Infinity Twice Removed Read online

  He hears the door open, then close with a soft click.

  And finds himself alone in Eichmann’s office.

  Alone.

  * * *

  Or maybe that’s already happened… his own voice says.

  Dr. Judah Eichmann stares at the television. The tape in the VCR beneath it whirs. He sees the boy from the vantage of the camera on top of his book case, his small hands folded neatly in his lap. His face is impassive, save for a twitch in the corner of his left eye.

  He hears the door open and close as his past self exits the office. He leans closer to the screen, so close that the boy’s face looks grainy. He watches the boy’s lips, peels apart the layers of static with his ears.

  Movement.

  Subtle, barely perceptible.

  The face reddens. The nose crinkles. The eyes narrow.

  Finally, the lips move. The voice is little more than a tentative whisper.

  My name is Aaron Craven.

  “Found you.”

  The Present – Millington, Tennessee

  Reclaiming his seat in front of the computer, Jeffers logged back onto his Internet browser and Googled Infinity Killer, copycat. Within seconds, over seven thousand results appeared. Jeezus, he thought, staring at a mere fragment of the lengthy list. Anxiously, he scrolled down the screen before stopping at a USA Today news item, entitled, “Infinity Killer Returns?”

  Breathing heavily, he skimmed the article, learning that two days earlier, on the outskirts of Dyersburg, TN, the body of a six-year-old girl was discovered by a homeless man in the basement of a vacant tenement in an old, neglected housing project. The girl’s body had been disemboweled and her eyes removed, bringing to mind the grisly work of the infamous “Infinity Killer,” whose atrocities garnered national attention back in the early 90’s, before he was killed by an unidentified vigilante-hero in April of 1991. Jack Craven, the “Infinity Killer,” had been linked to the brutal murders of at least seven children and one young woman in a year-long spree throughout the mid-south.

  Jeffers reached for his cup of coffee, scowling when he realized it was empty. Damn! He was now too engrossed in his research to brew a fresh pot.

  The article went on to say that three other murders, involving an elderly man, woman and visiting granddaughter had occurred in Branson, MO, a little more than two weeks ago. The man, who was a noted psychiatrist, and his wife were brutally slashed with what authorities claimed was a large knife. The young granddaughter’s wounds, the article also said, bore striking similarities to the “Infinity Killer’s” victims. Investigation by local and state authorities, as well as the FBI, was ongoing in both cases.

  My God! Jeffers thought. I killed him, I know I did. Who would want to continue his horrid work? A copycat, but why? But then he realized, snickering, with his rational mind, whatever made a demented mind tick was way beyond his range of understanding.

  Jeffers scrolled down the Google list again, clicking on a couple of other articles concerning the possible rebirth of the “Infinity Killer,” including the piece that Dave had mentioned he’d seen in The Commercial Appeal, but found them to be merely a rehash of the USA Today article. Nevertheless, his curiosity was piqued, to say the least, as a rash of goose bumps blossomed across his neck and shoulders. What the hell is going on?

  Plumbing the depths of his memory, Jeffers recalled the aftermath of the “Infinity Killer’s” death as if it had taken place just yesterday. He’d covered his tracks as best he could before fleeing the scene, had ditched both knives where no one would ever find them, then had a friend properly stitch and dress his stab wound, claiming he got it in a scuffle outside of a bar. And once Craven’s body had been found later that morning, law enforcement had converged on the scene like hounds to a treed fox. Child Protective Services had arrived and taken custody of Craven’s young son, Aaron, the area had been cordoned off, and Klieg lights had been set up in the basement to enable investigators to scour the crime scene for evidence and clues.

  It wasn’t until late the following day, during the execution of a search warrant at Craven’s Munford, TN residence, that his hoard of “trophies” had been discovered. Nestled behind several everyday items in an extra refrigerator sitting innocently in his garage, investigators had found a large bottle of a formaldehyde mixture containing more than a dozen preserved eyes. In one fell swoop, several cases had been solved, and the media had had a field day with the grim revelation, milking it for a week’s worth of front page news.

  Jeffers had never been caught, of course, had never even become a suspect. Things might have been a whole lot different, he realized, had his killing of Craven occurred now as opposed to twenty years ago. Surely, with the skill and expertise possessed by today’s forensics investigators, he’d have been busted, he’d have left some tiny bit of evidence or trace amount of DNA at the crime scene to link him to the killing. At least he had been lucky in that department.

  But who’s behind these two recent murders? he wondered. He didn’t buy the copycat angle, not at all, and really didn’t know why. Except…except for the fact that he had never been able to get the face of Craven’s young son that night out of his mind. The hurt in his eyes, the determination in his follow up attack. And just what were you doing there that night? It had bothered him for many months, slowly fading like a bruise, only to resurface every so often at odd times. He had a feeling it bore some looking into.

  Shutting down his computer again, Jeffers knew he needed to shake the uneasy sensation that had descended upon him over the Dyersburg and Branson killings. It was clinging to him like cobwebs. He decided to head downstairs to his store a little early, and immerse himself in his stock and paperwork to clear his head. Hopefully, when his friend showed up a little later, the two of them would be able to shed some light on this perplexing development.

  1998

  “My name is Aaron Mitchell.” He smiles. “Hi. I’m Aaron Mitchell.”

  He tries the name on for size. It’s like caramel in his mouth: it sticks a little, but man oh man is it ever sweet.

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Aaron. How’s it going? I’m Aaron. Aaron Mitchell.”

  He extends his hand toward the mirror. Should he really offer to shake hands or play it cool and just incline his chin? When did he start caring about this kind of thing anyway? Despite all of his progress, he still can’t even meet his own stare. How’s he supposed to meet someone else’s?

  He’s had so many first days at so many new schools that they all blend together.

  Slip in. Slip out. Leave no one the wiser that he’s ever even been there.

  That was always the goal.

  He cringes at the thought. It reminds him of another time. Of another life. Of another name.

  He glances at the wall to his left, where the masks hang. It hasn’t been more than a couple of months since he unpacked them, and already most of them are collecting dust. It doesn’t even look like he bothered to unpack all of them. Maybe…maybe the time has come to box them up and put them in the crawlspace. After all, he has other things to look at now. There are books on the shelves, pictures taped to the mirror, other odds and ends that have memories attached to them. Good memories. The kind of memories that make him smile even though he doesn’t make a conscious decision to do so.

  The Mitchells...no…his foster pare—his parents are out in the back yard. Grilling. He smells the burgers starting to burn, hears his foster sis—sister, Anna, counting as the swing screeches on its rusty hinges, Joachim kicking the ball against the fence, and realizes that there are tears on his cheeks, tears that he didn’t deliberately put there. The Mitchells…Dale and Sandy—dad and mom?—God, he can’t even think straight…They keep telling him that it will take time to adapt and that they have all the time in the world.

  They didn’t have to adopt him. He would have been fine forever just knowing that they wanted him, that they somehow felt their lives were better because he was in them. That was dream enough by i
tself. But he would never have denied them a single request. He remembers them asking him to be a part of their family. Until that very moment, he had felt like both a part of them and yet ultimately apart from them, but vocalizing the words…that had changed everything. He recalls looking at the others…at little Anna, half his age and with skin as dark as night…at Joachim with his pink hairlip scar and copper-colored skin…and for the first time thinking of them as his sister and brother, rather than merely as partners of convenience in a crime yet to be committed, coconspirators in a plot to deconstruct their own lives.

  Damn it. Here he was, crying again. How much water could his eyes possibly hold? Was there something physically wrong with him? Did he need to see a doctor?

  As he was the oldest, the Mitchells had let him decide whether or not he wanted to change his last name. It wasn’t like Smith had been his real last name, just one that had been arbitrarily assigned to him by some faceless bureaucrat at social services who was at least bright enough to recognize that it wouldn’t take long for anyone to connect Aaron Craven to Jack Craven, the notorious serial killer who was resurrected on the big screen by Johnny Depp in Infinite. He hardly even remembers his birth father now, hardly remembers anything from the time before his rebirth as Aaron Thomas Mitchell, who starts high school in three days and can’t even stop crying long enough to figure out how to introduce himself.

  “Argh,” he says.

  A scream from outside.

  Anna.

  He dashes to the window. Sees Dale-dad sprinting toward the side yard. Turns, runs, bursts through the door and into the hallway. Leaps the stairs, heads for the back door. Nearly knocks the screen from the hinges as he explodes onto the back porch.

  Shrieking.

  Sobbing.

  He ducks left, barrels around the side of the house.

  “…so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. He’s never done anything like that before. Really. I mean it. He’s a good boy. I’m sorry. So sorry. She’s going to be all right. Isn’t she? Bad boy. Oh, God. Please forgive…I’m so very sorry.”

  An old woman. Velour walking suit. Baby blue. Matches the tint in her air. In her hand, a lash. No. A leash. At the end of it, a dog. Furry. Its tail curled over its rear end. An Eskimo dog? No, those are black and white. This one’s white and orange, like a giant fox. Eyes like polished spheres of obsidian. Its muzzle, scarlet. It whimpers, whines. The woman blathers on.

  His mother-Sandy, kneeling behind Anna, stroking her curly hair. Her face shimmers with tears. Both of their faces shimmer with tears. Anna’s tongue, pink, trilling. She rocks back and screams. Her right hand, held away from her body. Wet, dripping. A black wound, crimson ribbons unraveling from her palm. Spattering the grass.

  Plat.

  Plat.

  He sees red.

  His Dale-dad trying to calm the woman, to usher her away from their yard. She’s only making things worse.

  Hates her, hates.

  Joachim stands apart from the chaos, eyes closed, fists pressed into his eyes.

  The dog slinks behind the woman’s legs, wrapping its leash around her shins. It sits, stares out from between her legs. Opens its mouth. Its head bobs up and down as it pants.

  Blood glistens on its tongue, which wags before him like a matador’s cape.

  He hears a familiar rushing sound in his ears.

  Thoosh. Thoosh. Thoosh.

  A thought flashes across his mind.

  The sound has a name…

  He calls it eternity.

  * * *

  The Akita is a Spitz breed related to the Siberian Husky. Its lineage can be traced to the northern mountainous regions of Japan. According to the few books he was able to find at the library, it was a handsome breed with many desirable traits, foremost among them a blind loyalty to its master. It was territorial by nature, a fact corroborated by the fact that there were only five breeds of dog in the entire world that had inflicted more human casualties.

  He supposed he should feel relieved that Anna had only required a dozen stitches and that the teeth had passed through the muscle and tissue without breaking any of her small bones, but he doesn’t. Not even close. He isn’t quite sure exactly what he feels. This is all new to him. The closest he can come to describing the emotional upheaval is thinking back to when he was young and teaching himself to change his masks with increasing speed. And even now he can’t be sure which mask he’s wearing or if he’s even wearing one at all. The only thing he knows with any kind of certainty is that the throbbing in his temples won’t grant him a moment’s peace. And that every night for the last two weeks since the attack, the woman has let the dog out into her back yard from roughly 10:45 to 10:55, before settling into the upstairs bedroom to watch, presumably, the nightly news.

  From where he now crouches, in the manicured garden behind a clump of junipers, he can clearly see the rear deck. It’s metered by lines of light from the vertical blinds, across which the occasional shadow passes.

  Thoosh. Thoosh. Thoosh.

  The sliding glass door opens and light spills across the deck, down the stairs, and onto the lawn. He hears the clatter of nails on wood, adjusts his grip on the roll of duct tape, pats the bulge in his pocket.

  He glances at his watch.

  10:46.

  If she sticks to her pattern he has roughly nine minutes.

  More than enough time.

  He’s rehearsed this in his mind a thousand times. Lunge. Grab. Headlock. Roll. Pin the muzzle to the ground. Wrap the tape around, once-twice-three times. Immobilize the dog’s body under his weight. Keep it as still as possible. Left hand into his pocket. Super glue. Peel back the lips. Slather the glue onto its teeth. Hold the dog down until the glue dries. Rip off the tape. Sprint from the yard. Three blocks at a mad dash, timed to one hundred and forty-two seconds. Up the trellis, through the window. In bed before the stroke of eleven.

  The woman will know it was him.

  Of course, she’ll know. How could she not?

  But she won’t be able to prove anything.

  Maybe a solvent will work. Maybe the dog will end up yanking its own teeth from its gums. He doesn’t care one way or the other. All he knows is that the beast will never attack anyone ever again.

  Thoosh. Thoosh. Thoosh.

  Its name is Copper and it carries its tail high and coiled on its haunches. It hits the grass and prances toward him, nose to the sky. It trots in a half-circle in its designated spot, raises its leg.

  Stops.

  Thoosh. Thoosh. Thoosh.

  It slowly lowers its leg, tests the air with its snout.

  He readjusts his grip on the tape, tries to make himself small behind the shrub and instead knocks over a garden gnome with a pointy red hat.

  The dog growls, lowers its head. The hackles rise on its neck.

  It bares its teeth.

  Thoosh. Thoosh. Thoosh.

  Their eyes lock through the branches.

  Black eyes like polished obsidian.

  It barks and launches itself at the bush.

  Thoosh. Thoosh. Thoosh.

  He raises his forearm in front of his face, feels its teeth puncture his skin, slide into the muscle, a release of warmth from beneath.

  And sees only red.

  * * *

  He’s waiting in the shadows when the headlights flash. Once. Twice. That’s the signal. It’s a black Mercedes. Maybe. Some expensive foreign number anyway. He’s too scared to think clearly. Doesn’t want to think clearly. He walks toward the car, passes the payphones on the side of the public restrooms, finally allows the garden gnome to fall from his hand. It makes a cracking sound when it hits the path.

  The passenger door opens. The light that spills out is blinding. He sees the cadaverous form in silhouette, then in detail, as the doctor ducks out of the car, wearing a crisp three-piece suit even at this time of night. The driver offers him a smile with too many teeth. He has a scar through his eyebrow that looks like an albino leech.

&n
bsp; Eichmann closes the door, sealing off the light. The man inside makes no attempt to follow the doctor, who glances one way, then the other. All of the surrounding neighborhoods are dark, the parking lot to the north deserted. The doctor strolls almost casually into the park and stops when he reaches him, stares at his face, his clothes, his feet.

  “Why don’t we get you cleaned up?” Eichmann guides him by the shoulder toward the restrooms. Pauses to pick of the gnome. Ushers him into nearly complete darkness that smells of ammonia and flatus. “Take off your shirt and your pants. Set them in the sink.”

  The doctor removes a silver object from the pocket of his jacket, flicks his wrist, and a golden flame dances from the wick of the Zippo.

  “I…” he starts, and begins to cry.

  “You made the right decision calling me.”

  “I was just going to…I didn’t mean to…”

  “You were understandably distraught. You were having difficulties adjusting to your new school, to your new familial structure.”

  “I just—”

  “Listen carefully. I met you at my office, as my driver will attest. Everything’s under control. That’s right. Just peel them off and drop them in the sink.”

  Eichmann runs the faucet over the clothes. The water turns pink as it rises in the basin.

  “You need to tell me exactly what happened, Aaron. Every detail you can remember. If we’re going to make this problem go away…Aaron. Are you listening…?”

  But he’s not. He’s staring at his flickering reflection in the scratched stainless steel mirror. His chest and shoulders are white, but his forearms and neck are dark, like a farmer’s tan. He feels the blood trickling over his wrist, running down the back of his hand, shivering from his fingertips. Hears it pattering on the tile floor. He stares at his face, at the shimmering crimson circles surrounding his eyes, at the red in his hair and on his ears, at the smudges on his jaw line. It looks like he just pried a mask off of his face with his bloody fingers.