albert looked up and had half a moment to figure out Who or Why or How someone was suddenly hovering at the top of the stall above him.
His bowels emptied quite easily then.
BLOOD TRAIL
JUNE 07, TUESDAY—CHILLICOTHE, OH
Jeff ate steadily but quietly, the uneasy silence between them amplified by the bustling diner. “You gonna eat your bacon?” he asked, eventually breaking the quiet.
Castillo looked up, collected himself. “No, go ahead.”
The boy reached over to his plate and took the two slabs of half-cooked bacon. Castillo looked away as Jeff started stuffing the greasy meat into his mouth. He couldn’t help but wonder what other slippery meats had once passed over those same lips. What gristle those sharp teeth had once chewed into. The same tongue savoring the taste of dead human flesh.
It wasn’t fair, Castillo knew. This kid was not THE Jeffrey Dahmer. Not technically. Nature/nurture, right? Hell, the rest of the world knew the boy only as Jeff Jacobson. This kid had never done a damn thing. He stopped staring, stopped trying to think about it, and looked down at the road map beside his plate. He dropped a finger onto the map. “Unity, Ohio, and Lovett, Indiana.”
Missing persons in Ohio, a couple of women. In Lovett, Indiana, two teens had been found hanging by chains from a tree. Both bodies soaked with gasoline and then burned. On CNN, the Lovett sheriff said he thought it was related to drug trafficking. Castillo didn’t see it that way. He saw only the fresh blood. A fresh trail looking more and more like a straight line. “They’re heading west,” he said. He ran his fingers in a subtle squiggle across the map. Jeff didn’t look up from his plate. “Route 50,” Castillo added. “From what the Albaum kid could tell me, it looks like the original group picked up someone named John a couple of weeks before they came for him. John, he said, had been dressed like a clown.”
“What?” Jeff asked.
“That’s what he said.”
Jeff retreated to his food.
“You know,” Castillo pressed, “John Wayne Gacy was infamous for dressing up like a clown sometimes. A character named Pogo.”
“I don’t . . . I don’t know who that is.”
“John Wayne Gacy?”
Jeff shook his head.
“Did you ever meet a boy named John?”
Jeff ignored the question. Seemed not to have heard it.
Castillo tried again. “Did you ever meet a John?”
“Ever in my life?” Jeff stared at his plate. “Sure. Probably. A kid on my soccer team two years ago was named John Vincent. Does that count? But if you mean a John connected to Massey or DSTI . . . the clown kid? The clone kind? Then no.”
Castillo glanced around their booth. “Let’s keep it down a bit,” he said. “Got it?”
“My bad,” Jeff replied, then looked up and added in a whisper, “No, I don’t think I ever met a John at Massey. I already gave you all the names I could remember.”
“Fair enough. The Albaum boy said the clown was definitely named John and that a guy named Ted did most of the talking. But he couldn’t remember the other names. When I tossed some names at him, he thought he remembered Al and Henry but wasn’t sure. He was pretty positive he never once heard a D name.”
“David and Dennis.”
“Might not be with these guys.”
“David wouldn’t be.”
“So you’ve said,” Castillo replied.
“And my . . . Dr. Jacobson wasn’t there, was he?”
“He was not with them.”
Jeff used his fork to knock a piece of pancake back and forth on his plate. “What about Jeff ?” he asked. “Did this kid run into a Jeff?”
Castillo looked straight at the boy. He wished they were both quiet again.
“Or”—Jeff laid the fork aside and looked up, noting Castillo’s discomfort—“are we just supposed to pretend you’re not looking for a Jeffrey Dahmer clone?”
“I am,” Castillo said. “The boy wasn’t sure if he’d heard that name or not. He did, since you ask, remember a tall blond guy.”
Jeff thought about this. “So, what happens to him now?”
“Albaum? He’s halfway to Pennsylvania. Back to DSTI.”
“What happens to him now?”
“I don’t know.”
“They’re just gonna kill him.”
“Fuck off. Why the hell would you even say that?”
“I told you. My dad said they’d kill me if they ever caught me. Now they have this kid.”
“Well, Daddy ain’t thinking too clearly these days, is he? I’m sure the kid’ll be fine.”
“Are you?”
Castillo sipped his coffee. It had grown cold.
“How long before you turn me over to them?” the boy asked.
“They don’t even know you’re with me.”
“But they know I exist. You’ll need to turn me in eventually.”
“You’re helping me do my job.”
“And when I can’t? Or won’t?”
“Don’t know. Guess I’ll decide then.”
Jeff nodded again. Castillo’s matter-of-factness had taken the steam out of his growing anger. There was nothing left to say, really.
“Here’s what I know,” Castillo said to change the topic. “Based on what the Albaum kid says, I think a couple guys split off, together or alone. Guys like David, maybe. I think Jacobson . . . I think your father has also gone on alone.”
“I think that, too,” said Jeff.
“It’s this group heading west I’m most worried about.” Castillo ran his finger along Route 50. “There are murders and disappearances all over the country, but if I wanted to draw a straight line down Route 50 today, I finally could. This,” he tapped the map, “this is the fresh game trail. You ever gone hunting?”
“Isn’t that what we’re doing now?”
Castillo made a noise that sounded like a laugh but wasn’t. He reached for his cold coffee. “You figure out any more of your dad’s notes?”
“Maybe. I think the bird might be Hitchcock, Indiana.”
“The Birds. Like the Hitchcock movie?”
“One of his biggies. My father and I watched it together one night. He said it was a classic I should probably know. He made popcorn.”
“Go on.”
“I think the monkey is Salem, Illinois.”
“What monkey?” Castillo pulled out his phone to thumb through the images.
“The monkey with the graduation cap.”
“Is that what this thing is? And Salem? Why isn’t he wearing, like, a witch’s hat?”
“Salem, New Hampshire, is a small town where Scopes went to high school.”
&
nbsp; “Scopes.”
“The Scopes Monkey Trial.”
“Uh-huh. And how the hell would you know that?”
“The guy who prosecuted Scopes in court, the William-Jenner-Bryan guy, he spoke at Scopes’s high school graduation. This was, like, ten years before the trial. Just coincidence. Still, Bryan claimed later he remembered Scopes in the audience and that he was all laughing and being a jerk and stuff.”
Castillo leaned back. “I repeat . . .”
Jeff shrugged. “My dad was a scientist. What ‘the hell’ do you think we talked about?”
“Your dad’s still a scientist. You think these pictures might be clues just for you?”
The boy shrugged again, and Castillo mirrored the move perfectly.
Jeff smiled. “Anyhow, Salem, Illinois, is on Route 50.”
“What about the other pics?” Castillo asked.
“Nothing.” The boy shook his head. “I need more time and . . . and maybe it would help if you update the, um . . .”
“The ‘Murder Map’? As soon as we get back to the car. We’ll follow it west. Hitchcock. Salem. Worst case, we’re wrong and can cross off another town. On the way, I wanna stop at that park outside McArthur. Maybe find something. Was just told, though not released publicly yet, a pair of witnesses say they saw some teens there that day. Nice job, man.”
Jeff looked up again. The question he wanted to ask next suddenly became clear to both of them.
What about my dad? What about going after my dad instead?
He didn’t ask. And Castillo was glad.
“Hey,” Jeff said instead. “Is it OK if I order a slice of pie or . . . ?” His face was already wet and shiny with bacon grease.
For a moment, Castillo thought it was blood.
“Sure,” Castillo said, looking away.
III
dependent variable n.
(1) Two related variables that are dependent on each other are known as dependent variables. The variables that are free to roam are known as independent variables. The independent variable and dependent variables are plotted against each other in a two-dimensional graph when carrying out a scientific experiment. The vertical axis of the graph is used to plot the dependent variable.
Cain's Blood: A Novel Page 15