Even now, Kincaid remembered watching CNN when Gary Ridgeway, the Green River Killer, was captured back in 2001 after a nineteen-year killing spree in the northwest. After he was finally convicted of killing forty-eight women (and claimed to have killed forty-one more), the investigators asked him what made him different from other people, and he summed it all up in three simple words: “That caring thing.”
Psychopaths lack that caring thing. They act on impulse, don’t feel guilt, don’t respond emotionally the way the rest of the world does, and have an insatiable need for power and control. Some don’t feel fear. Some can’t find sexual fulfillment unless their partner is in pain, or dying, or dead. Usually it’s the agony of others that brings psychopaths the most pleasure.
So that was Sevren. No conscience. No guilt. No fears. No regrets.
They say psychopaths begin exhibiting signs of their pathology at age fifteen.
Sevren was an early bloomer.
One day after school, Aaron had snuck behind the group home’s south wing to grab a smoke out of sight of the host family’s window. It was April in Mississippi. Hot and steamy. Humidity you could taste.
Just after lighting up, he heard sounds in the nearby woods. Screeches. High-pitched, primal, something other than human.
The noises were coming from a clearing up ahead. Aaron knew the place. The teens would meet there sometimes late at night to drink or smoke pot around a bonfire.
He heard the sound again. What was that?
And then, laughter. Quiet and calm. And a cold voice oozing through the trees. “You like that, don’t you?”
Aaron saw a flicker of movement in the meadow and stepped quietly onto the path.
Another cry, this time sharper. Definitely not human. Some kind of animal.
What was going on?
He had to see.
But then the screech was cut off abruptly, swallowed by a burst of strange, moist, gurgling sounds. “There, now. That’s better,” said the voice.
Aaron edged forward and peered through the underbrush. He was close enough now to see a figure kneeling, working at something with his hands, humming. Whatever he had on the ground in front of him lay hidden from view.
Aaron took another step closer. Who was that? Only his back was visible.
Maybe it was the movement, visible out of the corner of his eye, or the soft sound of footsteps on the forest floor, but the figure stopped what he was doing. Froze. So did Aaron.
Time crashed to a halt. To Aaron the moment smelled like spring rain and flowers and earth and blood, and then the person in the meadow turned his head slowly and rose in one smooth, serpentine motion. Aaron recognized him right away.
“Hello, Aaron.” Sevren was holding a pocketknife smeared with dark blood. More blood dripped from his hands and forearms down onto the leafy forest floor.
Aaron let his eyes follow the descent of the drops of blood. And that’s when he saw what his roommate had done to the cat. Somehow the poor creature was still alive. It flopped what was left of its head back and forth feebly, finally facing Aaron. Tried to look at him. Had no eyes left to do it.
“What are you doing, Sevren?”
“A little experiment.” Sevren cocked his head slightly and shook out his fingers, splattering warm blood onto the young leaves. “You won’t tell, will you?”
For a moment, just a moment, Aaron thought of running. Somewhere deep beneath the gurgles of the dying cat he could hear the sounds of the jungle and the screams and pleading prayers of the dying children. And the babies crying in the dark.
Somewhere beneath the sounds.
The dream called to him. He thought of running from Sevren, from this meadow, from everything, escaping like he had when he was ten, running and running and running forever, but this time he stood still. Something kept him there, drew his eyes toward the gruesome scene.
Sevren’s voice turned dark. “If you tell, Aaron, I might have to explain what happened to Jessica. What really happened.”
The words slammed into him like a fist in his stomach, taking all the air out of his reply.
“What?” Aaron searched Sevren’s eyes. He couldn’t possibly know.
“Jes-si-ca.” Sevren said the word slowly, deliberately, savoring every letter. “What really happened to her.” Sevren grinned and drew the pocketknife across his wrist, not to cut the skin, only to demonstrate that he knew what Aaron Jeffrey Kincaid was certain no one could possibly know.
Sevren continued. “I saw your scar, there on your wrist, last week when you were changing clothes, and I remembered what happened to Jessica Rembrandt last month. It wasn’t too hard to piece together. At first I thought maybe you’d planned to die with her, and then at the last minute you chickened out and couldn’t go through with it. But.. that’s not what happened, is it?” He paused, but not for long. It wasn’t really a question. “You talked her into it, didn’t you?” During the last few words, his voice, his posture, his tone had shifted from cool judgment to warm admiration. “You convinced her to do it.”
When Aaron didn’t reply, Sevren nodded. Shook some blood off his fingertips. “Yes. I thought so.”
Aaron couldn’t think of anything to say. He didn’t know if it was rage or fear or disgust that swarmed over his soul. “I loved her,” he said at last.
Sevren nodded. “Yes,” he said simply. “I know.” A pause. Then, he continued. “So I won’t tell if you won’t tell. We’ll have two little secrets between us: the girl and the cat.” He placed a bloody finger to his lips to signify their pact of silence. “Shh.”
Aaron scratched absently at the fresh scar on his wrist. He nodded. “I won’t tell.”
Sevren looked down at the writhing cat whose paws he’d tied down to four stakes. Then, he looked back at Aaron. “Cross your heart and hope to die?”
Aaron nodded.
Sevren pulled a yellow ribbon out of his pocket and turned back to the cat. Then he glanced back at Aaron. “You can stay if you want. It’s just now getting to the good part.”
And Aaron had stayed. Until it was over. And then a little longer even.
Long enough to listen to Sevren tell him about his mother.
45
The two boys were sitting together by the campfire pit. They’d built a small blaze and were smoking, swapping stories. Aaron told Sevren about his parents, about the jungle and the babies and his destiny.
And then, as Sevren slid a long stick into the fire, he told Aaron about what he saw when he finally got out of the closet.
July 15, 1981
Memphis, Tennessee
7:17 p.m.
The nine-year-old boy watched his mother lean down toward him and felt her smear a wet kiss on his forehead. She smelled sweet with perfume. “Now you be quiet and be a good boy and don’t be interruptin’ your mama’s work. You understand?”
The young boy had nodded.
“You know what’ll happen if you interrupt your mama?”
He nodded again.
The air conditioner coughed and sputtered in the windowsill of the double-wide trailer they called home.
She grinned, her mouth big and gaping. She was missing five teeth. “I knew you’d listen to your mama. I knew you’d be a good boy.”
Once again Sevren nodded. He didn’t want to be a bad boy. He didn’t like what happened to him when he was a bad boy. He didn’t like having to stay in the closet overnight. He wanted to please her, of course he did, just like any good boy would want to do.
“I’ll get you out as soon as I can,” she said. And then the change came over her, the strange change that turned her into someone he didn’t recognize. Sometimes it meant she hadn’t been taking her pills. Sometimes it meant she’d taken too many. Her face turned terrible and red, her voice became angry and hard. “You don’t make a sound, boy! Don’t you dare let me hear you. Your mama has to work, you understand?”