Cain's Blood (23 page)

T

hey’d been less than thirty minutes away from the house
with all the dead kids.

facebook and Twitter told them that.
Jeff hadn’t been on either site in more than six months.
he had only four new friend requests. Twelve new messages about
nothing. he had forty-two “friends.” And David and Al were two of
them.
using Castillo’s phone, they’d clicked onto Al’s page and read the
various threads and messages there. Clicked onto the pages of some of
the girls Al was friends with. Jumping from site to site to site, read
their
posts. everyone’s privacy settings were for shit.
One girl, Laura Studer in Colorado, had posted random pics on Al’s
facebook wall all damn day. Mostly links to videos of obscure bands and
a pic of a Magic 8 Ball. Beneath it, she’d typed “i wanna . . .” Then, posts
to other girls with various versions of “cu2nite, rofl,” which quickly led
to another site and a chain of tweets that included Cedaredge high
baseball players talking about “crashing the party” and kicking some
“Philly bitch’s ass.”
It didn’t take long to piece together the kids’ weekend plans.
“Where is Orchard City?” Jeff asked.
It’d been fifteen hours driving straight through. It wasn’t yet 7:00
p.m.
Close. But still too late . . .
The girl’s parents had not known what to make of Castillo. he told
them he was with the D.e.A. and that a lethal LSD drug was being sold
at some teen party.
Where was Laura?
They didn’t know exactly. Laura
wouldn’t answer her cell.
What about her friends?
Castillo asked and even
gave the names.
Who might know where they went?
Nothing.
he tried two more of the girls’ names, their houses. Nothing still.
Only more parental confusion and more proof that they had no clue
were their children really were for the evening.
And then, finally, the sirens. The flashing lights.
A lone police cruiser racing past in the distance.
Jeff and Castillo shared a look.
“Jesus Christ,” Castillo said.
Then followed after the ghostly refrain of the retreating siren.

Castillo parked outside the local news vans and flashing emergency
vehicles. The gawkers of Orchard City were already out in full force. A
news helicopter from Grand Junction swooped overhead again, already
streaming promising images of carnage to fox News and MSNBC. It
looked like a thousand emergency vehicles had parked up and down
the street, and the neighborhood twinkled and flashed like a pinball
machine.

And the headlines were already on the local radio: NINe TeeNAGerS BeLIeVeD DeAD. MASS MurDer IN OrChArD
CITy fOLLOWS DruG OrGy.

flashing a bogus badge twice had been enough to get Castillo into
the house. The fBI was another hour away, the guys in Grand Junction another ten minutes, and the two hundred rubes of Orchard City,
Colorado, still hadn’t locked the scene down yet. None of them knew
what the hell to do, what the hell was going on. None of them had seen
something like this before. he had, and he moved and looked like he
knew what he was doing. So they left him alone.

230
GeOffrey GIrArD

Colonel Stanforth, no doubt, was also already on the way.
Castillo had to move quickly.
he entered the basement, covering his nose and mouth with the

top of his shirt. The whole house stank of ammonia. And blood. As he
stepped carefully into the butchery below, he could see where both had
splashed and soaked the carpet stairs.

There were five bodies here. he’d passed four more upstairs leading
out to the front porch. None had been covered yet. They’d been cut.
he recognized none of the death-contorted faces. And there wouldn’t
be time to look any closer. The place was crawling in confusion, but
soon someone would show up who knew he didn’t belong there.

But here, downstairs, he found the boy in the clown outfit.
Not one of the original six, but a clone nonetheless. John lay
sprawled over a dead girl and had been stabbed half a dozen times. his
throat was slit, and the blood had pooled out below several of the other
nearby bodies. The cuts were deep and had clearly been done with great
strength.
Castillo immediately knew who’d killed them, and he literally shuddered at the memory. Could still picture the dark man’s retreating form.
Castillo quickly inspected the dead boy.
he found two deep pockets in the side of the pants, from which he
retrieved a handful of twenties and a cellphone. he left the money but
tucked the phone into his own pocket. he patted the rest of the teen’s
body. There was nothing else but a half-eaten bag of Combos. Castillo
looked around again. The head of one of the girls was twisted wrong,
angled crookedly to one side. But most of the others looked as if they’d
been stabbed, too.
“Who are you?” someone said behind.
“DeA,” he lied again, standing.
More police had arrived. he retreated insouciantly from the house
and back toward the car. his eyes glanced over the crowd, again looking for a familiar face. Wondering what he’d do, what he
could
do, if he
actually saw one.
he opened the cellphone he’d taken from John.
A cheap toss-away. No text messages. Any calls in or out already
deleted.
Checked the boy’s contacts.
There was only one.
Castillo eyed the number again. 215 area code, Philly.
The contact tag:
DR J
. The kid sure as fuck wasn’t talking to Julius
erving.
“So, you’ve been calling Daddy,” he mused.
Daddy . . .
Castillo withdrew his own phone.
“Would you . . .”
Scrolling though his own call history. Nothing.
he started for the car, but then stopped. Groaned.
Opened up Safari to sign directly onto the phone service’s account.
records not so easily deleteable. There Castillo skimmed the most recent calls made.
“Son of a bitch.”

Castillo unlocked his car door and slipped inside, where Jeff clung to
the shadows in the backseat. “Was it them?” Jeff asked. he sounded out
of breath.

“yeah. here . . .” Castillo handed the boy his cellphone.
“What’s this?”
Castillo started the car and pulled slowly away down the street.

“Need you to make a call.”
“Ok, Castillo,” Jeff said, inspecting the phone. “Who am I calling?”
Castillo checked his rearview mirror. They were not being followed,

and the flashing lights had already become a wine-colored blur in the
distance. It looked like someone had misted Orchard City in blood. he
eyed the boy, suddenly uncomfortable with having Jeff that close behind
him.
His teeth . . .

In the mirror, he looked Jeff in the eyes.
“Same guy you’ve been calling all week,” Castillo said. “your goddamn father.”
Jeff CALLS

h

ey. hey, Dad.
It’s me.
Jeff. Jeff!
No. Jeff Jacobson.

yeah. I’m . . . I’m Ok. I know you told me not—
Where are you? I need . . . I need to see you.
No. It’s just . . . yes. I guess. Is that Ok?
Winter Quarters. No. utah? yeah, I can look it up. Thanks. I . . .
Midnight. yes.
Are you Ok? you . . .
Dad?
When will you—
yeah. Ok . . . I—
yes.
yeah.
I love you too.

NOT WhO I eXPeCTeD

W
inter Quarters, where they were to meet at midnight,
was five hours away.

So Castillo and the boy slept outside 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 probably were, too.
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 nodded, 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 descendent, 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 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 toward 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 grimaced. “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
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 the other 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.
“you the guy who did John?” Al asked.
“No way,” Jeffrey said. “It ain’t him.”
“you’re a dead faggot,” Al shouted.
Castillo checked the horizon again. These guys would probably run
when the copters appeared.
Run,
he thought.
They’ll get you easy.
Jacobson shifted in front of him, muttering. Sounded Latin maybe. Castillo
pulled the doctor still and shouted back at the boys. “you guys kill anyone today?”
“Not yet,” the last boy spoke, finally. Ted. his voice had been deeper
and more serious than the others. he’d meant it. he’d also drawn a gun.
“easy there, tough guy,” Castillo warned. “Put the gun down or I
will end you.”
“Do it,” the teen said, stepping forward. “you think I really give a
fuck anymore?”
Castillo reset his own pistol, aimed at the boy’s head. “No, I don’t,”
he agreed. “I’ve read your files, asshole.” The kid stopped, smiled
broadly. for a second, Castillo thought the skin might actually split
open against the ever-widening jaw. Almost as quickly, the smile vanished.
Ted turned, looking behind the other two into the ruined city. Castillo tensed, scanning the surrounding shadows. Jacobson had mumbled
something again, then moaned.
“What’s that, Doc?” Castillo crouched closer behind him.
“he’s here,” Jacobson said.
“Who—”
Then Castillo knew, too.
he twisted instinctively, reacted to the sudden movement from his
right. One of the shadows had separated, leaped, away from the others. Castillo felt his entire body lift from the ground, weightless, reality
suspended. he’d seen his attacker only a second, had felt the steel-fingered hand against his shoulder and rolled against the expected strike.
Burning pain sank into his lower back, then he was slamming into the
ground. Someone close was screaming. There were gun shots, not his
own. Castillo knew he’d been cut, and deep. But he’d rolled away from
the blow, and the vest had taken the worst of it. he scrabbled to his
knees, fought to pull himself back up.
Someone stood directly between him and Jacobson. The man was
small and lean, almost completely lost against the night. The same from
the motel room. But,
man
?
Not entirely . . .
This guy held Jacobson by the throat, lifting him into the moonlight with one arm, studying him, while the geneticist’s feet kicked
inches from the ground. A blade in the figure’s other hand was jammed
in the doctor’s middle, lifting also. Jacobson’s screeches were pitched
too high, like the wails of a ghostly widow.
Castillo put five bullets into the killer’s back. The man stumbled
forward with the impact but still did not drop Jacobson. righting himself, he heaved his blade arm sideways. Blood sprayed across the distance between them and splashed hot across Castillo’s face as Jacobson
split open from the middle, his intestines bursting free with a wet slurp.
Jacobson’s killer turned now toward the three boys. The clones.
This was an execution. Pure and simple. Stanforth, DSTI, had sent
this man.
Castillo watched the boys sprinting back through the deserted
town.
Do I just let it go?
he wondered.
Let this guy, whoever he is, kill again.
Finish this.
he felt the fresh wound burning in his back, straightaway thought
of the basement full of dead kids he’d seen barely hours before.
Castillo fired another burst of shots. each hit its target, and their
reports echoed through the canyon. Probably scared a shitload of
ghosts. The thing—Castillo could think of it as nothing else now—
turned back to Castillo.
he emptied what little was left of the clip.
It spun backwards, black mist spraying from the side of the head,
and whirled to the ground with a screech. yet as quickly as he’d appeared, he sprang back up and was now sprinting from Castillo deeper
into the old camp. Crouched and loping.
Wounded. Dying.
Has to be,
Castillo told himself.
I saw some of that damn head go POOF.
he was suddenly fighting to keep conscious himself.
Who’s the
wounded one now?
he’d lost a lot of blood already. his body racked with
pain, he chased after the shape as fast as he could, feeding another clip
into his 9mm.
he looked for the others. The three teens were gone. Or well hidden. Jacobson’s killer moved more slowly, scarcely fifty yards ahead.
The man tottered, stumbled, crawled on his knees into one of the halfcollapsed cellars.
rounding the cellar’s corner, Castillo had to admit that if he hadn’t
been looking, he never would have seen his quarry. The black-garbed
figure was slumped against the far left corner of a shadow-filled cellar.
he was twisted, misshapen, in his attempt to hide himself better. Like a
giant spider or a bat that was only part human. And the long knife still
glistened in the moonlight, like a single giant fang.