Before Cain Strikes

by Joshua Corin

  “How old were you when you realized you weren’t like the other boys? Eleven? Twelve? I’ll bet you ran to the bottle to help you deal with your demons then, just like you do now—and I’ll bet it even helps…for a little while. It must be awful. You’re either a sober madman or a drunk asshole. Were you trying to go cold turkey back in October? Is that why you lost control and killed those girls?”

  “I’m in control….”

  “When you cut off their heads and put them on display, I thought it was the signature of a boastful killer, but I was wrong, wasn’t I? You were ashamed, and you wanted the world to see how ugly you were. I’ll even bet when you joined Cain’s little website, you thought you’d learn how to control your urges. Serial Killers Anonymous! Do you really want them to stop, Jefferson? Do you? Will you let me help you?”

  Jefferson Harbinger had closed his eyes. His face was scrunched tight, as if it were ready to implode.

  Tom had cracked the poor son of a bitch.

  When Grover was informed that the FBI would be keeping him company in the subway car, he felt a modicum of relief, but that’s all. The past week had not endeared him to the ways and means of the federal government. But he had been assured that the involvement of Esme Stuart (heretofore known as That Bitch) had come to an end, and that bit of news did provide him with peace of mind.

  Also, and this he kept very much to himself, part of him was looking forward to meeting Cain42. The man intrigued Grover, in much the same way that Galileo had intrigued him so many months ago. What drove someone to kill? Was it simply a chemical imbalance or did that urge draw on something primal within us all? Could he, Grover Kirk, kill?

  Not to mention the fact that Cain42 had quite an intellect and charisma. His actions were deplorable, yes, but his accomplishments were undeniable. Even the staunchest pacifist had to admire the achievements of Caesar and Napoleon. And he, Grover Kirk, was on speaking terms—in a twenty-first century, online context—with a modern-day cult personality.

  It had the makings of another book, a personal narrative this time: Cain & Me.

  Hmm. Well, he’d come up with a better title later.

  And speaking of books, Cain42 had asked Grover to send him a copy of the manuscript for Galileo’s Aim! Grover had hoped that one of the folks he’d encountered over these past few months would show an interest in his work, but he’d never expected Cain42 himself to want to read the book, offer pointers, etc. Imagine how huge it would be to get a jacket blurb from a serial killer!

  This was what had Grover, for much of Monday morning, starry-eyed. No matter how the meet went down, in a few hours it would happen. He would be face-to-face with a bona fide human monster. As any American in the nineteenth century would have been excited to sit down with Billy the Kid or Jesse James, so, too, was Grover at the prospect of spending time with the modern age’s answer to the Wild West outlaw. Because that was the analogy. The American fascination with serial killers wasn’t birthed in the early 1960s with Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho. And was it so coincidental that a country which based its very founding on violent revolution should be so enamored with the gunslinger and the rogue sniper?

  It was all there in Galileo’s Aim.

  Cain42 might even bring his printed copy with him to the A-train to have it signed by the author himself.

  Grover made sure to tuck his brass-plated Cross pen into one of his blazer’s inner pockets. He’d bought the pen months earlier, specifically for the purpose of signing copies of his book, and although he hadn’t expected to make use of it for a while, he carried it around with him as a visual reminder of his future obligations. And now the future was today, wasn’t it?

  Maybe he could self-publish.

  It wasn’t unheard of. How was it any different from opening up one’s own business? He could call all the shots (no pun intended) and reap all the benefits. He wouldn’t have to be at the beck and call of some slow-to-respond New York publisher or at the mercy of their art department when it came to his book cover or at the mercy of their publicity department when it came to his title. He would be an American entrepreneur. He could eventually publish other true-crime books by likeminded authors. He had certainly met his share of crime aficionados over the past few months. Yes, the major publishing houses produced true-crime books, but they just took so damn long to respond! He would promise to respond to all queries with expediency.

  Perhaps he could even get Cain42 himself to write a memoir. I, Killer. After all, one cannot appreciate the lightness in the world without first experiencing the dark.

  His family would come to appreciate him, too. And that, he knew, would be the sweetest prize of all. No more disappointed looks. No more what-are-you-going-to-do-with-your-life lectures. He was a late bloomer, true, but what colors he was going to show….

  It was time to go catch a train.

  He took one last look in the hotel bathroom mirror and assessed his appearance. His blue blazer fit nicely around his shoulders. He loved his shoulders. They were the shoulders of a linebacker, and he hadn’t even ever played sports. Even his baldness made him look tough, rugged. He adjusted his mustard-colored tie (which was nearly the same shade as his socks), gave himself a firm tug in the crotch for good measure and headed out the door. It was 2:00 p.m.

  He drove west toward New York City, aware that the FBI were keeping a watchful, “protective” eye on his movements. One or more of the cars behind him had to be government-issue. Every time he thought he’d nailed his suspect, though, that car seemed to be the one to take the next exit. Ah, well. None of it mattered. From his perspective, their role in this was secondary.

  Today was about Grover Kirk and Cain42.

  Grover speculated on the nickname the man had selected. The Biblical allusion was obvious, but why 42? Was it some kind of Douglas Adams reference? What was his real name? It probably was something especially bland. Certainly Grover was never too fond of his own name (and the Sesame Street teasing it had inspired in elementary school). Names held so much power. Would he have been so fascinated with the Galileo murders had the killer called himself Cookie Monster? Uh, probably not.

  The Washington Square Station was not located in Washington Square. Washington Square was the grassy hub of Greenwich Village, populated by street performers and NYU students. With a touch of reluctance, Grover left his Studebaker in an exorbitantly overpriced parking garage (the expense of which he would most definitely bill to the FBI) and hoofed his way west across the park—which was more sidewalk than grass—to the corner of Fourth Street and Seventh Avenue, where he located what he was looking for: a staircase with a green globe above it, indicating this entrance was open. Beside the subway entrance was a pizzeria. Grover smelled it before he saw it, and his stomach nudged him toward the steaming decadence of cheese and tomato, just waiting for him to…

  No, no. It was almost 4:00 p.m. The task at hand took precedence. Grover felt a pit of anticipation in his belly and descended the stairs into the underground world of the New York City subway system. Appropriately, the walls were tiled with colorful Asian mosaics. Grover followed the signs to the uptown ACE line and waited among the masses of bundled-up Gothamites (many of whom had to be undercover agents) for his train of destiny to arrive.

  25

  His train of destiny was running late. Signs were pasted against many of the iron pillars indicating that “due to track work at Thirty-fourth Street, service along the ACE line is running behind schedule.” The A, C and E letters in the title were circled and blue, as if captured in a sniper scope. Grover smiled. Around him, the bystanders (if they were, in fact, bystanders) milled and mulled. Some were plugged into their music players. Some were engrossed in the late edition of the Daily News. Some were engrossed in the latest issue of People. Some talked with their friends. One or two talked with themselves. Old folks, tiny folks, dark-skinned folks, pasty-skinned folks, locals, tourists, tourists trying to be locals, giddy people, somber people, people in sunglasses, people i
n strappy shoes—all united as one impatient mass of humanity underneath Canal Street, awaiting the arrival of the uptown A-train.

  Was Cain42 here? Grover scanned the faces, not quite sure what features he was exactly looking for. Serial killers didn’t quite fit a physical type. Many fit a general profile—white, thirties to forties, larger-than-average in size—but those parameters were so damn wide and encapsulated so many people just here in the train station…heck, those parameters included Grover himself!

  Then he felt the wind blow, here in this sunless world of cement. Down here, the wind always came first, followed by the train, as if the trains themselves were nothing but chariots yoked to zephyrs. The wind blew and the iron rails down below, the iron rails along the track, vibrated with anticipation. They weren’t the only ones. Grover took a breath to steady his excitement. It would be very soon now.

  Gentlemen tucked newspapers under their arms. Ladies stepped forward to the station platform’s yellow line, but no closer. Mind the gap, whatever large city you were in. Mind the gap or lose a limb. Grover remained on the station platform and let the brisk breezes dance across his eyes, watering them. He almost looked as if he was about to weep.

  Now came the train, the mighty A, halfway through its meandering journey from Brooklyn to Queens. It rumbled into the station, not a spot of graffiti on its sleek exterior. The image of the spray-painted, woebegone NYC subway car belonged to a long-past era. No, this was the revitalized New York here, set into motion in the 1980s and ’90s, cleansed and purified and defanged. As the train squealed to a braking halt, Grover sauntered down the platform to the last car.

  The doors opened with a hiss.

  Grover stepped inside.

  The car was already half-full, mostly with bright-clothed tourists from every part of the globe. Grover settled in the middle of one of the long rows of orange plastic seats and waited for Cain42 to enter. “I’ll be the one in the mask,” he had written. But what kind of mask would it be? As always, mystery. But any second now a man would step into the car and…

  No one stepped into the car.

  Grover frowned, craned his head forward. Where was Cain42? For that matter, where were the FBI undercover agents? He looked around at the tourists, with their cameras and their guidebooks. Of course. These were the undercover FBI agents. Naturally, they had boarded the train at an earlier stop, so as to secure the scene.

  At least, he hoped these were the undercover FBI agents. At least That Bitch wasn’t here.

  The doors chimed, signaling their readiness to close.

  And still no Cain42.

  A harried Goth teenager bolted toward the last car, her loaded backpack hopping up and down with every bound the lanky girl took. One of the tourists spotted her approach, calmly rose, blocked the doorway she was angling toward and flashed something in his hand that Grover couldn’t see but had to be a badge. Her pale face paled even further, and she stepped back.

  The doors closed. The train rocked, and then resumed its uptown trip.

  Next stop: Fourteenth Street.

  Still no Cain42.

  Grover pondered approaching the “tourist” who had the badge and asking if, due to Cain42’s absence, the operation was off. Maybe they’d already caught him and this—the train, them, him—had devolved into nothing more than a precautionary measure. If that were so, he really would have appreciated being informed, and, if that were so, he knew he wouldn’t be because they didn’t care what he thought. They only cared about his usefulness.

  Goddamn FBI.

  Grover, getting antsy, got up from his hard plastic seat and did indeed approach the “tourist.” He had an Arabic complexion, appeared to be in his late thirties and was draped in an oversize Yankees jersey.

  “Excuse me,” said Grover.

  The man glanced up at him.

  “Right. Listen, Cain42 obviously didn’t show, so…what’s going on? Is this thing still on? Are we all getting off at Prince? I just want to be in the loop.”

  The man blinked at him.

  Grover sighed. So it was going to be like that, was it? Goddamn FBI. Grover returned to his seat as the train careered into the Washington Square stop, slowing to a halt with all the nimbleness of a rhino. This station was far less crowded than Chinatown’s Canal Street. The demographics here were also decidedly more native than tourist. After all, there was no reason for an outsider to be here. This was more of a collegiate neighborhood, catering to NYU and chic Greenwich Village. The train doors opened and Grover almost rose to leave when an infirm young man wearing a nondescript brown ball cap and toting a portable respirator showed up at one of the entrances to the car. The Arabic FBI agent stood and blocked his entry, but the infirm young man in the nondescript brown ball cap whispered something to him and the agent backed away. The new passenger meandered into the car, his silver oxygen tank secured in a small black dolly with one wobbly wheel. He wore a long brown coat, a bit worn around the edges, with gloves and boots in similar hue (and condition).

  He plopped down next to Grover with a sigh.

  “Hello,” he said. His wheezing voice was muffled behind his oxygen mask. “I hope you weren’t waiting long for me, Galileofan.”

  Could this sickly fellow really be…him?

  “Asthma,” Cain42 explained.

  The train doors closed with a hiss, the train car shook with a rumble and they were off. With the doors sealed, there was little chance of Cain42 escaping (especially in his weakened state). All around the train car, in a cacophony of clicks, the safeties of twenty-four Berettas were thumbed into their off positions.

  Apparently, the time for pretense and subtlety was over.

  Grover agreed. He got up from his seat and stood in front of Cain42, facing him—and thus obscuring the sightlines of two-thirds of the agents. Before the government boys and girls took Cain42 down, Grover wanted to have a chat with him.

  “So, did you read my book?”

  Cain42 took a deep breath from behind his oxygen mask, and then looked to the left and then to the right. Many of the undercovers had left their seats and a few even had their sidearms at the ready, although none was foolish enough to lean a finger anywhere near the triggers. This was still a moving train, after all, given to sudden stops and starts.

  “Mr. Kirk,” declared one of them, “please step away from the subject.”

  Grover peered down at Cain42 apologetically. But then the costumed madman said the strangest thing.

  “It’s okay. I forgive you.”

  “I…”

  “You should do as they say, Grover,” wheezed Cain42. “Your friends don’t want us to chat.”

  “My friends can wait.”

  “Why do you value my opinion so much?”

  Grover opened his mouth to answer, but no words came out. The heaviness of the situation was overloading his mental circuitry.

  “Yes, Grover,” said Cain42. “I read your book.”

  “Mr. Kirk, I insist you step away immediately!”

  The train suddenly began to slow down. Ah, yes, track work at Thirty-fourth Street. According to the colorful map plastered to the wall behind Cain42’s head, Penn Station was their next stop. Penn Station was located at Thirty-fourth Street. The train slowed and slowed and came to a stop right in the middle of the dark tunnel, waiting for its turn in the construction-induced traffic jam to begin its approach.

  Had Cain42 known about the construction when he picked the A-train? He must have. But why would he want to be stuck in a train car that he knew would be swarming with agents?

  Cain42 leaned forward and gazed up with those dark, dark eyes. “Your book was interesting.” He donned a pair of sports goggles, which had been dangling from around his neck. “I like the font you chose.”

  The font he chose? What kind of a compliment was that? Grover opened his mouth to retort, but Cain42 continued, softer now, almost conspiratorially.

  “Now, you might think I’m putting myself in grave danger, appearing
here, surrounded by all these people and their guns, but risk is part of the equation. And that’s what’s missing from your profile of Galileo. The sense of danger he must have felt. That addictive surge of adrenaline. I’m feeling it right now. Can you feel it, Grover? Can you feel the danger? You see, I forgive you, but I still need to teach you a small lesson. What better way to do so than by emulating your hero and committing mass slaughter in a public forum?”

  At that, Cain42 winked. The motherfucker actually winked. Then he twisted the valve on his oxygen tank, flooding the train car with smoky chlorobenzylidene malononitrile.

  Tear gas.

  Unbeknownst to Grover, That Bitch was, in fact, on the train. Esme stood by the back door of the second-to-last car, keeping out any curious or antsy passengers who felt the need to wander from car to car and thereby invade a potential crime scene. The first person she had to turn away was a three-toothed panhandler, who agreed to comply if she contributed to his fund. She contributed, in the process revealing her packed shoulder holster to a few of the onlookers.

  “Relax,” she said. “I’m FBI.”

  Christ, it felt good to say that again.

  “Sure, you’re FBI,” replied a fussy-looking man seated nearby. “That’s what they all say.”

  “Who?” she asked. “Who goes around saying they’re FBI?”

  But he just rolled his eyes at her and returned to his Wall Street Journal. Esme noticed that it was dated seven months ago.

  Freak.

  Esme glanced back through the dirty window in the door and through the dirty window in the last car’s door at the placid sight of twenty-four undercover agents, one dickhead and no Cain42. The train had left Washington Square and was already pulling into Fourteenth Street. The chatter over her earpiece from HQ indicated they hold position and wait, but where was the target?

  Ah. There he was…looking like he was on leave from a cancer ward? This was their mastermind? This was the man who claimed on his website to have killed all those couples? Bullshit.