(2) a variable whose value is consequent on change in the independent variable. The dependent variable is always the response or reaction to the independent variable. Also called criterion variable.
Easy is the word that I shall say
and put in thy mind.
Those who are dead
shall draw near the blood,
and there shall speak the truth.
THE ODYSSEY
GETTING CLOSER
JUNE 08, WEDNESDAY—MCARTHUR, OH
Goebel Park. Days before, a mother and her two children had, it was believed, vanished here. The cops and volunteers with all their accompanying dogs and helicopters and news vans and Ohio University ROTC guys had, for now, vanished with them. Four days after the disappearance and still hours before daybreak, it was only Castillo and Jeff here. Even the woman’s abandoned SUV had long since been towed away.
“What you looking for?” Jeff asked in the dark.
“Don’t really know.”
Jeff watched Castillo as the man stood alone in the vacant picnic area. The guy hardly moved, and almost vanished in the night’s shadows himself, staring at different parts of the park. Maybe he’s totally nuts, Jeff thought. Why should he be any different? Guy never slept. Like ever. He stayed up until three in the morning and was up again before sunbreak. It was totally weird. And the few times he had actually slept. WTF?
It’d happened twice now. The first time, Jeff thought he’d imagined it. But now . . . just the night before, Castillo’d woken up totally screaming. The most god-awful sound Jeff had ever heard, and his first thought had been to bolt out the motel room door, but he’d been too terrified to move. Afraid Castillo would jump up and shoot him, or snap his neck. So he’d lain as still as possible, pretending to be already dead. All the while, he’d been able to feel the guy staring at him in the dark.
Eventually Castillo had settled back into bed, his face to the wall away from Jeff, but the Army assassin had literally been trembling. This UFC-built badass with the guns, tats, scars all over, and amazing staredown. Trembling in fear. In the darkness, Jeff had been able to hear the guy’s breathing going a hundred miles a minute, and it had gone like that for a good hour. Funny thing was, you’d think someone would never have been able to sleep again after hearing something like that. But Jeff’d ended up sleeping soundly for the first time since he’d left home; since his old life. Because it was the very first time he’d thought of Castillo as “normal.” As human.
Not like me, Jeff thought now.
He drifted away from the empty swings and Castillo with deliberately slow steps, hopefully away from his own thoughts.
“Keep close,” Castillo cautioned. “We’re outta here in a minute.”
Jeff nodded, stopped to shove the swing bridge that connected the two halves of the huge wooden castle swing set. Watched it sway back and forth in the darkness. Cozy midsummer wind snaked through the thick grass, surrounding him. He heard night bugs chittering. And frogs maybe. Or an owl.
Or the ghosts of a mother and her two children screaming.
Castillo said the witnesses who’d seen teens had been swept aside and that, instead, the woman’s husband had been brought in for questioning.
Castillo also said a boy had been found murdered in Vincent, Ohio. That this guy was sixteen (like me), played varsity volleyball, and caddied at Pinehill Golf Club. His name was Howell. Rick Howell. Students from his school were crying and stuff on TV, saying what a supernice kid he was. No one understood why someone would beat a person like that to death.
But none of them had seen his father’s notes. Like he had.
They didn’t know Richard Howell was the clone of some guy named Richard Ramirez, the Night Stalker, a guy who’d murdered and raped, like, a dozen families or something. Would his classmates still be crying and carrying on if they’d known that? If they knew the truth?
The Starry Night. Van Gogh’s most famous painting. Jeff’s dad had taken him to see it at a van Gogh exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art in New York.
VINCENT van Gogh. Vincent, Ohio. Really?
Yes, Jeff answered himself. Really.
Another clue just for me. As if he was the one who was supposed to stop any of this single-handedly. Or, maybe, Jeff thought, is it to help free the others? Were he and his dad supposed to be together even now, unleashing teenaged serial killers onto the world?
Then why’d he leave me? And why won’t he see me?
Jeff looked back, found Castillo preoccupied with the empty gravel parking lot. “A minute” was clearly going to become five or ten, though he knew Castillo wanted to get in and out as soon as possible. No telling when all the others might return.
With Castillo clearly lost to his own thoughts, Jeff wandered farther away, bearing toward a small skate park down the pathway. Eager to truly free his own mind. Of everything.
No such luck.
Whether Imagination, Fear, Exhaustion, or Insanity—maybe all of the above—he didn’t know. He knew only that the New Truth had been lurking in the darkness waiting for him. Waiting to show him things.
By the time he got back to Castillo, he was surprisingly calm again.
Castillo gave him some shit for wandering off, but not much—probably saw something in Jeff’s face that said leave it alone—and then they were back on the road again.
“Was it them?” asked Jeff.
“Don’t really know.”
“Yeah, you do.” Jeff closed his eyes and tried to sleep. Not that there was much difference. His nightmares had all entered the real world anyway.
ROAD TRIP
JUNE 08, WEDNESDAY—ROUTE 50, IN
The car held five comfortably.
Al did most of the driving, said it was relaxing. This, coming from a guy who’d tried jamming a couple needles into his gouche to see what it felt like. (Like his original had. It was ALL in his new book.) Ted always rode shotgun: Liked to hog the radio, could never settle on a song for too long, and followed their journey on the map with each town they passed. “Butlerville,” he’d announce with some secret satisfaction only he understood. “Vernon is next.” Henry sat in the back with Jeff and John. They kept the nurse tied in the trunk.
The car’s AC was cranked and the windows down unless they were hot-boxing. (They’d gotten a bunch of pot from that Emily girl.) The new Avenged Sevenfold CD was in the player. The floorboards were covered with candy wrappers, crumpled Taco Bell bags, a couple of empty beer cans. (All bought with money they’d taken from her mom.) Henry smiled in memory. Emily had thought she’d be joining them after serving up her sister and mom like that. (And she had, for a whole day almost.) Because this girl thought she was the shit, someone important now. Like them. (And the stupid hole was wrong on every count.) He’d kept asking Ted all day if he could kill her. Eventually, Ted had let him help.
Indiana rushed by. No particular destination anymore. There was this one kid about an hour away and another near St. Louis who they were supposed to free. And it wasn’t nothing to stop, he figured. More stuff to see. More fun to have. But everyone else wanted to get west now. California. Everyone in a fucking hurry. See the Pacific. Buy more pot. Maybe find one of those porn stars to party with.
Or even, Henry thought, looking down at his new book, try and visit some old stomping grounds in Texas. The home of the original Henry. The same places he’d once lived and killed.
Maybe Ted and the others were right. Maybe they’d done enough. Counting the ones Jacobson had helped with, they’d already sent half a dozen clones scattering into the four winds. Though Henry figured most hadn’t gotten very far. A couple of the kids looked weak as shit, just didn’t have it. Not that he saw. Hell, they’d killed that one kid themselves: Ricky Howell, the “Night Stalker” clone. Total fucking pussy. Some seemed down, though. Like John, the guy they’d picked up in Maryland with Jacobson. Pulled together the goofy clown suit like his predecessor had made so infamous. Funny. Version 2.0 had only killed fo
ur. So far . . . Yeah, he was happy they’d taken John along. Kind of nice knowing there were others out there. Like us. He thought about the Albert kid, one of the first they’d visited. Jacobson talked to the boy while they’d raped and murdered his mom in the next room. He and Ted did. Fucked up. It wasn’t the kid’s real mom, though. She’d been a phony. Just like all their moms. A fucking EMPLOYEE. Got a fucking paycheck to play mommy. Basically, Jacobson said she’d been paid to hurt the kid. Bitch totally deserved it. They all did, really. His own mom came to mind. Eventually, he’d head back east. . . . So, yeah, most of the other guys, the ones on the gay-ass list Jacobson had given to them—to Ted, actually, if he was being honest—had been freed. Mission accomplished. Mostly. A couple more left, if they felt like it. But fuck it. The other guys, even Ted, had had enough of that same old routine, driving up to houses and fucking with people. Deciding if some kid was worth killing or keeping. Basically tired of doing Jacobson’s chores. Seriously, fuck him. If he wants the shit done, he can do it himself. That seemed to be the consensus.
Henry closed his eyes. Tried to rest. Now, San Francisco . . . THAT Jacobson chore they were all still into. July fourth. God Fuck America. Just pop that can’s tab and watch the fun when the whole crowd went crazy. Started ripping each other apart and shit. Totally gonna fuck some bitches up then. He wondered if they could wait that long. If he could wait that long . . . but, there again, that was Jacobson’s shit. Jacobson would totally get credit for those piles of dead people. Not me.
“They named a highway after me.” He looked around again.
“Who did?” snapped Ted from the front seat.
“Cops did.” Henry held up his new book. “Some highway in Texas. He dumped, like, a hundred bodies there. Pretty cool, yeah?”
Ted eyed the book, shook his head. “Stop reading that shit.”
“Jealous?”
“Encyclopedia of Serial Killers? You’re fucking retarded. Nothing but a bunch of ancient history. That guy, the one they named the highway for, that guy is probably dead and buried fifty years ago. HE killed a hundred people. You didn’t. They ain’t named shit for you.”
“Whatever.”
“You guys gotta stop obsessing over old files and those queer true crime books. Getting chubbies for shit you didn’t even do. And this guy . . .” Ted pointed. “You and that clown outfit.”
“I thought you liked it,” John said. He seemed genuinely hurt by Ted’s criticism.
“Dude, I love it. It’s funny as shit and scares the fuck out of the moms, but it ain’t you. I’m just sayin’ it gets in the way of you figuring out you’re not that John Wayne Gacy. You are the John Wayne Gacy. Get it?”
“No.”
“Man . . . ,” Al laughed, looking over nervously, “I . . . I never know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
John looked around. “The little kids like the suit. I like it. I thought you—”
“Then fuckin’ wear it,” Ted spat. “I really don’t give a shit anymore. Assholes.”
Henry retreated to his book. Opened up to a page and stared dreamily at the little black lines on the paper. Maybe it was time to finally cut loose. To ditch the others once and for all and finally go his own way. Forget California. Forget July fourth. Probably wouldn’t even go down. They were bound to get caught eventually, traveling together. How long could the cops ignore a guy in a bloody clown suit buying gorditas and Mexican pizzas at the drive-through? Maybe he’d fucked up. Maybe they should have kept the Emily girl around a bit longer. And killed Ted instead, maybe. Emily, at least, had been up for anything.
So had Stacey. Nurse Stacey had always liked him best. Maybe the two of them could take off together. Get another car maybe. Go to Texas together. Fuck like mad. Bet she could fix his arm, too. Basically, there was something growing on it. Looked like a bunch of tiny little blisters grouped together. Most of the time, it just looked like dirt. But when he picked at it, it oozed like a popped zit. The stuff inside brown and kinda thick. Not like a zit at all. Nasty. It had started a couple days ago as a cluster of dark bumps on his lower left wrist but was spreading up his forearm a little bit.
Maybe he’d call Jacobson real fast. Ted and John both had his new number. And Jacobson always knew what stuff was, and what meds to take. He kinda wanted to talk to Jacobson anyway. About the shit that they’d been doing. But the other guys, Ted mostly, said to forget about Jacobson. They didn’t need him.
Henry ran his fingers over the dark growth.
He wondered how David and Dennis were doing. They’d gone east. New York. Jersey. Boston. Promised Jacobson to pick up a couple of other guys there. Maybe I should have gone with them instead, he thought. “Maybe they’ll name this highway for me,” he said.
No one had heard.
“Name this highway for me,” he said louder. “Route 50.”
Ted laughed. “What the fuck for?”
“We could stop for a little bit, you know. Maybe have some more fun.”
“Don’t wanna stop. What kinda fun?”
“Best kind,” Henry replied. “Fucking people up.”
“Maybe, maybe. OK. Now you’re talking, YOLO man. That’s the shit I wanna hear. Stop living in the past, pussies. This is our time now. Our life. Someone wake Jeff up.”
“What about that house?” Al said.
“Which?”
All their voices had become one voice.
“There. With the swing set.”
They could see the small farmhouse clearly from Route 50, though it would take a couple back roads to reach.
“You and the fucking swing sets,” Ted said, and grinned. “Five miles to Barnhill. What’s the vote, mentlegen?”
John squeezed his clown nose and made a HONK HONK sound with his blood-crusted mouth.
“Yeah.” Henry’s eyes and thoughts focused on the distant house. “That’ll do nicely.”
“Okay,” Ted agreed. “Let’s have some more fun.”
NIGHTMARES SHARED
JUNE 08, WEDNESDAY—ROUTE 50, IN
The rest of Ohio and eastern Indiana passed in a blur of fields, one-church towns, and Dairy Queens. Castillo drove like the devil was chasing them, but it was the other way around. It was newly morning. An hour or so down this same highway, there’d been a holdup a few days before. Couple of teens, a boy and a girl, tortured and killed behind the store. And on the wire this morning: the two missing Ohio women was now an apartment complex with three or four murdered. One of them purportedly chopped up. Another woman. Emily-something, Collins, still missing, and the main suspect. And two hours down the road, if Jeff was right, there was a teenaged clone of a famous serial killer living in Hitchcock, Indiana. It was, Castillo mused, quite the stretch of highway. Offering answers or only more questions.
Kristin called as they passed through somewhere called Loogootee, her number flashing on the cell’s screen like a living thing. Castillo eyed Jeff in the seat next to him. The kid seemed preoccupied, lost to the monotony. “Hey,” Castillo answered. “You find something new?”
“Nope,” Kristin replied. “It’s . . . It’s been a couple days. I wanted to see how you were doing.”
“Everything’s fine.”
“Wasn’t asking about ‘Everything.’ I was asking about you.”
“Are we on the clock now? This going in my little folder?”
“I’m asking as a friend.”
“Well, that’s very kind of you.”
“And it’s an enormous folder, by the way. The biggest Staples had.”
“Naturally.”
“Asshole.”
“Yes.”
“How much longer, Castillo?”
“Don’t know.”
“What can I do?”
“Probably done too much already.”
“Probably. What else?”
“I don’t know. Maybe check in every few days and ask how I’m doing.”
She laughed, but it was a sad sound, full of regret and ruminatio
n.
He needed to change gears quick, to talk about something, anything, without the thoughts of what might have been. “Tell me,” he said, his reflections shifting back to the day’s latest discoveries. “Would a girl run with these guys? By choice, I mean? I’ve got two, maybe three women at least who may be involved in this. Not sure if they’re victims or . . .”
“Superfreaks? Sure. Why?”
“I don’t know. Some info this morning I got. Been wondering some if these women are victims or maybe even accomplices somehow. Would help if I knew even that much.”
“It’s hard to tell. The dirty truth is most women have some level of hybristophilia. It’s a common psychological condition of arousal or attraction to individuals who commit crimes. Sometimes it’s called ‘Bonnie and Clyde Syndrome’ for Bonnie Parker. Again, it comes in a thousand flavors and degrees, from SKGs, which is our abbreviation for serial killer groupies, to full-blown accomplices.”
“Groupies?”
“It’s a fact. As many lonely women sign up for Writeaprisoner.com as Match.com. These men are both the little boy you want to mommy and the bad boy you want to . . . well, you know. And, as a bonus, you know exactly where your man is on a Friday night. Locked safely behind bars. You’ve heard of Ted Bundy?”
Castillo could not help himself and snorted back his laugh. “Yes” was all he said.
“Bundy confessed to killing, what, thirty women, and he received hundreds of letters each and every month from girls across the country. Visited by dozens of them. Married one within a year. Henry Lee Lucas, another one of these guys, had only one eye and killed two hundred people. He also had hundreds of female admirers and also got married in prison. Gacy was overweight and gay, and even he got fan mail from girls every day and married a woman while in prison. The Night Stalker, Richard Ramirez . . .”
Cain's Blood: A Novel Page 16