Worth Dying For (A Slaughter Creek Novel) (17 page)

But an image of her with a baby on her hip flitted through his mind, and his lungs squeezed. Had Liz ever thought about a family?

He stiffened, wondering where in the hell those thoughts had come from.

Although he enjoyed volunteering at the Boys’ Club, Rafe hadn’t ever considered having a kid of his own. His childhood certainly hadn’t prepared him for anything but the life he lived now.

Certainly not for a family, or a happily-ever-after with a woman.

Jumping from one dysfunctional house to another had helped make him tough. Knocked reality into his head early on. No one ever stayed around. People left. People died.

No use getting attached.

“What do you want?” Dr. Castor asked impatiently.

Rafe crossed his arms. “We need to know if either of you had any contact with Arthur Blackwood, or any knowledge of the experiments that took place in Slaughter Creek.”

Rafe’s phone buzzed: the deputy. He stepped from the room. “Yeah?”

A drawn-out sigh. “Hell, I looked all over the house and the slaughterhouse. Truitt is gone.”

Shit. “Find him,” Rafe said. “And when you do, get that damn DNA sample.”

If Truitt’s DNA matched Castor’s, they’d know they were related.

And that might help them prove whether the men were working together.

He paced the floor of his killing room, inhaling the acrid scent of blood and death from his other victims.

The scent intoxicated him, fueled his energy.

“Ahh, Ruth. . . . You do remember me, don’t you?”

The wrinkles around the heartless woman’s eyes sank deep into the grooves of her sagging face as she stared up at him. Her body was old now, lumpy and soft. Age spots splattered her skin like ants on a dirt mound, and her teeth had yellowed and blackened with snuff stains.

He remembered watching her pinch a bit of the foul-smelling tobacco and stuff it into her cheek. She’d leave it there, sucking and enjoying the juice until she had to spit. She always kept a spit can with her, a crude tin can that she covered with tinfoil.

Those black teeth had looked nasty when she’d snarled at him, holding him down. But she had firm, strong hands. A man’s hands.

Steady hands that had taught him to whack up an animal without blinking an eye. And that tongue . . .

The tongue—a muscular hydrostat on the floor of the mouth of most vertebrates. The tongue manipulates food for mastication. Helps in language. The primary organ of taste. The upper part covered in papillae and taste buds. Eight muscles make up the tongue—intrinsic and extrinsic. Extrinsic ones are anchored to the bone.

The lingual artery, a branch of the carotid artery, sends blood to the tongue.

He would target the carotid artery. Watch the blood seep and spurt.

Yes, now it was her turn to suffer.

She made a disgusting sound in her throat, part laugh, part challenge, as if the evil had permeated her soul a long time ago, feeding her spirit like a sick beast.

“You do know who I am?” he asked again.

Her eyes flitted over him, eyes so dead with meanness that he realized she knew him but refused to admit it.

“You’re going to hell for what you did.” He slapped her face so hard she cried out.

“Why did you do it?” he asked. “Why did you hurt us?”

“I had orders,” she said, those blackened teeth snapping like a turtle’s beak. “If I hadn’t, they would have killed me.”

“You were scared?” he asked with a harsh laugh. “I don’t buy that, Ruth.”

“You were lost anyway,” she hissed. “No one wanted you. No one loved you. Even your own mother threw you away.”

He raised the scalpel and waved it in front of her.

In a last-ditch effort to save herself, she struggled with the ropes holding her down. “You’re a sick monster,” she spewed.

This time he grinned. “You should know. You created me.” He gripped her jaw and pried open her mouth. She tried to bite him, but he slammed his fist into her jaw. The bone cracked and she cried out in pain, her body jerking.

He grabbed a pair of pliers and shoved them into her mouth to keep it open, then jabbed the sharp tip of his scalpel into the skin around her tongue.

Blood spurted, washing down his hands like a river. He could bathe in her blood, though, and it still wouldn’t erase her horrible words.

The rage seething inside him burned like a fire out of control as he carved out her tongue.

Tears streaked her face, her cheeks paling, shock robbing her of color as her body turned cold. He leaned closer, holding her bloody tongue in front of her face as he whispered in her ear. “Now no one else will ever have to listen to your vile words again.”

Laughter rumbled from his chest as he dropped the tongue into a jar. Another piece in his collection.

Chapter Eighteen

R
afe stepped back into the room with a grimace. Dr. Castor leaned forward in his chair, his face grim. “Why would you think we knew anything about Arthur Blackwood? And what in the world does he have to do with our son?”

As he spoke, Rafe noted the books on surgical techniques and dissections on the bookshelf to the right of Dr. Castor. “We identified all but one of the subjects,” Rafe said.

The couple exchanged confused looks. “What are you saying?” Dr. Castor asked.

Rafe decided to cut to the chase. “Is it possible that your son was one of the subjects?”

Mrs. Castor gasped. “You think we put our little boy in that experiment?”

“That’s preposterous,” Dr. Castor said angrily.

“Did Brian ever receive treatment at a free clinic in Slaughter Creek?” Liz asked.

Dr. Castor stiffened. “No. We used a pediatrician here in Memphis when he was little. Then our family doctor. Why?”

“Because some of the subjects were originally affected by vaccines they received at the free clinic in Slaughter Creek,” Liz explained. “Later they experienced emotional problems as a result and were referred to the mental hospital, where they were used as test subjects.”

Mrs. Castor massaged her forehead. “Our Brian didn’t have any health problems, and he certainly never spent time at the sanitarium.”

“We would never have let a doctor do the things to him that that Blackwood maniac did,” Dr. Castor said.

“Commander Blackwood is dangerous,” Rafe said sternly. “He tried to kill everyone who knew about the project. So if you know anything about it, it would be in your best interest to tell us.”

“In exchange for your cooperation, we can offer you protection,” Liz added.

Anger blazed in the doctor’s eyes. “I’m telling you one more time—we had nothing to do with that project. And neither did Brian.”

Liz changed tactics. “Has Brian ever exhibited signs of violence?”

“Brian?” Mrs. Castor said, wide-eyed. “God, no. He loves animals. He worked with my husband all through high school.”

“Brian was tenderhearted,” Dr. Castor said. “When one of our patients was in trouble, he’d stay and watch the animal all night just so it wouldn’t be alone.”

“Did you lose any of those patients?” Liz asked.

“A few,” Dr. Castor admitted. “But that’s part of the business.”

“You never suspected that he might have helped them along?” Liz pressed.

Dr. Castor’s nostrils flared. “You mean, did he euthanize them?”

“Yes.”

“Brian would never have done that without talking to me,” Dr. Castor said.

“No autopsies on the animals to prove that?” Rafe asked.

Dr. Castor removed his reading glasses with a trembling hand. “No. There was no need.”

“Brian is a good boy,” Mrs. Castor insisted. “He volunteered at rescue shelters for animals and helped find them homes. He even applied to med school, but later he decided to go into police work.”

“Why did he change his mind?” Rafe asked, fishing for more information. Something that would catch Brian in a lie.

“A friend of his was killed,” Dr. Castor said. “A young woman. Brian was so torn up about it that he dogged the police until they solved the crime. Turned out the girl’s former boyfriend was stalking her.”

Rafe glanced at Liz, his jaw tight. The couple seemed sincere, but all parents were capable of lying through their teeth to protect their child.

Liz considered the information. If Brian was a psychopath, had he hidden those tendencies from his parents?

Or were she and Rafe mistaken about his identity?

“He never had to see a counselor?” Liz asked. “No problems at school?”

“He did see a counselor for a while his freshman year, but that was because of personal matters,” Dr. Castor said.

“What kind of personal matters?” Liz pushed.

Mrs. Castor sighed wearily, as if resigned. “Because Brian had learned he was adopted.”

Liz nodded.

“He was upset about it?” Rafe asked.

Mrs. Castor twisted her fingers together. “At first, yes. He asked a lot of questions about his birth parents, but we’d been told they died in a car accident when Brian was three months old.”

Of course that could have been a lie.

Mrs. Castor wiped at a tear trickling down her cheek. “We wanted a child so badly that when we heard, we adopted both boys.”

Liz tempered her voice to be gentle. “What do you mean, both boys?”

Mrs. Castor looked over at her husband as if she were debating how to answer.

“What happened?” Rafe asked the father.

Dr. Castor rubbed his temple. “Brian had an older brother, who was four when we adopted them . . .”

Truitt had been adopted at that age.

“But we decided we couldn’t keep him,” Dr. Castor said. “That we’d taken too much on ourselves. We had to let him go back to the agency.”

Something about that didn’t sound right. “What was his name?”

“Jeremy,” Mrs. Castor said.

Jeremy. Could he be J. R. Truitt?

“Why exactly couldn’t you keep him?” Liz asked. They obviously had enough money.

Dr. Castor stood. “Look, that was a long time ago. We really don’t want to talk about it anymore. Now I think it’s time you left.”

He motioned toward the door. Liz and Rafe stood, but Liz paused before moving. “One more question. Does Brian know he has a brother?”

Dr. Castor shook his head. “Not that we know of. We thought it might upset him, so we never told him.”

“What happened to him?” Rafe asked.

The couple looked away, obviously disturbed by the question. “We have no idea. It was too painful for us,” said Mrs. Castor.

What about the child? Liz thought. “Who handled the case?”

“We’ve already told you enough.” Dr. Castor gestured toward the door again. “Now let us be.”

Liz would have to call Sienna again. The Castors were definitely keeping something from them.

Something that might offer insight into the case, possibly confirm that Jeremy and J. R. Truitt were one and the same.

And exonerate—or cast more doubt on—CSI Brian Castor.

Rafe phoned Nick and filled him in on what they’d learned as he left the Castors’ and drove toward the station.

“Any word on the Commander?” Rafe asked.

“No, and I’m getting heat from Secretary of Defense Mallard to find him. I have a meeting with a friend of mine from the CIA,” Nick said. “The Commander’s followers created a website. We’re investigating them to see if they helped him escape or are hiding him now.”

“Keep me posted.”

Liz was talking to her friend Sienna when he hung up. “Yes, Sienna, the Castors’ originally adopted brothers. The baby was Brian, but there was another child. I need everything you can find on that adoption and what happened to the brother Jeremy.” A pause. “Thanks.”

She hung up and turned to look out the window while he phoned Lieutenant Maddison and got Brian Castor’s home address.

He slowed as the SUV skidded on black ice. “Castor lives in those apartments near the crime lab.”

Liz stared out the window as they drove, her expression pensive.

“What are you thinking, Liz?” Rafe asked.

She angled her face toward him. “Just wondering if Brian found out about his brother. And if Jeremy and J. R. Truitt are the same person.”

He was wondering the same thing. “If so, Brian could be angry at the Castors for giving up on his brother and for keeping secrets.”

“Or the older brother could be furious that Brian was adopted, and he could be framing Brian.”

“That’s a possibility.” They definitely needed more information. Rafe turned in to the apartment complex, a new development perched on the side of the mountain that featured decks overlooking the woods. He parked, and they both tugged their coats tighter to fight the wind as they hurried up the sidewalk to Castor’s building.

Rafe knocked, bracing himself for animosity from Brian. Hell, if Brian had no knowledge of his brother or the project, this was going to be a hard blow.

But his gut told him Castor knew more than he’d revealed.

Footsteps sounded inside, and the door opened. Brian adjusted his glasses when he saw them on the doorstep. He was also holding his cell phone, anger flaring in his tight expression. “Yes, Mom, they’re here now.”

Rafe grimaced. They should have known the Castors would warn Brian they were coming.

Brian said good-bye to his mother and then crossed his arms, his stance belligerent. “More questions?”

“A few,” Rafe said.

Liz offered him a smile. “Can we come in, Brian?”

He blew an exasperated breath between his teeth. “I guess I don’t have a choice.”

Rafe bit back a comment, and the two of them followed Castor inside. Steely gray leather furniture dominated the room along with chrome and glass tables, striking Rafe as impersonal.

Except for photos on one wall, of hunting expeditions where he’d bagged a deer.

Odd for a vet’s son who supposedly liked to rescue animals.

“I see you’re a hunter,” Rafe said.

Brian shrugged. “A couple of the guys at the academy took me once. They say hunting blows off steam.”

“I don’t understand how killing anything relieves tension,” Liz said.

Brian glared at her. “Is that why you came? To ask me about my hunting?”

“No. You were on the phone with your mother,” Rafe cut in. “You know the reason we’re here.”

Liz studied Brian’s posture and body language, analyzing his behavior for clues to his psyche.

Brian’s mouth twitched, a nervous tic that Rafe had mentioned earlier. But he seemed resigned as he invited them in.

They followed him to the den and took seats on a sofa across from him. Rafe gestured toward a desk in the corner with high-tech computer equipment. A file was open with articles detailing the Slaughter Creek experiment.

“You’re doing research?” Rafe said.

Brian shrugged. “I figured if I was going to be accused of something, I might as well learn all I could about it.”

“We haven’t accused you of anything,” Liz said. “We’re simply trying to figure out connections, and your name came up.”

“Your mother said a friend of yours died, that that’s the reason you decided to become a CSI instead of a doctor?” Rafe asked.