Jeff was down the steps and out the back door in seconds. He sprinted around the side of the house toward where the car was now parked. He wondered what neighbors would think if they saw some kid bursting free from an empty house in the broad daylight, running on fire. The cops were probably already on their way. Good! In either case, no matter what happened next, he was never setting foot in that suck-hole house again.
He was gasping for air when he reached the car. Felt like acid was pumping in his chest, and his hand shook when he tried the key at the door. It took several attempts.
Jeff got inside the car. Sat down. Got his hands on the wheel.
SHIT!
He’d never actually driven before. The temps and lessons meant for the summer had been swept aside by an ever-increasingly “distracted” father. By a man losing his mind . . .
“OK,” he said to the empty car. “This is . . . this is nothing.” He put the key in the ignition. Thank God, it’s an automatic! The car started right up. He fumbled with the gearshift, found Drive. Foot on the gas. The car pulled forward.
“Yes! Yes . . .” He slapped the dashboard.
The car trolled down the street at about two miles an hour and eventually made the necessary turn to the corner of Ashbridge and Oldegate. As he inched up against someone’s lawn, Jeff stomped on the brake and the car shuddered to a stop. He could see nothing of the scene down the street, the Sizemores’ house and half the block lost beneath a low dip in the road. He thought about getting out of the car to see . . . wasn’t sure if Castillo wanted him to stay with the car or not. His eyes glanced to the various mirrors: Rearview. Side. A hundred angles showing more of nothing.
He looked down to study the gearshift, finally found Park.
By the time he looked up, a car passed. A dark blue car. And Henry was driving.
Jeff froze. He’d met Henry a dozen times at DSTI. But in less than a month, Henry already looked different. Older. Darker. So much so that Jeff was half convinced it wasn’t even him. Or hoped not, because if Henry turned and saw him . . .
The car passed. Kept going. It was totally Henry.
Jeff collapsed against the steering wheel.
The car door flew open.
“Move over.” It was Castillo.
“What happened?”
“Move! Or get out!”
Jeff scrambled to his right. Castillo hopped in and tossed the car in reverse, then pulled a quick K-turn that would have made a stuntman applaud. “He just knocked at the door,” Castillo explained. “Talked to the dad for a minute and then took off again.”
“So what’s that mean?”
“No clue. Surveillance, I guess. Running point, like we did. They’re probably coming back later.”
“Guess they’re lions too,” Jeff said.
“Whatever. Now we follow this asshole. See if we can find four more like him. Maybe your dad’s with them.”
“He’s not.”
“We don’t know that for sure. Keep your head down a bit. I figure he’d recognize you as easily as you recognized him, huh?”
“Maybe. Those guys never paid much attention to me, to be quite honest.”
“Well, they might now. Keep down.”
“You see him?”
“He’s two cars ahead. Not a problem. This twisted fuck isn’t going anywhere.” Castillo pulled out his cell. “It’s me. Following Henry now. Affirmative. Hitchcock, Indiana. Yes, sir. OH plates. Tango-Juliet-Delta-Zero-Four-Nine. Don’t know that yet. Affirmative.” He put the phone away again.
“DSTI?” Jeff asked.
“Quiet. You done real good. Again. Just enjoy this part.”
They had at least one of the original six. Adopted Name: Henry Roberts. Aged seventeen. Birth Name: Henry/61. Parent Gene: Henry Lee Lucas. He still looked like his DSTI photo, hadn’t thought to change his appearance in the slightest. He first stopped to buy some Burger King, then headed out of town. Castillo followed every step of the way, not even bothering to hang back after a while. Henry didn’t notice, didn’t even seem to check his rearview mirror.
They drove like this, cat and mouse, for half an hour. Castillo didn’t make a single sound, and Jeff followed his lead.
Finally, Henry turned.
Pulled into something called the Paddy Creek Park. They’d never been there, of course, but Castillo knew it well enough. It was like any small community park, like the one back in Ohio—a crime scene waiting to happen.
Castillo drove past it and doubled back after a few minutes. Henry had parked and already vanished. The rest of the parking lot was empty. 1500 hours on a Friday afternoon. How long before an evening crowd appeared? Castillo parked far away from Henry’s car. He got out of the car. “Stay here,” he said. The summer sun nuzzled atop the tall trees. “If I’m not back in thirty minutes, you call this number. Tell ’em you’re with Castillo and that we’re at Paddy Creek.”
“This DSTI?”
“There’s money in the glove box. You don’t have to be here when they arrive.”
Jeff nodded, sliding down into the seat. “Castillo?”
“What?”
“Be careful,” Jeff said.
• • •
Castillo considered the boy for a moment. The messy hair and glasses. The uneven smile. He wondered what truly awaited the kid if he actually called that number. “Thirty minutes,” he repeated. It would be, he hoped, more than enough time. Still no other cars in sight. He wondered how many more of the boys he’d just found. If any. There was no time to get backup, but it’d be difficult to take down half a dozen teenagers.
Castillo approached Henry’s car. His eyes took in the playground, brickhouse restrooms, and the concrete buildings attached to a small amphitheater in the center of the park. His 9mm drawn, silencer threaded in place. The car was empty, but he found his target soon enough. Moving by the small amphitheater. Castillo thought of waiting until the kid headed back to the car. Too tough to get up to that stage unnoticed. But Henry had stepped out toward the center of the platform, half lost in summer shadows. Kneeling over something.
Someone. A form, a woman, reclined before him like some kind of Aztec sacrifice. She was not moving. Castillo aimed his gun, considered taking the shot then. Took one last look. No others around, teens or otherwise. Area secured.
“Henry,” he called, keeping to the shadows of the closest tree.
The boy struggled to his feet. Fumbled awkwardly with his pants as a wide serrated blade shimmered in his one hand.
“Drop the knife,” Castillo ordered and edged up the steps at the wing of the stage. “Drop it now, Henry.” Another step closer.
“Who are you?”
The woman at his feet was nude. Set over a blue tarp. Her body undercoated in dirt, filth, old bruising and scratches. Even from twenty paces away, she smelled dead. Looked dead. But what if she’s not?
“I’m a guy who can help get you home,” Castillo said, looking back at the boy.
“Home? What the—” Henry laughed. “You got no idea, do you, you stupid fuck?”
“So tell me then.”
Another step closer. Clearer shot. Leg, maybe. Shoulder.
“You know, I called that bitch two days ago. My ‘mommy.’ Told Mommy I’m coming back someday real soon. That I’m gonna cut her fucking head off. You from Massey? DSTI?”
“No.”
“She beat me, ya know. When I was a kid. Made me dress up as a girl for her friends. Forced me to watch her fucking dudes. Then the men would . . . then they’d have a go at me. Nice, huh? Just like him.”
“Like who?”
“Lucas. Henry Lee. Just like him, just like me.”
“I don’t know about any of that, dude. I just . . . look, how about you put down the knife. Then we can talk about all this.”
“Suck me, faggot. Don’t you get it? She was doing it on purpose. She wanted me to be like him. She did. Or they did. DSTI. Jacobson. Someone did.”
Castillo could not argue. He
’d seen the videotapes and read the reports. Traumatization in the formative years was textbook development for a serial killer, and it had been freely prescribed. Nothing in this kid’s charts had said anything about it, however. Yet knowing DSTI, it wouldn’t surprise. Jesus Christ, what they did to these fucking kids . . .
“Road trip’s over, man,” Castillo managed. “The other guys are already back home.”
“Bullshit. Those guys? I left their bitch asses days ago. Told ’em I’d take care of this fucking Sizemore kid myself. Those guys are halfway to Cali by now.”
“They’re not. Police picked them up yesterday.”
“Bullshit.”
“No, it’s true. Look, I’m putting the gun away, OK? Let’s talk through this.” Castillo did as he said and gradually returned the sidearm to its holster. He wasn’t worried about this kid and his knife, knew he could disarm him easily if he got close. “OK? See? Now put that down, and we can end this thing before it gets any worse.”
“Any worse?” The boy lifted his shirt so Castillo could see. Castillo had tensed, ready to draw his pistol again. But Henry hadn’t revealed a gun. A giant purple-black mark covered half the boy’s body. A bumpy bruise that ran from his nipple down onto his stomach. “This . . . this shit’s all over me, man.”
Castillo had no clue what he was looking at, but he played along. “We’ll get you whatever medical—”
Henry laughed. It also sounded like a cry. “Whatever, dude. Fucking listen to yourself. You’re so full of shit . . . you don’t even know it. July fourth, you’ll find out, pussy. You all will.”
“Henry . . .” Castillo reached out his left hand. “Come on, man, don’t let them win.”
“Whatever.”
“We could—”
“You wanna say hi to Nurse Stacey?” Henry looked down and toed the woman at his feet. “Me and her were gonna get married, I think.”
“Henry, I can get you help.” Can I really?
“But I’ll probably cut her head totally off and then—”
“No. You won’t.”
“After, I’ll cut you.” Henry dropped to one knee, his eyes wild. Who knew what was running through his veins. What hellish venom brewed in some lab ran through his veins. He’d lifted the woman up to him with one arm. “You know who I am, asshole?”
“Henry Roberts,” Castillo said. But his full attention wasn’t on Henry Roberts anymore, it was back on the woman. Close enough, finally, to really see.
It was Stacey Kelso. One of the two nurses from DSTI.
Her face battered and swollen but recognizable from the ID photos. Abducted by six psychopaths a week ago. Officially, they’d reported to her friends and family that she was away taking an advanced training somewhere. She looks dead. Castillo tried not to think about how DSTI and Stanforth would ultimately explain her disappearance. And he certainly tried not to think about the reality of her last week. Still, he thought about both. And so shifted back to the here and now. The ol’ black and white again. First: 99.9% dead. Can’t tell absolutely. . . . It changes everything if a hostage situation. He still needed to get closer to know for sure.
“Your name’s Henry Roberts,” he echoed, turning his attention back to the teen. “And some really bad men put you in a terrible mess.” The words came out more easily, suddenly, more earnest. “You can beat this thing, man. Trust me. I know what it’s like to—”
“You know nothing, you fuckin’ liar. Don’t you know what I am now? I’m Henry Lee Lucas!” It was a declaration and a question, too. He’d brought the knife to the woman’s throat.
“No. You’re just some kid who got fucked over by assholes who should have known better.”
“I kill people. I like to rape dead girls.”
“That ain’t you, man.” Closer. The boy’d shielded himself well with the woman’s body. Head, shoulder exposed. Maybe the shoulder . . . “That was something else. Someone else. Now, please, put down the knife.”
“Bet they name this highway for me. Route 50, right?”
“Sure, OK, man, I’ll bet you twenty bucks. What do you think they’ll—” Still too far away. . . . Fuck!
“Now let’s see her head come off.”
“Henry, don’t . . .”
The boy tensed, knife perched to slice.
Two shots.
The boy flipped back, legs kicking out through the spray of blood, and landed awkwardly on the concrete stage.
“Motherfuck!” Castillo dropped to the woman first. She was, as suspected, dead. Had been for a day or even two, he figured. “Goddamn it,” he cursed again. Crawled next to Henry’s body. He’d gone for two in the shoulder. Drive the kid back. Must have hit his neck somehow. Nope, both shots in the shoulder. “What the fuck?!” Why was he bleeding out so fast?
Castillo grabbed the knife and cut the kid’s shirt away. Bunched it up to help apply pressure to the two wounds. The kid wasn’t lying. The black growth ran all the way down past his hip and onto his back some too. Castillo tried not to think about it as his other arm bent over the boy to start CPR. “Come on, kid . . .”
Two breaths. Elbow down twenty thrusts. But every time he pressed, the blood pushed through the bundled shirt against his fingers. It was as if he’d hit the kid’s jugular. But he hadn’t. So why’s this fucking kid bleeding out like this? A pool of blood had already spread underneath them. It looked, felt, oily. Had a putrid smell. Castillo told himself the stink was from Kelso’s body, but he didn’t think so. The kid’s blood? What else could it be?
He put his mouth to the boy’s again. Blew air into his still body. “Come on, kid. You gotta want it. . . . Not like this. Not like this.”
Two minutes. Five. Ten.
On the final press, blood came from the boy’s mouth.
Castillo dropped back on his ass. Out of breath. Patted the boy on his chest.
“I’m sorry, Henry,” he said.
He pulled out the cellphone. His fingers were dark with blood. “It’s me,” he said into the phone. “Yeah. Target down, sir. Need someone to Paddy Creek Park. Right, Henry’s down. Kelso, too. Yes, sir. Affirmative.”
He watched as Jeff approached slowly from the distance. Tried waving him away, but the boy still advanced. Castillo kept talking. “Yes, sir. The kid said something about California. The other guys. Could be nothing. Threatened his mom. Made some comment about July fourth. I don’t know. Any news on the East Coast group or Dr. J? Yes, sir. Is something wrong? Yes, sir. I’ll be here. Out.” He put the phone away, didn’t look behind him. “I thought I told you to stay in the car.”
Jeff had stopped moving toward the stage. “Is that . . .”
“Yeah,” Castillo said. “One of the nurses they took.”
“Is she . . .”
“They both are. Why don’t you get your ass back to the car.”
“Why’d you shoot him?”
“He had a knife. I couldn’t . . . I’d hoped she was still alive. Hit him in the damn shoulder. How was I supposed to know the fucking kid was . . . You know, fuck it.”
Jeff stared at the two bodies again, both perfectly level with his view of the raised stage.
“Look, Jacobson, I ain’t gonna apologize for this shit,” Castillo said. “Fucker gave me no choice here. I just did what I was trained to do.”
Jeffrey looked up from the two bodies to Castillo.
“So did he,” the boy said.
BIRTH TO THE 21ST CENTURY
JUNE 10, FRIDAY—RADNOR, PA
Stanforth skated the note card across the table so that it settled directly in front of Dr. Erdman. There was dark, dried blood on it, and the doctor eyed it without touching. It read:
ShARDhARA
ZODIaC BaBYSITTeR PhaNTOM
Independence Day
I also gave birth to the 21st century
“This is the emergency?” Erdman asked.
“Love letter from Jacobson,” Stanforth answered calmly. Behind him, another man stood in a textbook military a
t-ease pose. Solid and motionless, his hands crossed, no more than a few inches from the pistol at his hip. A similar-looking man had taken a position along the adjacent wall, behind Erdman. Though both were new to DSTI, Stanforth had introduced neither. “Found this morning laying atop a gutted corpse near Indianapolis,” replied Stanforth. “Crime pics look a lot like the way your psychiatrist was butchered. Gallagher, was it? Handwriting’s confirmed as Jacobson’s.”
“Who else has seen this?”
“No one to worry about,” Stanforth said.
“I don’t understand,” Rolich said between them. “What does it mean?”
“Something we’re all here to figure out,” Stanforth said, looking at Erdman. “Anything you want to tell me, Doctor?”
Erdman read the note card again. “Well . . . I don’t know. I can tell you that Zodiac was a notorious serial killer. Never caught. But he has nothing to do with any of our research as far as I know. I’m not sure about The Phantom or The Babysitter. I would assume they, too, are serial killers?”
“They are,” Stanforth confirmed. “Also never caught. What else?”
Erdman eyed the soldier behind Stanforth. The man’s eyes remained straight ahead, lifeless, as if he’d been the lone man in the room. The doctor picked up the card. “I suppose ‘Independence Day’ refers to their newfound freedom or, perhaps, July fourth. Some kind of threat from Jacobson. A prediction, a schedule. If the lunatic thinks he’s Jack the Ripper . . .” Erdman frowned. “The Ripper once wrote to the police on a card much like this that he’d be remembered for ‘giving birth to the twentieth century.’ ”
“It’s plainly nonsense,” Rolich said, reaching for the card. “Jacobson’s fucking insane.”
“Who is SharDhara?” Erdman asked carefully, handing the card over.
“Where,” Stanforth corrected. “Afghanistan.”
“Oh,” Erdman said.
“Oh. Anything you need to tell me?”
Erdman studied the card some more. Too long. He could have memorized it backward by now. “I don’t see how . . . SharDhara was used for testing, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know that.”
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