NOT WHO I EXPECTED
JUNE 12, SUNDAY—WINTER QUARTERS, UT
Winter Quarters, where they were to meet at midnight, was five hours away.
So Castillo and the boy slept while parked at a McDonald’s outside Grand Junction and then, in the morning, Castillo found a Barnes & Noble and picked up the books Jeff had asked for earlier: books on Jack the Ripper.
Maybe find something to help better understand the man they were headed toward.
Jeff read quietly while they drove deep into Utah.
By noon, Castillo had posted up at Green River State Park, about thirty miles north of Winter Quarters, with another ten hours to wait. He tried sleeping again. Couldn’t. Far too ready to get the day started for real. The boy kept reading, dozed off a little bit, too. Neither one much for talking.
He’d gotten over the initial surge of anger at Jeff for calling his dad. Knew he’d never really been mad at him anyway, the kid doing what anyone in his position—scared to shit—would have done: Call his own dad. No, Castillo was mad only at himself. For being so dumb as to not expect it, to look for it. Maybe even suggest it. How and when Jeff had managed to make the calls, he still didn’t know. Supposed the kid had been handed the damn phone enough times over the week. Maybe when he was in the shower, or catching some Zs. Had the blackouts returned? Didn’t matter. He had Jacobson now. Or would soon. And once you had Jacobson, you also had the other guys, too. Because if the clown boy and Jeff were talking to Jacobson, the others also probably were. Phone numbers traced easily.
But did he really have any business going in to deal with Jacobson directly? Or, later, Stanforth? He’d been totally played by a scared kid. Fucking pathetic. Maybe what all the others had said about him was true. Maybe he’d really lost it over in Iran.
Maybe . . .
There was one way to find out. So, he waited.
• • •
Hours later, the sun finally setting, the boy started mumbling about something.
“What is it?” Castillo asked, shaking himself, and his peripatetic reveries, returning fully to the here and now.
“In the book . . .”
“Found something?” Castillo looked over.
“Tumblety,” Jeff said.
Tumblety, Castillo thought. Tumblety is familiar. His slow recall was further proof he’d lost a step or was too damn tired. Tumblety. Then he had it. “The dead guy, right? Secret room?” The guy your freak father has a raging genetic chubby for. Castillo grimaced. “How could I forget? He’s in the book, I assume?”
“Big-time. So he’s a prime Ripper suspect, right?”
“Seems so. What’d you find out?”
“After the Ripper murders, he escaped to America. The New York City police were always watching him and stuff. He settled in Rochester and got married twice. To Margaret Zilch and . . . ready?”
“We are,” Castillo said, exhausted. Checked his watch: Five hours to go.
“Alice Jacobson.”
“And there it is.”
“There was a son. William.”
“William Jacobson? Are we assuming then he kept his mother’s name?”
“We’re not assuming, it’s in the book. Tumblety was a Jack the Ripper suspect and had also been arrested for being involved in the Lincoln assassination. Would you want the name Tumblety?”
“Not under any circumstance. So, you suspect William is your . . . what? Grandfather?”
“Great-grandfather. Maybe. But not mine. I’m not a Jacobson.”
“So, your adopted father’s grandfather?”
“Maybe. We could double-check.”
“We could. But how will it help? This Tumblety guy, was he really—”
“Jack the Ripper? Probably not,” Jeff said. He reached for the other book Castillo had picked up. “Most evidence now points to some guy named Walter Sickert. They’ve done DNA analysis and everything. It’s pretty much case closed.”
“Wouldn’t your father know that?”
“You’d think. But maybe he didn’t really want to know it.”
“So if he still thinks he’s a direct descendant, some kind of genetic rebirth of Jack the Ripper . . .”
“It’s all totally in his sick head.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah,” Jeff echoed. “And if he’s wrong about that . . .”
“Then he’s wrong about a lot of things.”
“Uh-huh.”
Castillo nodded, his thoughts churning. He said, “My dad took off when I was nine.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Castillo looked ahead at nothing, the setting sun over the mountains maybe. “Hated the son of a bitch for close to twenty years. And the more I tried hating him, the more I became just like him. The way he moved, talked. Things he said. Fuck . . . I don’t know. In a couple years, I’ll probably be him.”
And, so, will you be Jeffrey Dahmer when you grow up? I wonder if your daddy’s so wrong after all. . . . His thoughts turned again, to paths too dark to traverse at the present. If ever.
Castillo started the car.
“OK,” he said. “Let’s go get Dad.”
• • •
Past Colton and down Route 96 to Scofield, an isolated canyon where a coal-mine town thrived for two generations until the mine exploded. Every available casket in Utah was shipped to Winter Quarters the first week of May 1900, and there still weren’t enough coffins. Two hundred men dead in a single day: burned, buried alive, poisoned by the coal dust’s afterdamp. In ten years, the town was completely empty.
Jeff had looked it up on the Internet on the way to Utah. The web said the place was seriously haunted: In addition to the strange lights in the mines, tourists reported the desperate wails of the dying men and their mourning wives. All that stuff. But Jeff didn’t care much about ghosts tonight. Tonight was about getting his dad. Getting ANSWERS.
He knew Castillo was still pissed about the phone calls. He’d only called a couple of times, but the fact remained that he’d called the number his dad had given him the night he’d left. It’d been pointless. The calls had all ended the same way. Confused. Where are you? No answer. What should I do? No answer. He wasn’t sure his dad even knew who he was talking to. But that didn’t matter either. Castillo would do what he said he would: Make things right. He’d find his father. Help him. Then they would all talk. Figure it all out. Make things better. Get back to the rest of their lives. The cursed dead could wail all they wanted. Tonight was about the damned souls still living.
In the dark, he saw someone walking the dirt road toward him.
Castillo was already coming back.
• • •
Castillo expected Jacobson would arrive ahead of them, that the madman was even now watching him. He’d made Jeff stay in the car again, a good mile back, then hiked over the fence and along the forsaken railroad grade. Jeff hadn’t been happy about it, but the argument had ended quickly.
Midnight loomed. Below, caved-in cellars and broken foundations were all that remained. There was one two-story building still standing, two of its stone walls completely collapsed, the others desperately clinging to the rotted frame beneath. Castillo hiked along the top of the hill, watching every shadow below, keeping low, as unusually cool summer winds whistled up the canyon toward him. The old mine was beyond the canyon and ruins. He’d come in through the back.
Castillo leveled his gun and moved toward the mine. He thought again of calling for backup. Jacobson was insane. And he might not be alone. But Castillo had crawled into enough caves alone before. He could certainly handle this one more, capture Jacobson, and call it a day.
Mission over. Stanforth and the others could take it from there.
Success. He’d sort out everything, get his life straight again.
As for Jeff . . .
Castillo couldn’t afford to think about him. Not now. Focus only on the direct mission: Capture Jacobson. He listened, then charily descended an overgrown footpath towar
d the boarded mine.
There, someone was clearly below, a shadowed figure half lost within the shaft’s opening. Where and when he’d said he’d be. As precise as ever.
“Dr. Jacobson,” Castillo said and cast his flashlight directly onto the shape.
A man shrank back from the light.
It was Jacobson.
The same man from the pictures Castillo’d studied for more than a week. But thinner. Clothes disheveled. Maybe not so precise after all . . . Disoriented. He looked unarmed.
Castillo dropped down after him and kept the light focused, finger ready on the trigger of his gun. Still, he wanted Jacobson taken alive.
For answers. For Jeff.
“You’re not who I expected,” Jacobson said.
“Understood,” Castillo replied. “Put your hands out where I can see them.”
Jeff’s father shielded his eyes from the light. The tunnel extended another fifteen feet back, and then the mine behind was completely boarded over. “The boss man sent you,” Jacobson said. “Yes?”
“Fucking hands out where I can see them. Hold ’em out!”
Jacobson did as ordered as Castillo scanned the rest of the mine’s entrance. Except for the shifting doctor, it appeared completely empty. “Down now. On your knees. Get down. Understand?”
“Fine, fine.” Jacobson lowered to the dirt floor, grunted with the effort. “How did you . . . Where are they? I don’t understand.”
“All the way down.” Castillo moved closer, checking behind him, keeping the light on the doctor’s face. “Relax. Everything is going to be fine.”
“Of course. If you don’t mind—”
“Down.” Castillo closed the gap and drove the man’s chest completely to the ground with his left hand and flashlight. “Easy now.”
Jacobson’s next words were garbled, his face buried in dirt. “Of course . . .” Both arms were already secured behind his back with custody strips. Castillo then patted the geneticist down, each movement reflexive and textbook. Still, touching the man proved palpably unsettling. Knowing the kinds of things he’d arranged, done, to kids.
To Jeff.
Castillo found the knife in a holster at Jacobson’s hip. It was a seven-inch black carbon blade with a leather sheath, stained with use. Again, Castillo didn’t care. It wasn’t what he was looking for. He pulled the knife holster free and jammed it into the front of his own pants. “Where’s the chemical?” he said, shaking Jacobson roughly.
Nothing.
“Did DSTI send . . . no . . .” Jacobson squinted against the light between them and studied Castillo. “I recognize your breed. One of Stanforth’s boys? I’m not surprised, you know. What’s your name, little soldier?”
Fuck this guy. “Where’d you park, Jacobson? Where’s your car?”
“First, a brief riddle, a history riddle. Do you like history? Take five of the greatest scientific minds of their times. Galileo was hired by the leadership in Venice to design weapons. . . .”
“Come on.” Castillo pulled the geneticist back to his feet. “The stuff you used at SharDhara?”
“Da Vinci was hired by the pope to design weapons,” Jacobson replied, seemingly oblivious to the question. “Descartes was hired by the queen of Sweden to design weapons. Edison was hired by President Wilson to design weapons. Einstein—”
Castillo pulled Jacobson closer, brusquely. The man grunted. Castillo could feel his warm, foul breath on his face. “Your car?”
“Three of these scientists,” Jacobson continued, grinning like something that’d emerged from its crypt, “did exactly as they were told and continued to make weapons. Two, however, decided their interests were not in ‘military science’ after all. Which two?”
Castillo shoved the man forward by his wrists. He didn’t want any more riddles. Not from anyone. Certainly not from Jacobson. Best to clear out and talk with him elsewhere.
“Some more information first, perhaps. Galileo was jailed for life, declared a heretic, and the publication of any of his works was forbidden. Descartes was poisoned, buried in a graveyard for unbaptized infants, his writings added to the Librorum Prohibitorum by the pope.” Jacobson stopped walking. Turned to stare Castillo straight in the eyes. “Now,” he said. “Brave soldier; which two?”
“Drop the bullshit, Jacobson. You’re no Galileo. You’re just another asshole with a big knife. Another weirdo with a pile of chemicals. Another terrible father.”
“Jeffrey? He . . . I believe he called me.” Jacobson’s gaunt face was surprised, wondering. “Yes, I know he did. My son.” He spoke as if in a trance.
“Your experiment,” Castillo corrected. “You only wanted him for your own perverse validations. To prove evil was in the blood. Got news for you, Doc. You were wrong. The only evil Jeff knows is what you fucking people did to him. But he’s safe now,” Castillo said, pushing Jacobson ahead. “Everyone’s safe now.” He realized that mentally, he’d included himself.
Jacobson laughed.
“Something funny?”
“ ‘Safe.’ Coming from you. From the kind of men you work for. It’s, shall we say, ironic.”
“Told you I’m not interested in your dogmatic bullshit, Doc. Not one bit.”
“I see,” Jacobson said. “But you are assuredly ‘interested’ in them. Yes?”
Castillo followed the man’s eyes. And, up the hill and standing at the edges of the ruined city, were three figures who were not the ghosts of the Winter Quarters miners.
Three narrow shapes. Men. Boys.
“Who are they?” Castillo pulled the doctor closer as a shield. He’d put on his vest for the arrest but wanted the extra barrier in case.
“John, I think,” Jacobson said. “John, Ted, and some of the others. When I got the call from Jeffrey, I . . . Well, I invited the others here tonight. I honestly thought we would be alone.”
“How many? John’s dead, by the way.”
“Is he?” Jacobson’s voice sounded even more distracted, distant.
“Murdered last night. Throat slashed, stabbed a dozen times. Some people will want to talk to you about that, I’m sure.”
“Me? No, no, not me. They’ll want to talk to me about other things, I suppose. But not about John. Slashed, you say?” Jacobson chuckled softly.
“More irony, Doctor?” Castillo found that he was moving toward the teens, not away.
“I wondered if they would . . .”
“Would what?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
“Stand still.” They were fifty yards from the others. Castillo recognized every one of them. He’d studied their files enough to recognize each face.
Albert, Ted, and . . . Jeff.
No, Castillo cursed himself, then thought, This is the OTHER Jeffrey. One of the original six. A kid named Jeff Williford. Adopted to a whole other surrogate family. Three years older. Taller. More . . . evil?
Castillo stuffed his flashlight into his jeans pocket and retrieved his cell. His pistol remained trained on the three teens, who all stood perfectly still. Waiting.
“Castillo?” Stanforth’s voice came over the phone, calm and forgiving.
“I’ve got Jacobson. Get whoever you can to Winter Quarters mine outside of Scofield. Now. There are at least three more targets here. Copy?”
“Copy. Air support out of Salt Lake in fifteen. Can you—”
“I’ll manage. Jacobson doesn’t have any sort of canister or vial on him. Still need to check his car.”
“Fine work, soldier. Hey, kiddo, I wanted to—”
“Later,” Castillo hung up.
“Your masters are pleased, yes?” Jacobson asked. “That’s always important.”
Castillo shook him quiet. “I have a gun!” he called out to the others. It was suddenly freezing cold. “Is that understood?” Castillo ignored the chill.
“ ‘I’ve got a gun,’ ” one of the boys mimicked in a high, silly voice. “Eat my dick, asshole.”
�
�One step closer, I shoot you.”
“ ‘One step closer . . .’ ” one of the other voices said, and the other two laughed.
Castillo pulled Jacobson still closer, tried to attach voices to the faces he’d come to know so well from file photos. It was always odd hearing their voices. . . .
“Jacobson?” the one named Al shouted. “Who’s this loser? Jeffrey’s new friend?”
Castillo scowled, wondered why they’d mentioned Jeff. Surely they meant the other Jeff.
Their Jeff. Williford.
“This is over,” Castillo said. He was not sure if he was speaking to the kids, Jacobson, or himself. He thought of Henry, had promised him it was over, too. That he could help. And then . . . and then he’d killed him. Will this play out the same way?
The teens giggled.
“It’s over,” he said again, to Jacobson specifically. He wanted someone, anyone, to agree.
“For me,” Jacobson said, “perhaps. But . . . over? No. This isn’t over yet. Science without conscience is the soul’s—”
“Save your babble for the fucking shrinks,” Castillo snapped. Jacobson stilled, and Castillo looked over the dark horizon. It would be another twenty minutes, at least, before backup arrived. He needed to stall. “Quite a party you guys had last night,” he shouted over at them. “The one back in Orchard City.”
“Yeah, so? What do you care?”
“I don’t, not really. Purely an observation. Nine dead, not including John, of course. You see it on the news?”
“Yeah, well. Wasn’t us.”
“We’d have killed sixty,” said another voice. Jeff’s voice. No, NOT Jeff. Jeffrey, rather. Jeffrey Williford. Yet he’d sounded enough like the boy Castillo knew . . . different, but enough.
Too much.
“The ammonia,” Castillo offered, stalling. “Interesting idea . . .”
“What you know about it?”
“I also know about the family in Vernon. The women in Unity.”
“Yeah. You’re some kind of fucking genius, aren’t ya?”
“I’ve been told.” Castillo decided right then that he would, in fact, kill all three if one moved another inch. Only Jacobson was key. Only Jacobson knew every turn this Hell had. Only Jacobson had a son. And, in the end, no matter what happened here tonight, he understood these three were only more collateral anyway.
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