Worth Dying For (A Slaughter Creek Novel) (16 page)

And that might be exactly how Castor had wanted it. Another trait of sociopaths—they had an uncanny way of blending in and not being noticed.

Now she noted details. He had a medium build, brown hair combed neatly to the side, an angular face, and eyes . . . eyes that looked right through her when he met her gaze.

Eyes that made her wonder if he’d cold-bloodedly amputated a woman’s hands and cut out Beaulah Hodge’s eyes.

Nick took the call from the secretary of defense before he entered the prison. “Yes, Secretary Mallard, I’m doing everything possible to find my father.”

“Keep me posted. I don’t have to tell you that we need to have him back in custody. Your father had classified information that he could be selling to a foreign government as we speak.”

No pressure there. “Believe me, no one wants him locked back up more than my brother and I do.” Their families and loved ones would never be safe until Arthur Blackwood was dead.

“Keep me posted, Blackwood.”

Nick agreed, then headed to the door to go through Security

When he finally got to talk to the warden, he was antsy for information.

“Which medical personnel treated the Commander?”

“The physician only worked at the prison for a week. Apparently he was filling in, since we’ve been short.”

Uh-huh. “Where is he now?”

“He disappeared the same day the Commander broke out of prison.”

“So this so-called physician might not have been a doctor at all.”

“Listen, Agent Blackwood, we do the best we can here.”

Which was shit
, Nick thought.

The rest of his visit went the same. There was no record that the doctor was registered in Tennessee. The clinic nurse gave a description, although Nick guessed that the man might have altered his appearance, as he had his name.

They should have the man’s prints on file, but when Nick analyzed them, they matched a dead man’s prints, meaning the man had stolen them. Maybe from the morgue.

Finally Nick picked up one tidbit of useful information. The Commander had developed a following using a website to share ideas and support.

He left the prison, more frustrated than before he entered, found a coffee shop with Wi-Fi, and booted up his laptop, anxious to find out more about that damned website.

Five minutes later he was looking at the site, shocked at the depraved individuals who actually proclaimed his father a genius. Some objected to the cover-up, but others, more militant, believed that when the project took place, during the Cold War, desperate measures had been needed. According to them, the United States had to protect itself and keep up with other countries by strategizing and researching biochemical warfare.

Most of the people who’d posted hadn’t used their real names, so he phoned the Tech department and asked for assistance.

If one of these nutcases had helped the Commander escape, they had to find him. He—or she—might be able to tell them the Commander’s whereabouts and intentions.

He paced Amelia’s room, furious she hadn’t come home the night before.

Where the hell was she? Off with her sister?

Or was there another man?

No . . . Amelia was his. She had been for years. Nothing would stop him from being with her.

Not the police or the Commander.

Not even her twin. Sadie would try to destroy him if she learned they were meeting.

Anger churning in his gut, he drove to the address he had for Ruth Rodgers.

Dark clouds hovered above, and snowflakes swirled in the frigid air. He sat in his car watching and waiting for the bitch to leave the office where she picked up her disability check.

Imagine the old biddy being disabled. She’d fallen on a job and broken a hip lifting a patient, supposedly. More likely she’d slipped while beating one.

He hoped the injury was painful, that she suffered every time she moved.

Ruth was revered as a model of loving-kindness. A foremother of Jesus. A matriarch in the Calendar of Saints of the Lutheran Church. A promoter of well-being.

At least, that was Ruth in the Bible—not the Ruthless Ruth who’d tormented him when he was small.

Ruth with the bitter tongue. With the vile mouth and cold, listless eyes. With the evil smile, like a viper ready to strike.

Ruth, who told him he was an animal right before she strapped him to the chair. Then the Commander showed him pictures of mauled animals, videos of dissections and surgeries and . . . slaughterhouses.

All the time they’d monitored his physical responses.

“Learn to love the pain,” Ruth had whispered in his ear. “Pain brings pleasure.”

“Watch the animal scream for help,” the Commander said in his monotone. “Doesn’t your blood burn hot, just watching a live creature squirm and writhe as the blood seeps from its body?”

Yes, it had. Shame had filled him, but over and over, they’d made him watch the same violent killings. Heads being severed. Knives slicing open chest cavities so organs spilled out. Axes chopping off body parts until the animal’s blood emptied itself onto the ground.

Eventually the shame had dissipated, and a craving had been born. He’d needed to see the blood. Had begged for more.

Then his training had turned to humans. Anatomy lessons. Postmortem dissections.

He’d been infatuated with the tongue. Maybe because he’d seen Ruth’s flit in and out of her mouth as she lashed her ugly words at him. Her berating comments, verbal abuse.

The phrase
bite your tongue
slid into his mind so many times that he’d imagined her biting it until blood dripped down her chin and it hung like a limp piece of tissue, flapping up and down as she tried to speak.

A laugh gurgled in his throat at the realization that his wish would finally be granted.

He followed her to her trailer in the mobile home park outside Slaughter Creek. The trailer looked run-down, the porch that had been added sagging and rotting, the sides splattered with mud and stains from the last winter storm.

Images of the dissections he’d watched as a kid, the mutilations and killings, flashed behind his eyes, and anticipation heated his blood again.

She pulled her rambling old Oldsmobile into her drive and climbed out, batting at the chickens in her yard to make them scatter as she hobbled toward her front door. That bum hip would make it so much easier for him to subdue her.

Other phrases about tongues bombarded him.
Cat got your tongue. Tongue-tied
.

Tongues could bring pleasure when they tasted food. They could give pleasure with kind words.

Or when that tongue worked a man’s cock.

But her tongue gave nothing but pain.

He pulled past the trailer, veered down a dirt road, and parked. Tugging a ball cap low on his head, he jammed the scalpel into his pocket and slipped into the woods to wait.

Amelia lifted the knife and traced it along the inside of her thigh. Press the tip of the blade, and she could watch the blood flow, watch her pain dissipate as the crimson tide trickled down her leg onto the floor.

It’s a sin to do that to yourself
, Rachel said.
What would God say?

What would Sadie say?
another voice whispered in her head.

Amelia recognized that last voice as her own. Amelia’s voice—the one that grew stronger every day.

She was still fighting with Rachel, the religious zealot who’d invaded her soul. Or maybe Rachel was her conscience, reminding her of the difference between right and wrong. Maybe Rachel had come to save her from herself.

Amelia threw the knife against the wall, then picked up her paints and began to paint Rachel. Rachel with the fire and brimstone speeches. Rachel with the antisex attitude and the tendency to tell Amelia she was bad.

“I’m not bad,” Amelia said, desperate to quiet the ugly voice. “I just want to be normal. To be loved.”

She drew Rachel’s silhouette in charcoal, coloring in her jet-black hair, her gaunt cheekbones, the way her upper lip curled when she ranted about religion.

God was supposed to be good and loving. But all Rachel talked about was ugliness and punishment. All she did was batter Amelia with judgment.

Amelia’s self-preservation instincts kicked in, and she grabbed the knife and tore into the canvas, ripping the nasty-looking face and shredding the canvas into pieces.

Rachel was trying to destroy her. Take over.

Amelia had to fight her, just as she’d fought the others.

A knock sounded at the door, and Sadie appeared with Ayla. Amelia quickly covered the canvas and turned to her sister, her heart thumping erratically. Had Sadie seen the darkness on the canvas?

“Ayla and I are going hiking. Do you want to come with us?”

Amelia saw Ayla’s hopeful smile, the innocence of a five-year-old glowing in her eyes.

Amelia had never been that innocent.

Sadie’s expression grew worried. “Amelia?”

“Yes, I’m coming,” Amelia said. “Just let me change.”

Sadie nodded, one hand on Ayla’s back as they closed the door. Sadie was so lucky. She’d married the man she loved, adopted his daughter, and now they were having a baby of their own.

She had a real family.

Amelia’s heart ached for that. For real love. For a man to hold her at night and whisper her name, and no one else’s.

For a baby of her own.

In fact, sometimes at night, she thought she heard a little one’s cry. Her own baby’s . . .

But that was impossible. She’d never had a child, and never would. She couldn’t have a real family. Not until she was whole again.

Not until the Commander was dead and gone forever.

Images of Six pushing her against the wall as he thrust inside her teased her mind. Six . . . should she tell Sadie and Jake about him? Draw that sketch for them?

Had Six killed those women? If so, and if she crossed him, would he turn his rage on her? If she told the police, would they arrest her as his accomplice?

She trembled so badly that she sank onto the bed. No . . . she couldn’t go back to prison. Couldn’t be locked up in that sanitarium again.

She quickly changed clothes, pulling on jeans, a sweater, and her hiking boots.

No, she wouldn’t say anything. She’d keep quiet and hope the police found him without her.

Chapter Seventeen

R
afe had to agree with Liz. Brian Castor didn’t look like a serial killer.

Then again, who did? Ted Bundy was handsome and volunteered at a suicide prevention line. Richard Angelo was a volunteer firefighter and Eagle Scout, but he’d killed twenty-five people. Karl Denke played the organ at his church and was loved by the community. Still, he’d murdered and cannibalized over thirty people.

The list went on and on.

Truitt certainly had the demeanor and the job to fit the profile, though. And if he was Ester’s child and had learned that he’d been part of the experiment, he certainly had motive to kill her.

Then again, there was Beaulah Hodge’s death. What if Truitt had had an accomplice? Could he and Castor be working together?

“Lieutenant,” Castor said, his gaze shooting to Liz and Rafe. “You asked to see me.”

Lieutenant Maddison flattened his hands on his desk. “Yes—Special Agents Hood and Lucas need to talk to you.”

Castor’s brows drew together beneath big square glasses. A tiny mole dotted the left corner of his mouth. His hands were long, the tip of his pinkie finger on his right hand missing, light hair dusting the tops of his hands. “I’m assuming it’s about forensics on the Banning and Hodge cases. Is there a problem?”

Intuitive
, Rafe thought. “Yes. We need to discuss the Slaughter Creek experiments.”

Castor shut the door and claimed a seat, his interest obviously piqued. “You believe the two are related?”

Rafe nodded. “Evidence is pointing in that direction.”

“Mr. Castor,” Liz began. “We’d like to know more about your background before you joined CSI.”

Castor looked confused. “I don’t understand what my background has to do with this case.”

“Please,” Liz said. “It’s important.”

Castor glanced at Maddison, hoping for a way out, but Maddison simply gestured for him to answer.

“I grew up in Memphis,” Castor said. “Majored in premed in college, but got interested in forensics and law and switched directions.”

“Your family still live in Memphis?” Liz asked.

Castor crossed his leg over his knee. “Yes.” Alarm creased his face. “Why? Has something happened to my parents?”

“No,” Rafe said, rushing to quell the panic in the man’s voice. “They’re fine.”

Liz kept her voice level. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

Castor shook his head no. “I’m an only child.”

“Did your parents ever live in Slaughter Creek?” Rafe asked.

“Not that I know of.”

Rafe cleared his throat. “Do you remember visiting the town when you were young?”

Castor shook his head again.

“Were you ever hospitalized as a child?” Liz asked.

Castor blinked, a nervous twitch tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I had a tonsillectomy when I was ten. Now what the hell does my tonsil surgery have to do with finding this killer?”

Liz exchanged a curious look with Rafe.

Even if Castor hadn’t received treatment at the sanitarium, the Commander could have used another facility. The other doctors involved could also have volunteered at another free clinic.

“Maybe nothing.”

“I thought you had the killer in custody.”

“We had to release our main suspect because there isn’t enough evidence to charge him,” Rafe said. “Besides, it’s possible he had an accomplice.”

Liz gestured toward his hand. “What happened to your finger?”

Castor looked down at his mangled appendage and then folded his fingers. “An accident. I was helping my father with an addition to the clinic when the saw slipped.”

“That must have hurt,” Liz commented.

Castor shrugged. “Lot of damn blood.”

Rafe measured his words, gauging Castor’s response. “Do you know if your parents ever had contact with Arthur Blackwood?”

Castor’s eyes flared with uncertainty. “Why would they? My mother’s a schoolteacher, and Dad’s a veterinarian.”

“But you were adopted?” Liz asked softly.

Castor’s jaw tightened, anger reddening his cheeks as he stood abruptly. “How do you know that?”

Lieutenant Maddison gestured toward the chair. “Sit down, Brian.”

“We’ve done some research,” Liz filled in.

Rafe indicated the file from the sanitarium. “We spoke with the director of Slaughter Creek Sanitarium. This file contains information about the experiments and what they did to the children.”

The mole at the corner of Castor’s mouth twitched, but he sank back into the chair. “What does that have to do with me?”

“See if any of it rings a bell.” Rafe shoved the folder into Castor’s hands.

Castor glanced at Liz, then back at Rafe and Maddison, before he opened the file. Shock widened his eyes as he skimmed the contents. His hand began to shake, and anger mingled with disbelief when he looked back up.

“Good God, you think I was one of the subjects?”

Liz silently studied Castor. The shock on his face looked genuine, but she would refrain from forming an opinion until she was more certain.

Some sociopaths were extremely convincing actors. She couldn’t afford to make a snap decision. Lives depended on her objectivity and professional skills.

“That’s what we want you to tell us,” Rafe said.

Castor raised his hands, as if the file had burned him. “Hell, no, I grew up in a good family.”

“The first victim of this serial killer, Ester Banning, gave up a baby around the time you were adopted by the Castors. That means that child might have motive to kill her.”

“That’s far-fetched.” Perspiration beaded on Castor’s brow. “And it’s not me. I love my parents.”

Liz raised a brow. “Did you receive treatment at the hospital or at a free clinic in Slaughter Creek?”

Castor jammed his hands into his pockets. “I already told you I didn’t.”

“Was your father in the military?” Rafe asked.

“No. And if you’re suggesting that he worked with that monster, you’re way off. Dad helps animals. He would never hurt anyone, or condone what Blackwood did.”

Liz considered his vehemence. “How about male relatives? A cousin, maybe?”

“No. None.” He shifted impatiently. “Now you need to do more research. I can search for other Castors in Tennessee if you want.”

“Not a good idea,” Lieutenant Maddison said emphatically. “Under the circumstances, Brian, it’s best if you temporarily remove yourself from this case.”

Fury darkened Castor’s face. “You’re pulling me?”

“I’m just telling you to take a few days off,” Lieutenant Maddison said in a low voice. “I can’t believe this. One more thing before you go,” Maddison added, his voice softening. “We’ll need a DNA and blood sample.”

Castor balled his hands into fists. “Thanks for standing up for me, Lieutenant.”

“I am,” Maddison said. “But that means we have to do this by the book. The only way to clear you is to compare DNA and blood samples to the killer’s.”

Castor cursed again as he strode out. The door slammed behind him, his anger resounding as his feet pounded the hall.

“I’m sorry we upset your CSI,” Liz said. “But we had to ask those questions.”

“I understand.” Lieutenant Maddison tapped a few keys on his computer, hit print, and his printer spewed out a page. “Here’s Castor’s parents’ address and contact information. I suggest you speak to them and clear this matter up asap so the man can return to work.”

Rafe took the sheet of paper and stood, and he and Liz walked outside together. “Castor could have been part of the experiment and never known it,” Rafe suggested.

Liz considered his comment. “That’s true. But if he’s innocent, that means the experiment left him unscathed, not negatively affected, as it has all the others.”

“Maybe they perfected their training with him.” He paused. “Or he’s hiding it.”

Liz opened the car door and slid inside. Rafe did the same and started the SUV.

“Let’s have a chat with Brian’s parents,” she said. “If Brian worked with his father at the vet clinic, maybe his parents encouraged him to go into police work because of his interest in science.”

“You mean his interest in dissecting animals?”

Liz nodded. “Yes. Killing animals is a sign of sociopathic behavior and a precursor to becoming a serial killer.”

The drive to the Castors’ took almost two hours. Rafe called the deputy to check on Truitt, but there had been no signs of him going or coming during surveillance. Rafe ordered the deputy to check the house and call him back once he’d verified that Truitt was inside.

They stopped and picked up lunch, a hailstorm slowing them down as they drove.

On the off chance that there might possibly be another Brian Castor, Liz searched databases on her tablet for other Castors who lived in Tennessee with a son named Brian. “There’s one family who lives in Nashville, but their only son is deceased and his name was Joe. Another couple has twin boys, but they’re only five years old.”

“Anything else?”

“An elderly preacher in western Tennessee, but he has no children.”

Rafe turned up the defroster and wipers. “A dead end. Maybe we do have the right family.”

Older farmhouses and trailers dotted the mountains, but as they approached Memphis, traffic thickened, gas stations and other commercial buildings popping up. Two miles outside town, he spotted the vet practice, right next to the Castor’s house.

Hail battered the windshield as he parked. Liz tugged her coat around her before they got out.

The lights in the clinic were off, so Rafe parked at the house, noting that the place had recently been painted. A pickup truck and a red Toyota were parked to the right.

“This won’t be easy,” Liz said as they walked up to the house. “No parent wants to hear that the police suspect their son of being a serial killer.”

“If they hid what he is, they deserve to be confronted.”

Liz’s eyes darkened. “True.”

Mrs. Castor answered the door, tugging a bathrobe around her. “Yes?”

Rafe and Liz both flashed their badges. “I’m sorry if it’s late, ma’am, but we need to talk to you and your husband,” said Liz.

Panic flickered in the woman’s eyes. “Dear God, is something wrong? Did something happen to Brian?”

“No, ma’am, he’s fine,” Liz reassured her. “We just need to ask you and your husband some questions.”

“What about?”

Rafe put one foot inside the doorway to prevent her from closing it on them. “Please get Dr. Castor, and we’ll explain.”

Mrs. Castor fiddled with the edge of her robe, then gestured for them to follow her into a den. The room was cozy, with a fire roaring in the stone fireplace, a border collie sprawled on a braided rug in front of it. Cooking and pet care magazines mingled on the coffee table.

Dr. Castor sat in a chair with an open book, reading glasses perched on his nose. He looked up in surprise when he saw them.

The couple appeared to be late forties, both fit. Photographs chronicling Brian’s youth decorated one wall above a table that held trophies he’d received from science club and chess tournaments.

A child’s teddy bear’s pride of place, right in the middle, indicated that it must have been much loved by its owner.

Liz paused and rubbed a hand over the bear, an odd expression darkening her face. The gesture struck Rafe as odd. He’d never pictured Liz with kids—or himself, for that matter.