Page 126 of What Boys Learn

I came out five minutes later holding up the phone. “Hasn’t been plugged in for days, but at least we have it. It was in his pillowcase.”

Back in the car, I waited until we’d made it to the highway, giving the caffeine a few minutes to percolate through my veins, before I told Robert my idea about killers learning from each other.

“The only problem with that theory is that our area’s most notorious killers—John Darby, Benvolio Rizzo, Keith Lagrange—only went to prison after they committed their crimes.”

“But I bet at least some of them went to Menkoka when they were too young for prison,” I said. “It’s an institute for troubled adolescent boys. Ewan went there briefly. Weber went there. I’m sure we could find out whether Darby or Rizzo or Lagrange did. But I don’t care if Curtis was mentoring all of our area’s most notorious psychopaths or just a few. The point is, he was their mentor. They learned fromhim.”

“You’re thinking this is someDextersituation—a crazy guy like Curtis channels his dark urges into stopping other sadistic guys?”

“The opposite. Curtis didn’t want to teach his favorite protégés how to be good. He wanted to teach them how to be more disciplined. How to be less impulsive. How to notget caught.”

“But all those guys were caught, eventually.”

“And that pisses Curtis off,” I said. “Don’t you see?”

We were on Highway 41, heading north, when a chiming sound reminded me. We’d plugged in Benjamin’s dead phone, and now it was coming to life with notifications from an app, saying that Benjamin hadn’t practiced guitar for over a week. He must have downloaded it after meeting our downstairs David.

Robert’s phone rang ten minutes later, around 5:20. It was his Wisconsin cop friend, calling early. He hadn’t waited to get to work, but had stopped on his way, driving a civilian car that wouldn’t raise any alarms.

“Thanks, Pete,” Robert said, hanging up just as we passed the last exit to a town called Hartford, halfway between Milwaukee and Fond du Lac.

To me he said, “There’s a sold sign. Pete knocked, but no answer, no visible vehicles and no lights.”

“Sold sign,” I said, incredulous. “His father doesn’t live there anymore.”

“The name rang a bell for Pete. Campbell Senior was a well-known doctor in the area.”

“Was. Is he dead?”

“Not dead. Just in a nursing home. Pete will try to find out which one.”

The engine revved as Robert laid a heavier foot on the gas. If the house was empty and we had no destination, it didn’t help for him to drive any faster.

I said, “Our best chance is to find someone who knows Curtis and has talked to him recently.” We’d already passed signs to Madison, before Milwaukee, and now we passed another side route—longer and less direct. But it would take us where we needed to go.

I’d always hated this part of Wisconsin. Now I remembered why.

47

BENJAMIN

Dr. C told me that people like us don’t worry. We live in the moment. One of our many evolutionary advantages.

But I’ve been worrying since the first minute I saw Lenora at those bulletin boards in the marina. I’ve been looking ahead, trying to find a different way out of this, and I’ve looked back from looking ahead—if that makes sense—like I can already see the day when I’ll wish I’d done something different. So much for living in the moment.

Dr. C has already told me that people with antisocial personality disorder come in many types, but I don’t think he wants to know I could be the wrong one. He wants me to be aware of consequences, because that reduces the chance of doing dumb-shit things, but he doesn’t want me to consider the consequences of thingshewants me to do.

Dr. C says he’s teaching me to operate from a position of strength. No apologies.

“But don’t look to the internet for role models. Influencers need attention. They put themselves in the public eye at every opportunity, talking about how wealthy and brilliant they are, and how many bitches they can attract, like the best a man can hope for in life is to be a pimp making videos for gullible prepubescent followers. You don’t spend time watching those idiots, I hope?”

Before I could answer, he reminded me that attention is a problem. Attention limits your freedom. Attention gets youcaught. “The worst thing that ever happened to me is all the attention I got when my first book became a bestseller. I didn’t anticipate that. I shouldn’t have started on the next.”

So why did he? To share his immense wisdom with the world. When I get home to my phone, I’ve got to look up narcissism. I’m not understanding who has it and who doesn’t.

I’m supposed to think about the consequences, even if it’s just using cold logic, like not wanting to get caught—which is still living in the moment, I guess, but with an awareness of the future. But not a fear of it. Some emotions aren’t helpful, Dr. C tells me, and we don’t have to give in to the NTs—neurotypicals—who want us to think differently. Our default to cold logic is an asset.

The problem is, Iamusing logic, and not the way he wants me to. This isn’t worth it. Not for sex, not for thrills.