Cahil had abdicated the thrown of the brain-master, and Grant Kenyon's other brain had latched on to it, promising itself that it would surpass anything Cahil had ever attempted.
Still, a relatively new development had come-an aberration as if out of nowhere. His other mind/brain wanted to bond with him over this obsessive craving for the living, warm brain. He had already killed and consumed such. At least his altered self had, but to do so, it had had to collaborate with the part of his mind that premeditated selecting and attacking a victim. The uncontrollable urge belonged to the other within, while organization and carrying out of the specifics belonged to him. Highly unlikely that anyone but himself would or could see the distinction, save perhaps a competent shrink like those who had found some redeeming quality in Daryl Thomas Cahil. Grant didn't know where the original obsession plaguing him had come from, what its roots might be-whether genetically based or something that had occurred at an extremely early moment in his life. Perhaps it'd begun in the womb inside his forming brain, perhaps just after. He didn't know how deeply the fixation extended, or how long it would go on; nor did he begin to understand the need to consume human brain matter. Yet the necessity-according to the one within, calling himself by Grant's father's name as some kind of cruel joke-grew more powerful and insis-tent with each feeding. And as the need grew, he felt more and more of his own identity waning, flickering like the last moments of a candle until soon it would be extinguished, consumed by Phillip altogether.
The words of an old professor somehow filtered through to Grant Kenyon. “Our present understanding of the brain leaves us in the dark, and we may as well say the encephalon is filled with cotton wadding as anything else.”
Since then, as a medical man, Dr. Grant Kenyon had learned that the brain had no parallel, and that it was a supernatural organ that bridged the gap between physical and psychical realms. “Look at what it's done to me,” he said to the empty room, his now-distant reflection winking at him in the dark created by the closed drapes. “The bastard thing's got me on a scavenger hunt for immortality.”
“ I've told you, Grant. I'm not seeking immortality for you or for me,” Phillip replied.
“ What then? What do you want?”
The man in the mirror across the room shook his head as if disappointed in Grant. “The cortex is equipotential…” he said.
“ What do you mean?” asked Grant.
“ Capable of learning and operating under unique and unforeseen-often unimaginable-circumstances doubling and quadrupling its capacity for memory and storage. Don't you see? Anything can happen.”
“ It-you learn exponentially?”
“ Every new generation is evidence of this. There is no end to the wisdom to be gained when we finally locate the perimeters of-”
“ Stop it! Stop it! Enough! Goddamn you.”
“- perimeters of the mind in this inner solar system.”
At what price? Dr. Grant Kenyon asked himself, silence filling him. But his brain had to have the last word. “At any price, Doctor… at any price.”
Kenyon knew only that there was one merciful element to his bloodletting and cannibalizing of brains. He had no conscious memory of it, only what the other within him wished to tell him; he had to be informed of it after the fact, like an amnesia patient after a train wreck. He was aware of planning it, even executing the initial phases of abduction, but the actual murder? The taking of the victim's brain? No, he had no conscious memory of killing young women for what Phillip prized. Perhaps, he reasoned, this partition his mind had created between his victim and himself was the only way he could accomplish the task. Still, Phillip made sure that Grant always heard about it. His brain told him about it afterward like a story read to him from a book.
Grant knew he had killed three times now; Phillip had relayed the details in unfailing and excruciating minutia- every detail. But his mind did not replay these details in the ordinary sense of memories. He got no visual images other than what he imagined after hearing it rendered in words. Only then could he feel, hear, smell, taste and see the “pictured” killings and feedings.
At first he could not be made to believe the images real; not part of his memory. Yet, it was real-the simultaneous attack on all his senses proved it so. It had in fact happened; he had to believe his brain was telling the truth. After all, his brain must know, and it was the only explanation for the dried gray crumbs of brain matter he had found in his van alongside the bloodied tools he remembered gathering up for Phillip. At times he would stop long enough to clean his tools and the rear of his van. He'd left nothing behind at his home in Holyoke, New Jersey, nothing but Emily and the baby, Hildy. Once Phillip had killed their first victim in Richmond, Grant had not dared go back home. Instead, he'd gone to a gun show and he'd purchased a shotgun and a. 38 snub-nosed Smith amp; Wesson.
The first killing in Richmond signaled the end of one life, and the beginning of his new existence. He had taken that first life, had taken the prize and run away. Knowing that Phillip would never be satisfied with only one such meal, he knew he had to at least protect his family by putting distance between Phillip and them.
Wishing to rest his mind, he clicked on the television and Oprah gave way to the local Jacksonville station, an advertisement for a local watering hole called The Stacked Deck where the young could find gaiety in the pounding music overlooking the ocean. Phillip insisted that Grant write the name of the place and the address down. They'd go hunting tonight. Last night, before settling in, they had scoured the area for a safe dumping ground for Phillip's third victim. After locating an abandoned place along the St. John's River, they had scoured the bus station for a victim without result. Prior to that, they had scouted out the local library where Phillip insisted on checking Cahil's website to see if he'd received the strip of brain matter Phillip'd sent to his mentor-to prove there was nothing like the real thing and to implicate Cahil should a time come when he needed a scapegoat “Time we roll, boy.” Phillip's order spiraled through his brain. “Enough wasted time.”
Grant stood and stuffed his pockets with his keys, wallet and loose change. From the door, he looked back at the mirror and, from the angle at which he stood, there was no one in the mirror.
Outside, Grant and Phillip found the waiting van rigged with all that they needed to subdue and gut a victim of her brain. They drove away from the Jax-Town Motel and into the Jacksonville night.
Public library, Fayetteville, North Carolina July 5, 2003
The keystroke took her to the Internet, and from there she typed in the website address and opened it. She began her much-needed transfusion of knowledge-information on the inner workings of the human mind. It was a subject that held a never-ending fascination for Juliet Sims. Besides, she had met many weird and wacky people in the chat rooms to discuss the “ultimate” subject-how the mind worked. One of them, she had set up a date with. He was on his way to Florida, he had said, and could stop over in Fayetteville, to meet her, if she liked. The meet had been arranged. She'd planned to sneak out because it was late, and she had to rely on a Greyhound Bus to get her to downtown Fayetteville from home, and it all would have worked out if her father hadn't caught her. She was embarrassed now and somewhat fearful of contacting her computer pal to let him know what had happened. She had stewed for a few days now, trying to come up with a better reason than the truth. She had concocted a story about a lightning strike and a flood at the house, but it could be checked. Then she came up with a story about how her parents abused her and sometimes when they got real angry, they'd lock her to a bedpost in the attic. Yeah, that would work. She logged on to the Isle of Brain site.