Absolute Instinct

by Robert W. Walker

  “That could've been you down there, Jess. It's obviously what he had in mind, send you over to join with his father in a pathetic attempt of one monster trying to please another,” Richard said.

  “A son trying to please a father, a son who could never please his mother,” Jessica replied.

  “Why don't you write it up in another of your case file books, Dr. Coran,” Laughlin sardonically suggested. “Given the bizarre nature of the case and all, it oughta make a bestseller.”

  “I'll likely have all the time in the world to write. Gods of the FBI are going to come down hard on us, Richard, when we return to D.C.”

  “Perhaps... perhaps not,” Richard replied, holding her close to him.

  “Do you know something I don't?”

  “Before I discovered you missing at the cafe, I got a call from Eriq Santiva.”

  “And?”

  “He and Hemmings had it out right in the middle of Fischer's office, heated battle as they say, and Eriq came out on top defending our actions, reminding them of your previous successes in New York, Philadelphia, Miami, twice in New Orleans, D.C., Houston, Hawaii and London.”

  “Did Eriq go so far as to say he condoned our actions in Portland?”

  “Better yet.”

  “What?”

  “He brought in Xavier Darwin Reynolds who so impressed Fischer that Hemmings was blown out of the water. Darwin pointed out that the FBI came out as the hero all across America thanks to us yanking an innocent man off death row at the thirteenth hour. And the kid's persuasive, as you know.”

  “But did Eriq go so far as to tell Fischer that we had his blessings?”

  “He went further. He claims the glory. It was his idea.”

  “My God, Eriq did that?”

  “To save our asses, yes. Said he will take the brunt of any disciplinary actions Fischer might want to take, including his dismissal.”

  “Geez, we can't let Eriq take this on himself this way. Did you tell him I was thinking of taking that position with Virginia state? Did you?” She grabbed her phone up and pressed speed dial for Santiva in Quantico.

  Richard stopped her, pressing the phone's off button. “Calm down. There's something else.”

  “What?”

  “Eriq won a 155 million dollar infusion of funds to be used for the Behavioral Science Unit and the FBI M.E. programs to be administered at your discretion, Jess. You're on the board that decides just how this money will be used.”

  She stared at Richard, disbelieving. “I-I don't know what to say.”

  “Jessica Coran? Without words? Mute? The world's turned upside down.”

  “I'll take that as a compliment, I think.”

  “Does this mean you'll stay with the FBI, Jess?”

  “No... no amount of money is worth going through this again. Look down there at that lost soul, Richard.”

  Sharpe looked again at the battered, torn body of the dead young man still in his early twenties. “The kid lived such an unrelentingly brutal emotional nightmare, constantly under assault by his own mother.”

  Then he saw movement.

  At least he thought he saw movement.

  It appeared imperceptible, but yes, Giles Gahran Matisak began to slowly squirm.

  “God blind me for a fool, Jess, he's alive!”

  “What?” She stared down to the body splayed swastikalike and bleeding all over Dr. Stroud's bones, which were apparently the only thing in the exhibit not simulated but the actual diablo spinata transported here from the Mojave.

  Now Jessica, too, saw the pinned Devil's child squirm in pain. “Someone ought to put the wretched thing out of its misery,” she muttered, her gun pointed.

  Richard put a hand over hers, taking the gun from her, saying, “No, Jess. It would only add to your nightmares. Leave it in God's hands.”

  “He's suffered enough.”

  “It is rather like watching a rabid animal, isn't it?”asked Laughlin.

  “You're right, Richard. I won't do it. I won't do it.” She holstered her weapon.

  Laughlin said, “If we can save him, you could study him, as you did with Matisak before him.”

  “What good came of it? Studying this kind of evil does not make it go away, and neither does burying it. It just keeps coming back, and I'm walking away on two good legs from it now for the final curtain.”

  Richard draped his arm about her and placed her head on his chest. “Whatever you decide, I'm behind you one hundred percent, Jess.”

  “With you at my side, Richard, I want to enjoy life more.”

  “As do I, of course.”

  “I want us both to escape this madness that surrounds us. We've paid our dues many times over, you in London, me here.”

  “Time for a little peace and paradise, you mean?”

  “We'll never find it on the path we're on, not as FBI agents without a semblance of normalcy in our lives.”

  “All right then, it's settled! But we must make a pact. Neither of us shall ever be lured back in once we've stepped out of it.

  “Done!” She hugged him to her. “Thank God I have you.”

  “Perhaps I'll find time now to write that book I've carried about in my head all these years.”

  “By all means, Richard, do it,” she said.

  “I love you, Jess. I've loved you all my life.”

  “But you haven't known me all your life.”

  “Doesn't matter. I've loved you—”

  “—all my life!” They said it in unison.

  Richard kissed her passionately while the milling confusion of humanity's floating opera here in the museum continued to file past Giles Gahran Matisak's now-still body. Giles lay still now, beyond caring about the amateur photos being shot or where they might wind up. For a moment, Jessica watched men in tuxedos and women in sequined evening gowns all rubbernecking for a better view of the monster who suddenly let out a final death rattle and was gone.

  “Horace Keene and his team can take care of this untidy mess,” Sharpe firmly said, guiding her along the promenade farther and farther from the horror below. Jessica, nestled in the crook of Richard Sharpe’s embrace, allowed him his way toward the far stairwell and exit. She consciously fought the urge to pull from him and go back to take control of the crime scene. But no, she would not do that, not this time. Fuck them one and all, the FBI, Portland authorities, all her critics who felt she had, over the years, developed a heavy-handedness that put others off, and those who felt she had nothing but a cold sociopathic mind herself to be able to function in this man's world.

  She liked the feel of her feet moving her body out of this lifestyle here and now. She could do this, easily, with enthusiasm simply turn and walk away. Mentally, she had also turned a corner deep within, one camouflaged all these years by ultimately meaningless clichés about duty and honor and integrity and loyalty to something she had no reason to turn her entire life over to, and to a profession that only rewarded in order to take away later, a profession that constantly asked, What have you done for me lately?

  Inside her head, she felt a great sense of freedom rush in to replace all the mendacity that thrived on the system like parasites, fat cutworms, slugs, leeches and lampreys. The freedom she felt allowed her to walk off without a care and to not once look back, but to think only of her future at the ranch with Richard and their animals. To think herself and her sanity and good health and as small a thing as her smile might actually be more important than the next autopsy, than doing an autopsy on the son of Mad Matthew Matisak. Something any competent autopsiest could do.

  “Yeah, Horace Keene can take care of this mess,” she said, stopping Richard in his tracks. She hugged him close. “I want to live now, really live.”

  “Cancun's got great airfares right now, and it's been a while since we've gone diving.”

  “No... maybe later in the year, but now it's home. We do have a wedding to plan.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Robert W. Walker is th
e author of more than forty published novels, beginning with SUB-ZERO in 1979. He has millions of books in print. You can visit him at www.robertwalkerbooks.com.

  BIBLIOGRAPHY

  THE INSTINCT THRILLERS featuring FBI forensic pathologist Dr. Jessica Coran

  Killer Instinct

  Fatal Instinct

  Primal Instinct

  Pure Instinct

  Darkest Instinct

  Extreme Instinct

  Blind Instinct

  Bitter Instinct

  Unnatural Instinct

  Grave Instinct

  Absolute Instinct

  THE EDGE THRILLERS featuring Detective Lucas Stonecoat

  Cold Edge

  Double Edge

  Cutting Edge

  Final Edge

  THE GRANT THRILLERS featuring Medical Examiner Dean Grant

  Floaters

  Scalpers

  Front Burners

  Dying Breath

  THE RANSOM MYSTERIES featuring 19th century detective Alastair Ransom

  City for Ransom

  Shadows in the White City

  City of the Absent

  THE DECOY THRILLERS featuring Chicago cop Ryne Lanarck

  Hunting Lure

  Blood Seers

  Wind Slayers

  Hand-to-Hand

  THE BLOODSCREAMS SERIES featuring archeologist Abraham Stroud

  Vampire Dreams

  Werewolf’s Grief

  Zombie Eyes

  HORROR NOVELS

  Dr. O

  Disembodied

  Aftershock

  Brain Stem

  Abaddon

  The Serpent Fire

  Flesh Wars (the sequel to The Serpent Fire)

  Children of Salem

  THRILLER NOVELS

  Sub-Zero

  PSI: Blue

  Cuba Blue (with Lyn Polkabla)

  Dead On

  Thrice Told Tales (short stories)

  YOUNG ADULT

  Daniel Webster Jackson & the Wrong Way Railroad

  Gideon Tell & the Siege of Vicksburg

  NON FICTION

  Dead On Writing – Thirty Years of Writerly Advice

  Excerpt from Dead On by Robert W. Walker

  ONE

  Marcus Rydell instinctively rushed from his bedroom and out of the apartment, his 9mm in hand, taking the stairs two at a time. Even here in the stairwell, he could hear the distressed, keening cry of what sounded like a wounded animal, but it was all too human. Definitely a child’s scream, which meant probable cause for him to break down a door, something he’d always relished doing when he’d worked as an Atlanta cop.

  The thought pumped blood to his every artery and to the brain. It felt wonderful, like a balm, like a spring shower and train whistle all conspiring to wake him the hell up and out of his previously paralyzing depression.

  As he approached 58-B, Marcus made out words coming from an adult male inside. The man’s words were halting, pleading in turn, saying, “Hon-hon-honey, please n’more. Don’t h-hurt me! Please! I’ll be good to you, sweetie. I swear!”

  The child endangerment laws left no doubt in Marcus’s mind. He shouted through the door, “I’m coming in! Open up in there, or I kick it in!”

  Others in the building peeked from their doors, shy and tentative and curious, but of no help. “Call 9-1-1, lady!” Marcus shouted over his shoulder to a silver-haired woman. Terrified, eyes bulging, this neighbor slammed her door so hard that Marcus thought himself shot. The sound, like a gunshot, repeated itself up and down the hallway. No one wanted to get involved. Another elderly lady muttered, “Animals…you’re all animals!” before slamming her door.

  More shouting and crying came wafting through the door at number 58-B. “Open it, now!”.

  “Very helpful lady!” Marcus backed up, lifted his leg, about to kick when he heard the door latch come off. “I have a gun!” he now added, cautioning whoever had unlatched the door. Then it swung open wide.

  In the doorway, stood a four-foot high Oriental girl, looking the same age as Rydell’s own daughter. The black-haired, wide-eyed child stood four-feet high and shaking. “I-I-I kilt him.”

  “Killed who?”

  “Him, da-da. Good ’n’ dead now.”

  Marcus swallowed hard and put his gun away, tucking it into the small of his back beneath the white shirt he’d earlier donned for his farewell to the world as he’d been chewing on the same gun moments before. He saw that the girl had suffered multiple bruises. He assumed authorities would discover, and must assume many more welts beneath her clothing. A closer look into her eyes and features revealed a creamy colored skin and blue eyes. She looked partially Caucasian. “Where’s your mother, honey?”

  “No! I nobody honey. No more never.”

  “Your mother? Mama-san?”

  “Don’t have one.”

  “All right, let me have a look at your da-da over there.” The man lay still as death at the center of the room.

  “He no my father neither. No pappa-san!”

  Marcus cautiously stepped inside and around the little girl, noticing now for the first time the bloody claw hammer in her hand; it dripped a trail from door to da-da’s bashed in face and skull. The girl may be little, but she knew how to wield a hammer with deadly effect. She had definitely taken daddy by surprise.

  In fact, from the injuries the hairy, swarthy adult, had sustained, Marcus doubted he’d find a pulse, and he almost didn’t. Somehow through the excruciating blinding pain, the man muttered, “B-Bitch she…jeeze… caw’t me s-s-sleep.”

  The effort spent to accuse the girl of murdering him in his sleep did him in entirely. Silent now for eternity, the disfigured child molester went in search of rigor.

  Meanwhile, Marcus realized that the monster who’d just died had had some knowledge of the law, just enough to possibly punish this child once more—this time using the law. If the courts and attorneys learned that she’d attacked him while he slept, they could and would make out a case against her, despite her bravery. She could be portrayed as a cold-blooded killer in need of penitentiary time. Their case would rest on exactly what Daddy Dead had uttered, for at the time of the attack the little, frightened prisoner girl was in no immediate or imminent danger from the dead man. If established as true, this negated the self-defense argument regardless of the ugly circumstances and common sense.

  Once she’d gotten the upper hand, the little girl, not yet in her teens, had repeatedly driven the hammer into him, concentrating on cranium and face. Not an unusual target for sexually abused victims when they fought back; there seemed a sense of urgency to deconstruct the face of her attacker. Given more time, she might well have deconstructed other of the man’s parts.

  Marcus turned to the girl, who stood now with the hammer poised over his head. “I am a policeman, police, you know. Here to help you. What’s your name?”

  “Kim.”

  “Kim, you understand English?”

  “I know little. Know some Dutch and Pigeon.”

  “Dutch, really? You’re a very intelligent girl, aren’t you?” Was one of her parents of Dutch heritage, he wondered.

  “I am too smart for him,” she said, using the hammer to point to the dead man.

  You can let go of that hammer anytime, OK? You don’t need it.” Hand gestures came into play.

  She held firm to the hammer, her only salvation until now. “I know this man did terrible things to you, sweetie—”

  “I no sweetie!”

  “Sorry, sorry…dear, and I know you fought back—bravely. You were brave to fight back.” He reached an open hand for the hammer. “Please.”

  She hesitated.

  “It was self-defense, yes?” he said.

  “I kill him, yes. He bad. Beat me.” She held up a terribly bruised arm and the black around her left eye was apparent.

  “You had to protect yourself, Kim. Let me help you.”

  “Police no good.”

  �
�Why do you say that?”

  “Police man, he sold me to this pig!” she spat on the dead man.

  “Not all policemen are bad men, Kim.” Marcus wondered what kind of a cop could be involved in a child sex ring, but he also knew it happened more often than people wanted to know. It happened in big cities and small towns, and wherever abuse of power had been allowed to flourish from Seattle to Daytona Beach, from Boston to Hollywood, crisscrossing the country like a virus or a genetically coded element of evil in the human gene pool.

  He silently and firmly cursed his own species.

  The small girl finally relinquished the hammer, and sounding far older than her years, Kim said. “Take shower…clean blood off.”

  Marcus nodded, understanding her need to both leave the room and the body, and to shower. “You don’t want to do that, Kim. Don’t shower before someone can get here to help you. We’ve got to show that this man raped you. We’ll need—”

  “DNA, I know. Just wipe off stinking pig blood.”

  “Got it. Understood. Wash your face, hands, but nothing more, understood?”

  “D-Don’t want it on me!” She held up her bloody arms as if the red stuff burned, like acidic cesspool waste.

  Marcus wasn’t sure of the wisdom of allowing the girl to wash even hands and face, or to be alone just now, but she spoke and acted like a forty-year-old. He feared she’d been though hell and back, but at least, on the trip back, she’d taken out the creep who’d held her hostage.