Cain's Blood by Geoffrey Girard Read Free Book Online Page B

this, and that’s a
goddamned fact. I wouldn’t have called you otherwise.”
Castillo quickly processed his options, wrestling with each of Stanforth’s words. “first assignment back” meant there’d be others. Best we
got. If he could only shut his fucking mouth and do his job like he’d
done for nearly twenty years, it really was a path back. Stanforth had all
the necessary connections and clout to get him into one of the big private military companies. Like a lot of the other guys who’d come home,
Castillo could become a private contractor. Mercenary. There were a
hundred PMCs to choose from. Put all his talents to use again.
But then there was the “especially with the kids” comment. Proof
that Stanforth knew about the dreams, about Towraghondi. About the
boy. Of course, they’d have reports, records.
How much did she tell them?
Let it go . . .
“Permission to access the room?” Castillo asked.
“Granted. And, Captain . . .” Not “kiddo” or his squad nickname,
Catillo noticed, but something much more official. And, since the rank
was no longer accurate, something much more personal. “I’m augmenting your clearance on this one. Whole new ballpark.”
“understood.”
“I hope so. ’Cause it gets ugly in a hurry.”
“how ugly?”
“hell’s still uglier.”
“yes, sir.”
“But there ain’t no going back. Not ever.”
That I know, Castillo thought. “Copy.”
“keep me informed, Castillo. keep smart.”
“Will do.” Castillo ended the call. Put the phone away and withdrew
the snapgun again to pick open the hidden door. It didn’t take long.
Then he put the electric pick away and, for the first time in months,
drew his pistol.
The small room proved empty of life, and Castillo promptly put his
pistol away. The space, as he’d imagined, was the size of a walk-in closet.
Perhaps a panic room originally. It held two file cabinets overstuffed
with printouts and CDs and flash drives and vials of blood. Dozens of
notebooks, in various shapes and sizes, filled with handwritten notes.
Jacobson’s notes.
The room also had a small plastic container with a rotted corpse
inside.
The container was plugged into the wall and proved cold to his
touch. Sleeping Beauty was wrapped in plastic and only half the size of
the box, in two halves laid side by side. It was also very old. Decomposing but still somewhat preserved, like something dragged out of a pyramid, so it was of no pressing concern to Castillo.
Instead, he spent the next nine hours skimming through the files
and Jacobson’s private diaries, watching the lopsided stacks of videos
and CDs. Making copies. Taking digital images of everything with his
smartphone.
By morning he had more questions than answers.
But he knew this: If hell was uglier, it probably wasn’t by much.
    In one of the recordings, a young boy is being beaten. The digital camera is on the ceiling of the bedroom, probably in a light fixture. The
video shows this process going on for months. The man, or “father,”
even looks directly at the camera occasionally. Castillo shudders each
time. The guy knows it’s there.
    In the next footage, a young boy is only screamed at by his father,
but never touched once. The boy is called a “retard” and an “asshole”
and a “faggot.” And the boy is crying. The video shows this going on for
months. By appearance, the two boys in the two recordings are the exact
same boy. The rooms are different, however, as are the fathers. Adoptive
fathers, Castillo assumes. “Consociates” of DSTI, using Dr. erdman’s
word. The boys, in a data stamp on the bottom of the video frames, are
named Dennis/6 and Dennis/10. They are clones. Castillo’s job is to
hunt down Dennis/6, the boy being physically abused. Dennis Ten is not
my concern, he says to himself a dozen times.
    In the next recording, another boy, John/3, is encouraged to help
kill a cat with a hammer. John/5 is encouraged to play with Legos.