by Apex Authors
More kids slowly climbed from the cars.
Two girls among them. Dirty hair hung over their eyes. Both moving strangely.
Ashley absently handed Michael another pretzel stick and looked back towards where two other mothers had been having a picnic lunch with their young sons. Was overly relieved when they were still there, chatting away.
"Poc,” Michael burbled beside her. “Poc."
Poc, Tik, Mop. The ever-evolving official language of young Michael Steins, fifteen months. Words she kept in a small diary to share with him someday.
"Poc,” she smiled. “Pretzel."
Michael giggled.
She started packing their things.
"Honey,” she called out to Cassie. “Honey?” Wanting to get her attention without using her name. Why, she wondered, was that suddenly so important? Her daughter moving away from her deeper into the castle.
Ashley stood and moved after her.
Two of the boys had taken seats at the swings and were using their feet to twist themselves up in the chains. Another pair was wrestling atop the see-saw.
Fine, Ashley thought. Just trying to recapture some half-remembered joy of childhood. Very Holden Caulfield. They'll all be bored in five minutes. Girls are probably just stoned. She fumbled for her cell phone, half remembered she'd left it in the car. Clapped her hands. “Cassie, come on now. Time to go."
Her daughter turned. “Whyyyyy?” she whined from the top parapet, her dark pigtails hanging over her yellow dress.
"Come down now, honey. Hurry up."
Her four-year-old scrunched her face in displeasure.
Several of them looked older than teenagers. Young men.
"Come on.” Ashley waved her down. Can't get up there quick enough. “I'll buy you both ice creams on the way home."
"Mikey, too!"
Don't say his name, baby. Don't say his damned name.
"Yes, yes. Let's go now, honey."
A horrible sound.
Van doors shutting.
She spun around.
The other table suddenly empty. The other children already somehow collected, small bags of books, toys, McCalls and Pringles already packed.
The only other SUV now backing slowly out of the parking lot. Leaving her alone.
With them.
She turned back to Cassie and almost collapsed to the ground as the whole park seemed to tilt.
She was gone.
Cassie. Her daughter.
Where once there'd been a little girl, there was now nothing.
What do I ... dear God, this is really happening.
Ashley moved toward the castle like a half-formed ghost.
She's gone. She's really gone. What have these monsters done to my—
"God!"
Her daughter appeared with a squeal at the bottom of the green tube, sliding to the end ‘til her feet dangled just above the mulched ground.
"Cassie, fucking..."
"What, mommy?” She climbed off the slide.
"Nothing.” Ashley fought the urge to collapse again. “I'm sorry, baby. Come on, let's go."
Yanking her back towards the picnic table.
She saw the clown then.
Standing perfectly still by the cars. A scarecrow.
Watching her. And her children.
A red suit with white frills and buttons and a matching red hat. Huge blue triangular eyes like a jack-o-lantern. Its mouth blood red and covering the entire bottom half of the face. In the shape of an enormous smile.
Now, she knew.
Scooping up the rest of their things and slinging the bag over her shoulder. Dragging Michael in one arm, pulling Cassie with the other.
"Poc,” Michael said. “Poc!"
"In the car, baby. Hush now."
She looked up at the swing set, clearly saw the girl there for the first time. A woman. Her “boyfriend” slowly and mechanically pushing her swing from behind. The woman's face masked behind grimy hair, head drooped to the side. What Ashley had thought was a shirt was not. The woman was nude from the waist up. What she'd figured was a shirt's pattern was only dried blood.
"What's wrong, Mommy?"
Ashley staggered forward toward her car.
Michael started crying.
"Mommy, what's wrong?"
"Shut up,” she hissed, yanking her closer. “Please, baby, just..."
One of the boys laughed.
She'd reached the car.
"Pox,” Michael yelped again. “Pox!"
"Pox,” Ashley replied in a half-laugh that shuddered through her whole body. “Pretzels. That's right, baby."
Door half open when they finally stopped her.
One of the boys had squatted down to playfully wave a finger at Cassie. The girl's eyes were wide, her grip on Ashley's hand like a vice.
The other boy reached out and touched Ashley's mouth.
"Please...” she stammered over his fingers.
Around the back of the car, another shape moving toward them. A horrible thing made of white and red.
One she'd somehow been waiting for.
"Pox.” The clown smiled at them in a grin that now filled the whole world. “Pox?"
Michael giggled.
* * * *
2 Sep—-psychopathic subjects rated ‘J’ or greater remain lowest asymmetry scores among all offenders. During interview, subject continues to illustrate classic psychopath criteria: superficially charming, unmotivated, manipulative, inadequate sense of shame, paucity of emotions. Today, I asked the subject how he would feel if I put a gun to his face and robbed him. He said he'd find a way to escape, give me the money or perhaps fight to take the gun. When I pressed him on the issue of how he would ‘feel,’ not what he would think or do, subject had no response. MMPI scheduled for next session. CSubject's custodian contacted to increase subject's maternal neglect by 2.0 degrees, mf abuse by 1.0.
6 Sep—Dreams should remain banished only to night. In the sun, they are vile trespassers. They are worse. The Triazolam shots abridge REM sleep, but now they have somehow found me in the day. I could not see her face again. The warmth spilling from her insides was like a mother's blanket enfolding me. I awoke at my desk, drenched in sweat, my stomach warm and wet with my own semen. I heard from Rochester today and everything is now arranged. Mankind remains ceaselessly motivated by characteristics inherited genetically from ancestors long-buried which individual experiences of childhood can modify, inhibit, or augment, but can never truly erase. But I shall be there when he is lifted again from the earth.
9 Sep—Lunch with Dr. Carla Brown (Tulane), who is heading a symposium next spring and asked if I would be interested in presenting. Perhaps. Reviewed impact of common functional polymorphism in MAOA on brain structure and function. Low expression variants found on all subject's MRIs. Erdman maintains reservations on limited test group. Recorded pronounced limbic volume reductions and hyper-responsive amygdale during emotional arousal. Marked diminished reactivity of regulatory prefrontal regions compared with the high expression allele. The clearest link between genetic variation and aggression is located on the chromosome Xp11.23. This is the true mark of Cain. Xp11 is the new number of the beast.
22 Sep—ssubject's MAOA levels remain identical to DNA patron. Latest blood tests confirm sustained low serotonin, norepinephrine, and dopamine levels. Dogs bark as they are bred. Note to visit John and Albert at secondary environments. Voxel-based morphometry prescribed to canvass subject's brain for regional volume changes related to genotype. He requested his room be painted tan. A genuine emotional preference or mimicry of conventional exchange? He also called me ‘father’ today. Perhaps, I should never have brought him here.
04 Oct—It is a match, and I am filled with abundant joy. It is, as I'd always hoped it would be, comforting to find our basest traits in our forebears. It absolves us.
* * * *
Becker tossed Jacobson's journal back inside the box with the rest. Papers on something called Klinef
elter's syndrome. More reports, PCR printouts from a machine Jacobson kept in his office which mapped double helix pairings he couldn't understand in the slightest. Color photos of mutilated victims. Sliced and broken. These he understood perfectly. Maps of East London from the 19th century. Old photos of Francis Tumblety, and a hoary pamphlet by the same entitled The Kidnapping of Dr. Tumblety. Graphs comparing oxytocin and vasopressin levels for several subjects. From the diaries, Becker had figured that subject ‘Nobody’ was Jacobson himself.
And then there were the CDs. He'd watched only two but it had been enough. Both showed surveillance video of various children being beaten and molested. Records suggested the abuse had been methodically ordered in the name of science. In one was some kid grown from the cosmic cream of Richard Ramirez, the ‘Night Stalker,’ no more than nine in the static-wizened black-and-white video while some guy came in and gave the boy a hand job. In another CD, some other kid. Some other abuser. Test Group #2.
On the inside of Jacobson's journal:
And the LORD set a mark upon Cain, lest any finding him should kill him. And Cain went out from the presence of the LORD, and dwelt in the land of Nod, on the east of Eden.
Why different than the other in the office? Was there something there he wasn't seeing? Or just the lifelong motivations of a broken mind.
Becker leaned into his hands and rested against the desk. It had been a long night. He'd grown too numb to think.
The Major General had been right.
There was no going back.
He flipped open his cell.
"You finished, Captain?” Dr. Erdman asked at the other end.
"'Wer mit Ungeheuern kämpft,'” he replied.
"Go on."
"Nietzsche. ‘Who fights with monsters should—"
"'Beware that he, himself, does not become a monster.’ Very well. May we now move back to the matter at hand?"
Becker laughed. “What the hell do you see when you look in the mirror, Erdman?"
"What most men see, Becker. Do you have the information you need now or not?"
"Maybe. Here's where I'm at. For the sake of marketable pharmaceuticals, bioengineering prospects, and potential military applications—otherwise why the hell would I be involved?—DSTI, a highly financed but little known genetics lab purposely breeds monsters. Sponsors the abuse of children ... No wait, sorry, sponsors the abuse of only half of them for the sake of environmental testing—"
"Those tests were discontinued four years ago and, officially, never happened, Captain."
"Whatever. How familiar are you with Phase Three, Doctor?"
Erdman paused on the other end. “Jacobson had plans, but we never ... DSTI rejected the proposal. Jacobson did those subject insertions on his own."
"'Subject insertions.’ By adopting out genetic psychopaths to unknowing parents. Putting these kids out into the real world?"
"DSTI rejected the proposal."
"How many? Mohlenbrock failed to leave the list."
"We don't know for sure. Less than a dozen. All other embryos have been accounted for. We have our own men moving out to known locations now. I'll get you the list."
"There could be as many as sixteen now. Jacobson will visit these homes. This is big time, Erdman."
"We have taken all necessary steps to assure—"
"Just get me the damn list."
He hung up and tapped his chin with the phone, thinking.
All necessary steps.
"Damn it,” he cursed. Then he dialed.
"Kristin Romano."
"It's Becker."
Silence.
"Been awhile, I know,” he said into it. “How have you been?"
"What can I do for you, Captain?” The voice of a total stranger.
Fine. That's what I need to hear.
"I need your help.” He stood.
Her voice changed. “Have you had—"
"No, no. Nothing like that. I'm fine. You cured me, remember?"
She laughed softly. The sound so familiar, although he'd thought he'd forgotten it forever. “I'm not that good,” she said, and he heard the smile in her voice. “What can I do for you?” The stranger's voice returning.
"Your doctoral work at..."
"Maryland."
"Right. Was in criminal psychology, yes? I remember you said ... you were always interested in, well, serial killers and things like that. Right?"
"Why?"
"Who's Francis Tumblety?"
"I don't know. Somewhat familiar but nothing. Who is he?"
"Shit, Tumblety. White Chapel. London. St. Louis. Maybe a serial killer in the early 19th century.” Becker had moved into the hallway, slowly walking past each room.
"Okay, fine. White Chapel is where Jack the Ripper committed his crimes. Maybe he was one of the suspects. There were dozens."
"Jack the Ripper."
"Sure, hold on. What the hell's this about?"
"Nothing. I don't know."
"Articulate as always.” She sighed.
Becker found the stairs leading upward. Turned on the lights.
"Yeah, okay,” she said. “I've got Sugden's book right here. Francis Tumblety. He was one of the primary Jack the Ripper suspects."
"Who's Dennis Rader?” he asked.
"That's the B.T.K. killer."
"Theodore Desalvo."
"Boston Strangler. What is this? Hell week on Jeopardy?"
"Yes. Seems you knew these guys pretty well."
"A lasting failing of mine. Interest in the wrong men."
"I need your help, Kristin."
"Kristin? Wow ... what's the—"
"I'm in something now that's ... Maybe I just need someone I can trust, someone not Delta. Maybe someone who knows serial killers.” And maybe someone who can hold me together through this.
"You were never a ‘maybe’ guy, Becker. What the hell do they got you working on now?"
Moving slowly up the steps towards the door and a darkened room. An attic of some kind.
"I can't tell you. You know that."
"Yes,” she said. “I know."
"Will you help me?"
Pause.
"Kris?"
"Yes,” she said.
Door opens. Flipping the light on. The bedroom upstairs. Bland and undecorated. A lone bed and some dressers. A guest room.
"I need you to gather everything you can get on these men..."
"I'm ready. Go."
"Gacy, Fish, Lucas, that Rader guy, Dahmer and Bundy. And Tumblety. I'll send you an email soon."
"Okay.” Confusion in her voice.
"Thanks, Kristin."
This room painted tan. A fresh coat for sure.
"Anything else, Captain?"
Becker thought. Maybe he'd try something like ... I'm sorry I left the way I did. What the hell have you been up to the last ten months? How's that damned husband of yours doing? No...
"No,” he said. “I gotta go anyway. Be safe.” He shut the phone and put it away.
Drew his 9mm in its place.
"I won't hurt you,” he said into the empty room.
Movement in the closet.
Just enough, and he turned with the sound.
"Come out,” he urged. “You can come out now."
The slotted door folded open. The boy seated inside beside a wicker hamper was more than twelve years old. Blond hair. Glasses. Lanky. Familiar without the glasses, from the photos, but Becker couldn't remember which one. There hadn't been enough time. He lowered the gun.
One down, as many as fifteen to go.
"It's okay,” Becker said. “I won't hurt you. You're alone?"
The boy nodded. No weapons that Becker could see.
"Come on out of there.” He waved him forward, and eyed the rest of the room. “What you doing in there, pal?"
"Hiding."
"Not too good at it, are you?"
"Fooled those other two good enough."
Becker nodded, smiled. “I guess s
o. Me too for awhile, huh? Guess you're right."
"Are you gonna arrest me now? Take me back?"
"To DSTI? Is that where you live?"
He shook his head no.
"You live here, don't you?"
"Yes."
"Anyone else live here besides you and the doctor?"
"No."
"When have you been to DSTI?"
"Sometimes. At night. Tests. Tests with the other boys."
"Does anyone else at DSTI know you live here?"
"I don't think so."
"I see. Has Dr. Jacobson been back home?"
He shook his head again and finished crawling out of the closet. “No.” He stood slowly. “He hasn't been back in, um, not since yesterday, I guess. You gonna arrest my—are you gonna arrest Dr. Jacobson?"
Becker shrugged. “I don't know. I need to find him, though. Him and some of the others. The other boys. When's the last time you saw Dr. Jacobson?"
"Two nights ago. He..."
"What?"
"He called me into his study and gave me that.” The boy pointed to a swollen folder on the desk beside his bed. “Told me I should learn about myself. Then he left."
"I see."
"Have they been bad? The other boys?"
"Yeah,” Becker said. “Actually, they have."
He waited while the boy looked away, mouth moving slightly in silent thought. “I could maybe help you.” The boy said finally. “Maybe help you look for them."
"Now why would you do that?"
The boy stared at him. “So they don't do the bad things again."
Becker nodded. “Maybe so, pal, maybe so. Bet you know what they all look like, don't you? The kinds of places they talk about going? Even places Dr. Jacobson likes to go."
"Sure, I guess. You want to help them?"
"I do,” Becker said. And felt good when he said it.
"That's cool."
"Yeah. I guess it is. You really sure you wanna help?” Am I really sure I want your help?
The boy looked around his own room. “I'm sure.".
"Well, we should probably get started then. I'm done here. Why don't you throw some clothes in a bag or something, okay?"
"Okay."
"Then we can go find them."
"And bring them home?"
"If I can,” Becker said. “If we can."
"Uh-huh."
Becker waited for him at the door. Watched him stuff some shirts into a black Philadelphia Flyers book-bag and grab his Gameboy for the road. “Ready?"
