Cain's Blood (11 page)

his glasses lay beside the sink. The mirror was half
fogged with steam from the shower he was pretending to
take as he squinted into the glass. Castillo was in the next

room doing something CIA-ish with his gazillion laptops and the maps
he’d taped up onto the wall.

They’d spent all day in this sketch motel, Golden ranch Inn,
somewhere north of radnor. They weren’t out hunting bad guys like
yesterday. Now they were sitting around for hours and hours, and it was
boring times a thousand. Jeff watched TV and pretended to sleep while
Castillo researched and waited. Waited for what? Murders, it turned
out. Castillo had told him there were three hundred homicides a week
in the united States.
Three hundred people? Murdered?
“every week,”
Castillo had replied. “fifty a day. And while half are boyfriends and best
friends and coworkers and gang morons, the other half are unsolved.
Those are the ones I’m interested in.”

Jeff had done the math easily enough. That was seven thousand
unexplained murders every year. Strangers killing other strangers for
the thrill of making someone else die. And each one was now a little
red dot for the map on the wall. Castillo had tapped his laptop and,
gradually, right there, right on that map, was every reported murder in
the last forty-eight hours. every rape. every missing person. Some red
dots were bigger than others, like Polaris or Sirius shining brighter than
the rest in a night sky dripping red with dozens of little crimson marks.
“The more brutal the murder, the better,” Castillo had said. “I’ll find
these guys.” he’d said it was only a matter of time and of marking, starting to articulate some lines along the various highways, and looking for
possible paths. The lines already ran in a hundred different directions.

“Just like connect the dots,” Jeff had noted quietly.

“Just like.” Castillo had turned and stared at him. “But with dead
people.”
Castillo totally hated him. Jeff knew that for sure. Whenever the
guy went out to make one of his secret phone calls or something, he’d
always come back into the room all agitated. Like he was disappointed
Jeff was still here. even sent Jeff out on some fool’s errand to Subway in
the middle of the damn night. Gave him a hundred-dollar bill for a couple of subs. Totally hoping he—the freak—would take the hint and split.
Guess all those early threats about dragging him back to DSTI were
obsolete. Guess Castillo didn’t want that shit on his conscience after all.
This is what a killer looks like.
But the freak hadn’t taken the bait. Instead, he’d returned from Subway and handed Castillo a list of all the places he knew his father—his
fake father—had ever gone to. Conferences and cities and colleges and
stuff. It was a pretty long list, but Castillo didn’t seem too impressed.
What an asshole.
Best to stay out of the guy’s way. Jeff stayed mostly in
his bed pretending to be asleep, or watching TV with the sound down
while Castillo worked on his laptop and messed with his map. After tenplus hours of that, he’d asked Castillo if he could take a walk around
outside a bit. Stretch his legs, get some fresh air. Something, anything,
to get the hell out of the room.
Castillo had waved him off like a fly, no doubt hoping Jeff would
leave for good.
Outside proved even more horrible than in the motel room, the
nightmares from sleep sneaking into the waking world as nightmares
and hallucinations directly from his father’s journals.
I’m going crazy,
Jeff
thought.
Or always have been.
If the hallucinations weren’t enough, there
were the very real dangers lurking outside. Some drunk or stoned guy
had gotten all up in his face as he’d wandered back to the motel room.
Crude and hostile, and no less evil, probably, than the guys Castillo was
looking for.
Or me . . .
It was best, safest, to be here, hiding in the bathroom.
Invisible
. It
was simple to do now. he’d become the invisible boy. On the very first
day they’d left haddonfield, Castillo’d run into an Old Navy store and
returned in ten minutes with two full bags: two pairs of jeans, a bunch
of T-shirts, and a hooded sweatshirt, everything either blue or dark gray,
in the most generic styles the store carried. If Jeff was holding the clothing he’d bought in his hands, he still couldn’t have described it. Then,
in the motel bathroom, Castillo had cut and dyed Jeff’s hair. It was
now short and brown. Castillo told him he could only wear his glasses
when they were safely in their room.
How am I supposed to spot those guys
without my glasses?
Not a single person on earth would notice, let alone
recognize,
Jeff one bit if they saw him. he’d ceased to exist. exactly like
Castillo wanted. Like his own father had wanted. his
fake
father.
he’d been reading a new fantasy novel the night his fake father had
come in and told him that (a) I’m not your real father and (b) you’re actually the clone of a famous murderer and (c) DSTI will want to kill you
and (d) I do love you but (e) I’m leaving, good luck. It had been a lot to
take in at once. When his fake father drove away, Jeff had chased after
the car as it vanished down the street. One more thing: he still missed
his fake father.
Jeff tried to picture himself as he’d been just a day ago. happy. Normal. Then he imagined himself at eighteen, the same age as Jeffrey/5.
The boy his fake dad had built in a lab. The one Castillo was chasing
after. The one who’d probably helped kill all those people at DSTI.
eighteen years old. A couple years from now. Maybe
that
Jeff had grown
some sideburns or a little soul patch. Probably a couple of inches taller.
he wondered how old all the others were. The other
Jeffs
. how
many were there in the world? According to the notes his father had
handed him that first night, he was really Jeff/82. Another seventy copies had died, by both flaw and design, prior to his own birth.
Seventy!
So
he was one of, then, maybe four, five,
ten
other Jeffrey Dahmer clones
that’d survived.
he thought of a joke he’d heard:
What’s worse than a barrel full of
dead babies?
he could only remember the last, maybe, five years of his life. The
rest was kinda hazy. his father—his
fake
father—had told him stories
about things they’d done and filled in memories as best as he’d been
able. But his fake father had clearly lied a lot.
Hadn’t he?
It was hard
to know about anything for sure. his fake father had said there’d been
some kind of car accident and that was why he couldn’t remember so
well. Why he had no mother. his fake father had shown him pictures of
an accident once, had said that’s why his head hurt sometimes, why he
saw things that weren’t there.
The punch line:
A live one at the bottom, trying to eat its way out.
he
thought,
That’s me.
Sometimes he even saw
people
who weren’t really there. familiar
faces in a crowd or standing beside him. There was the Asian guy. A
couple different black guys. The big blonde kid. There one second,
gone the next. Like ghosts or some kinda déjà vu. All those years, he’d
thought it had been people he’d known once. Maybe before “The Accident.” An event as fictitious as all the rest. But now he knew better. he’d
seen their pictures in his folder. The same faces he’d glimpsed so many
times before. The second part of the déjà vu. Ghosts caught on film.
Inherited memories of some kind.
his victims.
This is what a killer looks like.
he next tried to imagine himself at twenty-five. As Jeffrey Dahmer
#1. The Original. The one in the files his fake father had given him.
The one who murdered seventeen people. Jeff didn’t know much about
him. had never even heard the name before three days ago. The folder
his father had given him with all the details had been taken when the
DSTI guys had busted into his house. he knew only what he’d managed to glean that first night. That Dahmer’d been born in 1960 and
lived in Ohio and that his dad was a chemist. he knew that Dahmer
commited his first murder at eighteen. That he was just getting started.
That he got found guilty on fifteen counts of murder and was sentenced
to a separate life term for each and every one. Almost a thousand years
in prison. Jeff couldn’t even imagine
one
. Didn’t matter. Two years into
his sentence, another prisoner beat Dahmer to death with a broom
handle. The guy claimed that “God told him to.”
And that’s the face he was looking for in the motel mirror: The face
smashed apart with a broom handle because that’s what God wanted.
It wasn’t too hard to imagine at all. he’d seen the pictures in his file.
Brown hair dye wasn’t enough. It was still the same face underneath.
Add a couple of pounds maybe. Not too many.
The very last face seventeen people saw right before they were murdered.
yeah, no doubt about it. It was the same face in the mirror.
His
face.
This is what a killer looks like. . . .
Jeff turned on the hot water faucet all the way. It took another minute to steam the mirror completely. he imagined the outlines of faces
forming in the mirror’s emerging coating of vapor. But his own had
vanished completely.
Thank God,
he thought.

Castillo turned to eye Jeff as he came out of the bathroom.
“What’s wrong?” the boy asked.
Castillo shook his head, ignored him, peered out the door’s peephole again.

“What’s goin’ on?”
“Nothing,” Castillo said, watching. “Couple of drunk assholes.”
“Those are the guys who—”
“yeah, your friends from earlier. you should have stayed the fuck

inside.”
“Sorry. you said—”
“No, that’s totally on me.”
“Can’t we just ignore them?”
“No. eventually the police are gonna show up. Whole goddamn

motel is empty. eventually, cops’ll maybe come knocking on our door
asking what I heard. Don’t want to have to explain my car or you, or
even
me,
to them or anyone else.” Decent places brought too many
cameras and registrations. But the cash dives, you still stuck out like a
sore thumb. Should have stuck to motels in the middle.
Damn!
“Another
Sunday night in Mayberry.”

Another empty beer bottle exploded off the motel parking lot.
“Get dressed,” he said and opened the door.
four doors away. One car, an old dirty Omni, and one red Dodge

pickup were parked unevenly in front of an opened room door. Loud
music and bright light came out of the room. Air was streaked with the
whiff of pot. Two girls and three guys leaned against the door, sat on
the hoods and tailgate. Late twenty-somethings. hard to tell. Guys all
had half-assed beards, short hair. Two in their wifebeaters, showing off
cheap tats and emerging beer guts. Couple of locals. One of the guys
was “playfully” shoving one of the girls with his drunk hand in what
Castillo assumed they both took as some kind of hilljack foreplay. The
girl was half laughing, half shying away.

“What up, mother fucker?!” one of them yelled as soon as Castillo
stepped outside. The posse cackled.
“yo,” Castillo nodded. “you guys mind taking the party inside
some?”
“What the fuck for?” They all had his attention now. There had
been a fourth man in the room, and he stepped outside. Castillo assessed each. Two were pretty stoned.
“Just getting a little rowdy is all, man,” Castillo lifted a hand to the
newest arrival. “Someone’s eventually gonna call the cops, you know.”
“fuck the cops!” More laughter. “fuck you, too, man.”
“Shit, bro. you callin’ the fuckin’ five-Oh on us? Thought you was
cool.”
“No, man,” Castillo said as he held up a peaceful hand. “Ain’t calling the cops. But this place got a manager, couple other people trying
to sleep. Someone else might. Letting you know it’s getting kinda loud
is all.”
“Bill’s the manager here. he knows us. No one knows you, hard
guy. So . . . how ’bout you get the fuck back inside and go beddy-bye or
what the fuck ever. faggot.”
Castillo waved. “Sure thing, man.”
he reentered the room and shut the door. “Pack up,” he said.
Jeff had already dressed as he’d been told. “We gotta go?”
“yeah. Not worth it.” Castillo assembled his own notes, holstered
his gun and phone beneath his shirt. Tossed his two laptop cases in the
gym bag with his clothes.
knocking at their door. Banging.
Castillo dropped his head. “you gotta be fucking joking  .  .  . you
good to go?” he looked at Jeff.
“yup.”
Castillo nodded. The damn kid was ready before he was. Not bad.
“Stay close,” he said. “Get in the damn car.” he opened the door.
Two of the guys stood outside. “hey, man, wanted to apologize is
all,” one said. “you know. No hard feelings, bro.” held out a hand, grinning.
“Sure, man. No problem.” Castillo ignored the shake, nodded for
Jeff to continue to the car.
Three voices jeering as one: “you-guys-going? That-your-kid? Betyou-sucking-dicks-in-there.”
Castillo exited the room, blocked them from Jeff. Smelled their
drunkenness. Assessed.
“you fucking leaving ’cause of us, man? Shit, man, now I feel all
shitty. fuck that. Damn.”
“Checking out anyway,” Castillo said. “you got the place to yourself.”
“hey, hardguy,” the bigger of the two said. “how about we gonna
call the cops on you, hardguy. Bet you cornholing that kid hard in there,
huh? fucking faggots. you wanna suck my cock now, hardguy?”
Castillo sensed Jeff turn to him for direction. “Just get in the car,”
he said.
“hey, man. you call the cops on us? you fucking did, didn’t you?”
The red pickup truck had started moving.
No, no, no,
Castillo was thinking.
Don’t be that obvious.
They were. The pickup came to a stop behind his car.
Castillo opened the passenger door of his car, ushered Jeff inside.
“Lock it.” Shifted to the trunk.
Three voices: “Where-you-guys-going-man? Ain’t-going-nowhere.
Wanna-beer-kid?”
Castillo put his bags in the trunk, shut it. Surveyed the four guys
again. Guy One had a buck knife at his hip. Guy Three, one of the
stoned ones, maybe had a gun.
Maybe
. yeah, Castillo decided. he did.
he’d gotten out of the pickup with it freshly jammed in his belt. The
two girls and the final guy had gathered in a loose semicircle to watch.
Better than breaking beer bottles, he supposed.
he noticed Jeff squirming in his seat for a better look.
Shit.
“you guys mind moving the truck?” Castillo said.
“What truck?” the Big One said, snorted to his pals and stepped
closer. Just enough.
“Look, man, I don’t—”
Castillo had hit the man’s throat with the back side of his hand.
Stepped back and kicked. The man’s kneecap audibly exploded. Before
he’d hit the ground, Castillo was already moving around him toward
Guy Three. Gun Guy.
he closed the distance quickly, too quickly for someone stoned.
Grabbed the man’s wrist, pulled. Something snapped. Castillo ignored the shrill scream, forced Gun Guy to the ground with a twist of
the broken limb. Punched three times directly into the nose with the
heel of his hand. Then took the pistol. Tossed it onto his hood.
The last two came at him together. Good. Castillo eyed the girls:
not running, not scared. Merely watching. Guy One had pulled his
knife as Castillo thought he would. Both already looked damn unsure.
Castillo smiled.
“We gonna fuck you—”
Keep talking, asshole.
he’d already covered the gap between them.
The movement with the knife was clumsy, probably the first time the
guy had ever tried it for real. Castillo sidestepped, grabbed his arm,
pulled forward and back, as he’d been trained a thousand times. As
he’d used in the field a dozen times. Another loud snapping sound and
the knife, still in Guy One’s hand, was now pointed at Guy One’s back.
Stab, stab, stab. . . . It’d be that quick to finish it. Castillo fought against
the trained reflexes. Instead, he turned the wrist more than usual. With
another loud snap, the knife dropped. The man howled like a nervous
hound dog.
Castillo grabbed his neck with both hands, pulling the head down
to the hood of his car. felt the nose go. The man fell back, his howling
stopped. There’d be too much blood in his mouth. Castillo turned to
the last.
“hey, look man . . . I . . . look, I don’t wanna . . .”
“Sorry, friend. Only way this works.” Castillo came low, took out the
legs first. And then followed with a palm to the lower jaw. Lights out.
kid never even made a sound.
The whole thing had taken about twenty seconds.
The other three guys were moaning around him. Not moving. Or
not moving well. Probably still didn’t know what had just happened.
Probably’d never seen so much blood, not even on some deer they’d
shot. Blood had a way of freezing normal people. One thing was for
sure: None of them would ever admit one guy had done this. Which
was why he had to embarrass all of them. The girls might joke about it
privately later, but they would never dare make it public.
he patted Guy Three, found his keys.
“you wanna move this fucking truck, please,” he shouted and tossed
the keys at the girls. One of them rushed to pick them up. he took
the gun off the hood and stepped around to his own seat. “find better
people to hang around,” Castillo said.
The girl nodded, got in the truck. She couldn’t have been more
than sixteen herself. Castillo shook his head and got into the car. “fucking animals.”
he started the car. The truck retreated and he pulled away.
Jeff was still staring at him.
“What’s your fucking problem?” Castillo said.
Jeff shook his head. “Didn’t say a word.”
“Good. keep it that way.”
And he did.