The Renfield Syndrome by Clifford Beck - HTML preview

Chapter 58

There was no keycard this time, nothing sophisticated or high-end— just a simple metal key. Upon opening the door of his room, Caspian found it to be tidy but not nearly comparable to the last hotel he had stayed in. The bed was large, but lying down he found it to be hard and uncomfortable and the pillows soft and flimsy. He was lucky to again be on the first floor. Being given to paranoia, he saw his stay there as a plus in that should anyone be looking for him within the hotel, he could simply open a window and run to his car. From there, it was anyone’s guess as to where he would go next— especially in a state of panic.

He would take the time to study a few maps of the area covering fifty square miles, paying special interest to any campgrounds, parks, or national forests. He was beginning to feel the best place to hide was once again in a wooded area, and the more woods, the better. Soon he drove up to the Quincy town line, where a sign read Great River National Wildlife Refuge. Looking down the road to the right, he saw that it seemed to stretch on forever. Speaking aloud, a different voice came from deep within him.

“It’s perfect. No one will find me here.”

Caspian struggled to come to the surface, but the rage associated with what he had fought with for what seemed like years. Perhaps the struggle began shortly after his birth, although he remembered nothing of his early childhood.

The monster within Caspian seemed to know everything he knew—how to drive, how to set up camp. It carried within its own subconscious all the memories of his life, even those that went unrealized. But one thing was certain: Caspian had lost control to the animal that had been following him throughout his life. From the first slap as he suckled from his mother's breast to just before killing her as she lay on the couch in an inebriated coma. Everything that occurred after that was based on revenge and the pleasure of killing. Freud would have tripped over his own feet to get to him, even if only for an hour of conversation. Perhaps Caspian also felt the need, on some level, to connect with his mother. Biting off a woman’s breast has to represent something, given his history. But history now lay in the blood of the women he had so viciously killed, and no further amount of blood would be enough. The animal within Caspian that had now gripped him had become an addict, and there was no treatment. As long as he was alive, he would be forced to feed the beast inside him a fresh meal of blood whenever it made the demand. It also carried one other thing, something truly frightening— intelligence. It knew when to strike and when to avoid taking any action that would result in exposure. Now it found a place of solitude, some place where it could plan out its next attack. No longer concerned with abusive women, it would attack whoever seemed to be most vulnerable—those who were easy targets.

With the long stretch of road in front of him, Caspian and his unwanted copilot drove to a distant intersection and, turning right, continued into the Great River National Wildlife Refuge. Summer was still upon them, and so was tourist season. Surveying the wildlife refuge, Caspian looked for an isolated place to stop. After finding Camilla dead in her room, he decided it was time to paint his car. He had purchased several cans of dark green spray paint for such an occasion that authorities began to more aggressively hunt him. The change was not so much strategic but the product of paranoia. The only time he had seen death was when he had caused it, and witnessing it without his participation brought on a discomfort he was not accustomed to. But as the monster drifted into and out of his conscious mind, he began studying the area for people, couples, families, and those camping alone. However, for reasons he did not understand, he decided that children were off-limits. After almost an hour of searching, Caspian pulled into a deep area of the woods, one that was marked by a small open spot where he could make camp. He was fortunate to find such a place, as it afforded enough room that he could begin painting his car. Knowing that air was heavier at night, he decided to wait until dusk to begin. Sound would travel easier, but it was the smell of the paint he was trying to avoid, and he didn’t want others detecting its odor and, hence, being drawn to its source. And he didn’t need local authorities investigating such a suspicious scene. Until then, he managed to force the monster back into its cage, and lighting a small fire, prepared his dinner. It wasn’t much, but it filled his stomach with a much-needed meal. As the fire died down and the sun touched the western horizon, Caspian prepared to begin the process of painting his car. He hoped that doing so might help him to evade the eyes of anyone who might be looking for him. But before he started, he picked up a rock and began beating dents in the panels and hood, trying to make the vehicle take on an aged appearance. The idea was to go unnoticed—to fly under the radar.