Grant stood and stuffed his pockets with his keys, wallet and loose change. From the door, he looked back at the mirror and, from the angle at which he stood, there was no one in the mirror.
Outside, Grant and Phillip found the waiting van rigged with all that they needed to subdue and gut a victim of her brain. They drove away from the Jax-Town Motel and into the Jacksonville night.
Public library, Fayetteville, North Carolina July 5, 2003
THE keystroke took her to the Internet, and from there she typed in the website address and opened it. She began her much-needed transfusion of knowledge—information on the inner workings of the human mind. It was a subject that held a never-ending fascination for Juliet Sims. Besides, she had met many weird and wacky people in the chat rooms to discuss the “ultimate” subject—how the mind worked. One of them, she had set up a date with. He was on his way to Florida, he had said, and could stop over in Fayetteville, to meet her, if she liked. The meet had been arranged. She'd planned to sneak out because it was late, and she had to rely on a Greyhound Bus to get her to downtown Fayetteville from home, and it all would have worked out if her father hadn't caught her. She was embarrassed now and somewhat fearful of contacting her computer pal to let him know what had happened. She had stewed for a few days now, trying to come up with a better reason than the truth. She had concocted a story about a lightning strike and a flood at the house, but it could be checked. Then she came up with a story about how her parents abused her and sometimes when they got real angry, they'd lock her to a bedpost in the attic. Yeah, that would work. She logged on to the Isle of Brain site.
Chicago Public Library, North Ravenswood Branch Same time
MARK Alex Ziotrope had gone to the search engine and keyed in the words “brain” and “mind.” His screen immediately filled with possible trails to follow. He'd been given an assignment by Dr. Stephens to locate and report on some unusual facet of the mind-body relationship. It was punishment for having missed an exam because of basketball, an away game. He loosened his tight jeans at the belt, unbuttoned them and eased off on the fly, breathing a little easier. He had come back to this assignment several times now, and each time he found it excruciatingly boring. He had pleaded with crotchety old Stephens to allow him another area of inquiry, but the old professor would not hear of it. So here he was. He chose a selection entitled “Origins of the Brain and Nervous System.” His screen filled with an encyclopedic tale that read:
As the central part of the nervous system, the brain is the most highly organized substance on Earth. Lying within the protective helmet of bone, it is distinct from the body, which is built in vertebral fashion—soft tissue covering a bone structure. The head is built in crustacean fashion— bone covering soft tissue, like a crab. Some have called the human brain the giant crab.
“Hmmm . . . like old Doc Stephens himself,” Mark muttered. He put the stuff about its being like a crab in his notes, along with the line about its being the most heavily ordered stuff on Earth. He read on:
The brain consists of the forebrain or cerebrum, the inter-brain or thalamus and the hypothalamus, the midbrain, consisting of the brain stem, that is medulla and pons, and the hindbrain or cerebellum.
Beyond bored out of his mind, Mark decided to bail and locate another site. When the new list came up, he skimmed it and liked the one called Isle of Brain. He'd hit on it before, and he found it a lot less stuffy and pretentious—and a lot more readable. The Webmaster was an ex con who'd managed to get himself released from a facility for the criminally insane. Mark thought that was cool. Not even Manson could get himself released from prison. This dude had to be sharp.
The site was far less scientific, far more philosophical and speculative, and Dr. Stephens had wanted something unusual, not generally known about the brain in the report. The Isle site was unusual, its master believing that the brain was altogether a separate dimension in which lived the cosmic mind.
Reacquainting himself with the site, Mark went to the welcome page to get the vital information—Mr. Cahil's full name and the name of the prison he had spent almost twelve years in. Cahil had begun the site while in the Pennsylvania Federal Penitentiary for the Criminally Insane, yet here he was on the outside and running a website. Cahil, convicted of a string of ghoulish grave robberies in Newark and in Morristown, New Jersey, between 1989 and 1990, openly talked about this fact and his crime—grave robbing for the brains of children, and in particular one strip of tissue in the brains that he fed on, believing it gave him some sort of eternal life and put him in touch with the “cosmic mind.”
“This ought to rock Stephens. This is my report,” Mark said aloud, drawing the attention of a librarian who looked over at him and put a finger to her lips. He nodded and quietly considered his choices. He could play up the fact that anyone. And that anyone, even a kid like him of an impressionable age, could log on to Cahil's website and become a disciple to the prophet for the cosmic mind, a con. Mark read:
Cosmic consciousness or the cosmic mind—also called “cosmic psyche”—is the extrasensory-spiritual element in the cosmic ether. It is all pervasive as it coexists and merges with matter, and is the source of all mental power and vigor—or psychic energy—which constitutes all knowledge and awareness that all objects and elements share in a universal mind.
The human mind is fed from this great cosmic mind, a limitless reservoir. The human mind is part of and channeled into the vast mind, and the area of its operation in you and me is a kind of supra-consciousness that lies dormant in us—unless we choose to awaken it!
In other words, in every man, there is a region where all—all—can be known.
The site then went into a sales pitch for “symbolic” brain tissue to be consumed by serious seekers of truth and the cosmic intelligence. It all sounded crazy to Mark, but he found the pitch and the product as curious as the site itself, and he knew he had to include it in his report. Maybe he'd contact the Newark and Morristown newspapers for accounts of Cahil's crimes, add some pictures. Fact is, if he purchased the product Cahil sold as “substitute” gray matter to be cooked and consumed, he'd have something for show-and-tell.
Mark breathed in deeply and sent off an E-mail of thanks to the webmaster, expressing appreciation for his insight into the natural power of the human brain. He added that it would make a great report for his college project. He then logged off, stood and returned his little number card to the information desk, where the librarian—pencil nose and sunken cheeks red with embarrassment—quietly suggested he zip up his fly. With apologies he did so.
“You do realize you can be expelled from ever using our facilities if you can not abide by our rules, young man.” She pointed to a sign that read:
No Pornographic Surfing!
Anyone breaking this rule will lose library privileges.
“But ... I only needed to loosen my pants, ma'am, a bad stomach. I was doing a boring research paper on the brain, honest. No porno stuff. Look at my notes, if you don't believe me.”
She glanced at what he held up and told him to be on his way. She then glanced at a report on the most popular sites being visited by patrons of the library. One that was coming up a lot nowadays among the young demographic was the website called Isle of Brain that the young man had listed in his notes. She decided she had to find time to review this site herself. The public library detested censorship of any kind; however, times had changed dramatically.
“What was all that about?” asked the head librarian who'd watched the exchange between the desk librarian and Mark.
“I don't know yet. Says he was on this site.” She pointed to the one she'd highlighted with yellow marker on her list. “But he was playing with himself over there.”
The head librarian bit her lip and shook her head. “People want to build a bomb, they log on to bombs.com. People want to murder someone, they go to palladin.com for a how-to manual on assassination. Porn's gotten so rampant on the Net that you can trip into it wi
thout knowing it. So, what is this Isle of Brain business?”
“Not sure. I'll get on it soon as I find the time.”
“Do that, and let me know what you find, Gladys.”
OUTSIDE, young Mark breathed in a deep mouthful of fresh air, free of stuffy and decaying books. He said a kindly goodbye to the library and walked calmly toward his car, secure—for the moment at least—in the knowledge he and his own brain were in sync with the hunt for the cosmic mind— for his report. He rested his notebook on the top of his car as he worked the key to open the door. He laughed, recalling how anyone with the courage and determination can find the cosmic soul and tap into it by symbolically eating some weird-shaped gray noodles that were supposed to represent the piece of brain tissue called “the real stuff,” and thereby no harm would come to animals or other living beings in the pursuit of one's ultimate quest for a glimpse into the universal mind—God's mind.
Cahil's site also sold weird clay-molded brains that the customer could break open, and within them a cache of oddly shaped, crosslike noodles rested on an island within. Cahil shipped these to buyers, who in turn fished out the noodles, boiled them one at a time, and ate them in lieu of eating the real thing that was supposed to house the soul of a living creature.
“Weird shit. . . unusual? Sick, man . . . this is sick. Yeah, Dr. Stephens is going to love this.” Mark slipped into his car and drove away with his notes.
THREE
Often an entire city has suffered because of an evil man.
— HESIOD, 800 B.C.
Duval County, Jacksonville, Florida July 7, 2003
LESS than an hour before a fantastic sunset had settled over the city of Jacksonville, but a river of clouds had poured in from the ocean and blotted out everything. The grim darkness had come on like an approaching army. Next came a light silver drizzle, the sort that warned of worse to come. The night sky masked the gray clouds of earlier, now creating a black blotter of the Heavens with only the occasional star winking through.
“No stargazing tonight.” The hefty black officer named Lamar Plummet shoved his white partner while they sat eating a fast-food dinner in their cruiser. He had been talking about the beautiful sunset before, speaking of it in reverential tones, saying that only God could paint a sky like that. Sipping coffee and chewing on burritos, Duval County sheriffs deputies Wayne Bierdsley and Lamar Plummet groaned in unison as the police band announced a 911 call on a ten-26-cardiac/drowning/asphyxiation. They had just begun a meal break—but the call was for Venetia Wharf on the St. John's River, less than a mile away. Bierdsley tossed his burrito aside and picked up, radioing in a ten-4, adding, “Cruiser 44. We're on it.”
“Whoa, damn it, Wayne,” muttered Plummer as the car pulled from the curb and coffee spilled over his lap. “Jesus.”
“You're always complaining, Plummer.”
“Whataya mean? This stuffs hot as hell.”
“You just got through saying you were bored out of your gourd, so we get a homicide call and you're pissed?”
“Just get me there in one piece. Where'd you learn how to drive?”
When they arrived, they found a rank old fisherman arguing with a uniformed harbormaster, who wanted the man and his shrimp boat out of the restricted area. “Abrams, you take that thing off twenty yards, the other side of the fence. Cops can find you there as well as here.”
“Damn you, fool. Are you deaf? I've got an emergency here, a dead woman caught up in our nets.”
Climbing from their cruiser, the two sheriff s deputies laughed to see the two old men standing pipe to pipe, fists clenched. A third man, well dressed and stepping from one of the yachts joined them, shoulder to shoulder with the harbormaster, curious about Abrams's catch.
The well-dressed man said, “I'm Jervis Swantor. That's my boat there. Can I be of any service? What's the emergency?”
Other yachts-people living on their ships were now gathering outside, having been awakened by all the noise: men arguing, police sirens approaching and uniformed men in boots pounding down the seasoned planks.
“E)ead girl's body come up in my fishing net, and when I saw what'd been done to her ... I called nine-one-one. The poor thing's been robbed of her brain! Gin you imagine that? A hole cut clean through her head, here!” He indicated his forehead with his finger. “I screamed bloody murder, I did. And this old fool wants me to take her back out and come in proper on the other side, but now the deputies are here, they can give the orders, Mr. Harbormaster Blowhard.”
“Mr. Abrams?” started Bierdsley.
“Captain, son . . . Captain.”
“That shrimper's where the body is?” asked Plummer, rushing ahead, Bierdsley following. Their boots beat an anthem as they rushed down the wooden platform ahead of Captain Abrams to where he'd illegally put his dilapidated shrimp boat in, nose first.
A strident warning from the old fisherman trailed the two Duval County deputies down the ramp to the old man's vessel: “Prepare yourselves for the worst most horriblest thing I ever seen in this life. Prepare!”
“Can I help here?” asked the lone yachtsman who had rushed out to try to get a look at the dead body. “I'm Jervis Swantor, boat owners' association, and we all pay dearly to use these spots. What's happened?”
“I told you what happened!” Abrams shouted at the man.
It was the one truly dark spot along the wharf where missing lights added to the overcast sky. “Looks like she's beyond help,” muttered Lamar Plummer, the beefy black deputy.
Bierdsley, a moderately sized, plump white man, stood beside Plummer, still on the wharf. From where they stood, they saw the mermaid like figure caught up in the shrimper's netting. “Yeah, looks bad, and now it's getting crowded. Civilians starting to gather. We'll need back up just to keep them at bay.” He turned to Swantor and asked him to back off. Bierdsley and Plummer had seen floaters before. They imagined it was a suicide, so what was the old man ranting about? Some massive hole in the head? In the dark, they saw nothing of a bullet wound.
“Let's see what kind of package the old man's got caught up in his net,” Bierdsley calmly said to Plummer as they boarded the bobbing boat.
Getting shakily aboard himself, Plummer asked no one in particular, “Is this boat tied secure? It's bouncing like a cork.” At the same time, Plummer pounded his flashlight in an effort to improve the beam. “Fucking Eveready.”
Behind them, they saw Jacksonville police cruisers lining up, their strobe lights challenging one another. “We beat the Jax boys this time,” said Lamar, laughing. Off to one side of the harbor, the well-to-do yachts-people huddled. Swantor promised the crowd that he'd get to the bottom of this hullabaloo for them all.
The old fisherman had scurried down behind them now, storming off from the harbormaster, and he warned again, “I'm telling you two, it's one awful, awful sight.”
“Floaters always are,” agreed Bierdsley. “Worst kinda things happen to a body that's been in water too long.”
“Not to worry, old man,” Plummer assured the captain, his black face becoming all smile as he winked at Bierdsley.
The deputies rocked on their boots aboard the fishing vessel, and from where they stood in their brown uniforms, they could see the broad expanse of US-295 where the bridge spanned the river, and they could see the Jacksonville Naval Air Station. In the opposite direction a patient skyline awaited the eye. A beautiful blue-lit city on the waters of the St. John's River.
Captain Abrams's boat was like any of a hundred others along the Florida coastal waters, plying a trade in the fresh fish markets that lined up to buy their goods. Going aft, the two deputies closed the distance between themselves and the body.
She lay in a curled position, her form seemingly cut into the square pieces of a gingham cloth due to netting she lay in. A few of the fish inside the net with the body remained fresh enough to flop from side to side. Obvious to the deputies, the fisherman's crew had worked to salvage what they could of the most profitable
fish—red fin and grouper— leaving some pockets of cod and halibut in the net with the dead girl.
Lamar Plummer ignored the odors and went to his knees beside the crumpled body and net. “Least she's all in one piece and still has her skin, so she's not been in the water for too very long.”
Dark shadow obliterated the face. Wayne Bierdsley moved in closer and stared at the girl's drenched form; her dress had the look of a shrink-wrapped shroud, the net was like an oversized shawl. Then his eyes fell on the dark concave black portion of the white head. In the darkness of shadow, with only the harbor lights on, he didn't know what he was looking at or what to make of it when something strange happened. It must be a hallucination, Bierdsley thought a moment before Plummer said, “Jesus, Joseph and Mary . . . She's got a third eye, and it's looking right at us.”
Bierdsley saw the eye at the center of shadow along the dead girl's forehead a moment before it disappeared, and for a nanosecond he believed in the supernatural and in mermaids. Then he saw a silver-looking reflection replace the eye. Finally, he located and flipped on his flashlight, placing the beam to the dead girl's forehead. As he did so, he found himself in a graceless motion going to his knees opposite his partner, “Jesus . . .” escaping his lips.
Both officers gasped in response. The dark blotch was indeed a large cavity the size and length of her forehead; in fact, what ought to be her forehead stood out as a void, and inside the void another dying fish struggled for air in a losing battle. It made Bierdsley wonder what kind of fight the young woman had put up. Now in its death throes, the small cod began to blow out its gills, wink wide and flutter.
Grave Instinct Page 4