Cain's Blood by Geoffrey Girard Page B

Tumblety was a Jack the ripper suspect who’d died in
1903. Jacobson, according to the journals and film, had collected this
guy’s DNA six months ago.
“Tumblety’s DNA is a match, and I am filled with
abundant joy.”
    But a match with what? Castillo wondered. The journals were vague. With Jacobson? With some other clone? Castillo didn’t think on it too long,
because the dead guy wasn’t the most puzzling, most twisted part.
That was reserved entirely for the other CDs.
The footage of Test Group #2.
    Children being beaten and worse. Jacobson’s journals and reports
confirming that the various forms of abuse had been methodically ordered, prescribed, in the name of science.
    Castillo leaned into his hands and rested against the desk. It had
been a long day. he’d grown too numb to think. The whole thing was
fucking insane. he thought of prayer, but his only thoughts for God
right now were angry thoughts. The colonel had been right. There was
no going back.
    “If any god has marked me out again for shipwreck, my tough heart can
undergo it.” Another favorite homeric passage came to mind. “ What
hardship have I not long since endured at sea, in battle! Let the trail come.”
    he checked his cellphone. 0614 hours. he called the number they’d
given.
Who am I trying to convince?
“It’s Castillo,” he said and could hear the anger in his own voice.
knew already it had been stupid to call.
“yes?” Dr. erdman replied at the other end. his voice sounded
strained. It’d been a long day and night for everyone. Castillo wondered
how the cleanup was coming along. “I was informed by Stanforth you’d
found something and instructed to leave you alone until you were finished. Are you?” erdman tried to sound bored, but Castillo could tell
the bioengineer was terrified about what Castillo might have discovered. With good cause.
“ Wer mit Ungeheuern kämpft, ” Castillo replied.
“Go on.”
“Something Nietzsche pointed out. ‘Who fights with monsters
should—’ ”
“‘—beware that he, himself, does not become a monster.’” erdman
finished the quote. “Profound. Cliché. how does it relate to the immediate matter at hand?”
Castillo’s laughter was harsh. “What do you see when you look
in the mirror, erdman?” I shouldn’t have called. It was confrontational,
unnecessary. The kind of call he would have made a year ago. Merely
spoiling for a fight. Any fight. Wanting to lash out at someone for the
shit he’d been forced to watch all night. An emotional reaction that had
no place in the operation. Damn it. Why did I call him?
    “What most men see, I imagine.” erdman’s reply brought Castillo
back. “I hope you’ve acquired meaningful information of some kind to
assist in the prompt resolution of this matter. Stanforth assured us you
would.”
    “Meaningful information.” Castillo stopped any impending threats
from bursting forth. Slowed his speech. “One, Dr. Gregory Jacobson—your boss—is undeniably insane. his personal journals are filled
with violent disjointed fantasies and a connection to some Victorian
murderer named francis Tumblety, an englishman who died a hundred
years ago. There’s video of Jacobson and some other folk digging up
this man’s grave. In fact, I’m standing over, I believe, what’s left of Mr.
Tumblety’s corpse.”
    “yes?”
“Not surprised yet, I see. Two, for the sake of marketable pharmaceuticals, bioengineering prospects, and potential military applications—otherwise why would I be involved?—DSTI, a highly financed
but little-known genetics lab, purposely breeds monsters. Testing clones
of humans known to possess violent behavior. Sponsors the abuse of
children . . . No wait, my bad, sponsors the abuse of only half of them
for the sake of nature/nurture environmental testing.”
“Those tests were discontinued years ago and, officially, never happened.”
Deny. Deny. The videos had been time stamped