Pure Instinct (Instinct thriller series)

by Robert W. Walker

  She glared at Alex and back at the door, which was now being pounded with great force, readying to buckle under the combined weight of at least two men on the outside who continued to shout and storm. She snatched up Ben's heart and rushed into the back room, slamming the door behind her.

  Alex shouted for help as two uniformed policemen came crashing through the door, followed by the IAD detectives who'd been hounding Alex's heels since the incident at the cafe. “Get him off meeeee! Get me up!”

  “What in the name of Holy God!”

  “Jesus have mercy,” said one of the uniformed cops, his gun trained on Alex's forehead.

  “We're both detectives. His killer's in the next room, damn you! Tell them, Hirschenfeldt! Get me the hell up and use extreme caution over there!” he shouted to the second uniformed cop, who was trying to get into the other room, having heard noises coming from that quarter. “Damnit, man, it's the Queen of Hearts killer! She's locked herself inside there! Help me to my feet!”

  She'd jammed a chair beneath the knob of the inner door, and it took them several minutes before they could break through, but she was gone through an open window where the sash flapped madly as if shouting her direction. Through the window a wild wind howled in on them like a ghostly warning not to follow, but Alex heeded only his rage and instinct, hurling himself toward the window. Half in and half out the window, he realized only now that a sudden storm had blotted out the sky with ominous and inky clouds, ready to burst forth with a heavy rain, the sweet, metallic smell of it insinuating as much, while all around him the wind swept in angry eddies, rattling the fire escape, a backlash of the hurricane.

  The woman calling herself Michael Dominique had vanished with little trace of ever having been here, but she'd mercifully dropped or had decided to leave Ben's now-still heart on the wrought-iron fire escape two flights below, where it hadn't met with a gentle landing. Having obviously decided to race on without the organ she'd killed for, she had instead bounded acrobatically up or down the fire escape, and now like a vicious killer out of an Edgar Allan Poe story, the monster had been swallowed up in the stormy New Orleans night.

  “What in the name of God happened here, Detective?” asked Hanson, Hirschenfeldt's partner, in an accusatory tone, grabbing hold of Alex at the windowsill.

  “Never mind that! Beat hell back to your unit. Tell 'em what we have here. I want men scouring the area, including the roof and adjacent buildings. It's the Hearts killer, damn you, and he's a she... a she pretending to be a he, pretending to be a she.”

  All the other policemen stared at him, wondering what he was babbling. “The killer's a woman pretending to be a transvestite,” he said, attempting to clarify, “and she gets them that way. Lulls them into a false sense of security and then lets fly with that damned knife of hers.”

  He started out the window after the killer.

  “Where're you going?” asked the older of the two uniforms, his partner on the way to the unit, the two IAD guys useless, wide-eyed and gaping.

  “After her.” Alex yanked free of Hanson's grasp and climbed out onto the fire escape, trying to find any clue as to which direction she'd taken, up or down. From the look of the undisturbed dust below him, he opted for going straight up.

  “I think she's on the roof. Send backup as soon as you can!”

  Alex raced for the roof, taking the steps two at a time until a powerful gust of wind threatened to lift him over the side. He held on more firmly, and once he'd made it to the top of the roof, he stared across at the expanse, having trouble standing, the powerful wind threatening to send him back over the side without aid of the fire escape. He hunkered down low to the black-tar roof, scanning in a 360-degree turn for every possible avenue of escape. There were hiding places everywhere, and the roof was closely aligned with another.

  Something told him it was useless, that she was gone, and only then did he realize just how much blood covered his shirt. Both of his forearms were crisscrossed with knife wounds where he'd fended off the bitch's blows. His shirt and coat were caked with his and Big's blood. He felt a sudden light headedness, an inability to focus, and not even the wind could calm the stench of blood now in his nostrils. He felt an overwhelming sense of loss engulf him, realizing that when he went back down off this roof, he'd never again speak to Ben or be yelled at by the big goon.

  A cold, bitter rain began to fall over Alex, drenching his hair, melting his tears and washing his wounds. It was the last thing he felt or remembered before blacking out.

  32

  Envy's a coal comes hissing hot from hell.

  —Phillip James Bailey

  Alex, still wracked with pain from his own wounds, had cornered the sadistic Hearts killer, and he had destroyed the monster, at least in his fevered mind where he slept in hospital.

  After the storm had subsided, after his wounds had stopped palpitating, he found himself chasing Thommie Whiley's E, alias Dominique, out that window in Surette's apartment. E leaped manfully from building to building, as if capable of flight, but Alex was also up to the challenge, despite the profuse bleeding from his wounds—stitches already in place and torn now. Regardless, his dream ego kept on the killer's heels, shadowing every move, every dodge.

  The killer made one leap too many for a wall too far, landing on the other side and barely holding on with those ugly clawlike fingernails Alex so vividly recalled now. The bastard was a guy wearing fake nails and even a set of false breasts which dangled below his shirt.

  “Help! Help me!” screamed the bloody killer who had just brutalized Ben.

  Alex backed up and made a prodigious leap across the crevasse between them, miraculously landing on the black-topped roof. He then crawled on his belly to where the SOB clung to his/her petty life there at the ledge.

  The killer's pleading eyes were framed in fear, a cowardly creature with heavy makeup, rouge at the cheeks and thick, red lipstick, a kind of crazed clown.

  “Pull me up, damn you! Pull me up, now!” she/he cried in a falsetto voice.

  Alex grabbed hold of the killer's flesh and found it soft to the touch, feminine and warm. This startled him, and he looked again into Dominique's eyes. He was a she, she was a he... and then back again. There was no earthly way to tell, save for the ferocity of his/her strength as she/he clung now to Alex, ripping into Alex's skin with those bird-of-prey claws of his/hers.

  “Let her fly, Sincy,” said Ben deYampert, standing alongside, having materialized from the cloud of dream. “Let's see how well the bitch flies.”

  “Save me, you must... you must save me!” came the killer's plea, piercing and painful to his ear.

  “Kill it, Alex... whatever it is... kill it!” demanded Ben's vengeful spirit. “You owe me that much!”

  Alex couldn't easily let go even though he wished to fulfill Big's last request. His struggle with himself was nothing compared to the struggle against her clawing, bloodletting grip; in fact the connection between them, killer and hunter, became so slick with blood that it was the red milk of life which soon and ironically made it impossible for the monster to hold onto Alex any longer.

  She/he slid in minute increments, one lurch at a time, from Alex's grip. He was unsure whether he wanted the fiend to die so easily or not. He wanted to see the thing suffer as he had suffered the loss of his friend, and as he had seen Surette and Thommie Whiley and other victims of the Queen of Hearts killer suffer. He wanted to rip the bastard's heart out, make it a clean, even, full-circled kind of revenge, but too, amid all the rage and chaos of the moment, Alex also pleaded to have his curiosity quenched.

  “Tell me where the hearts are kept and what you do with them, and I'll save you!” he lied.

  But the blood slick created from the gushing wounds and a handful of bloody human hearts the maniac clung to was too much, and the moment the monster sailed away into the oblivion of the pit below Alex's dream self, he awakened with one resolve.

  Sweating, his wrists in pain from the imaginary
rents and tears inflicted on him, Alex had recalled the one word the ugly demon had whispered to him when he'd asked where she kept the hearts: Raveneaux.

  He opened his eyes to find that he was not at home but in a hospital room surrounded by Captain Landry, Kim Desinor and Dr. James Aubrey Longette, the hypnotist and shrink.

  “The regression therapy worked, Alex. You've told us everything that happened in that room,” Kim assured him.

  Landry was staring out the hospital window, quietly cursing to himself and repeating the name Raveneaux.

  Even Dr. Longette knew what the name stood for in New Orleans and Louisiana.

  “Just who or what is this Raveneaux?” asked Jessica, who looked on behind a concerned Kim Desinor.

  “Big plantation home north of the city,” replied Landry.

  “Home to Senator Raveneaux, retired General George Maurice Raveneaux,” added Dr. Longette with some bemused delight. “How could that old upstanding white cracker man know anything about these horrible killings? How could the killer be connected to one of the most powerful men in the state?” The doctor was awestruck, yet jaded enough to accept the possibility. “You know, to this day some people believe that Jack the Ripper was born of royal blood and lived in Windsor Castle.”

  “Unless the killer was having us on,” replied Landry. “Listen, doctors,” he said solemnly to Kim, Jessica and Dr. Longette, “I don't want a word of it, not a single word, going beyond this room. Do you understand? An accusation like this... well, it must be handled with all due caution and by the book.”

  “Yes, indeed, an important man like Raveneaux, a member of the white elite, a member of the old family guard. Be a different story if the man were black, though, wouldn't it, Captain Landry?” said the shrink and hypnotist, his eyes bulging with rage.

  “I'm surprised at you, Dr. Longette,” countered Kim in her most facetious voice. “Do you mean to say there's different laws for Cajun, Creole and black folks than there are for whites in New Orleans?”

  Landry just gritted his teeth and pretended he'd heard no objections. “Alex and I'll have to pursue this by the book, and that will mean somehow, some way we're going to have to convince a judge in this town to give up a warrant on former Senator Raveneaux. You know what that's going to entail?” Alex attempted a laugh, which only hurt his bruised insides, and then he said, “Maybe by the time you get that warrant, I'll be ready to walk out of here, go up-country with you, Carl. Just be sure it covers all the Senator's dwellings and vehicles.”

  Landry's usually deep worry lines had just sunk deeper into the folds of his skin. “Christ... it would have to be Raveneaux....”

  Kim was worried about Alex, the wounds he'd suffered, and she was also worried about her associate and friend, Jessica Coran. Jessica had been subdued, like an exhausted swimmer just finished with the English Channel. She'd been on the phone all morning in an attempt to locate James Parry, wishing to send him news, but she'd been unable to reach him. Meanwhile, she'd refused to check in with Paul Zanek, who had become irrational about the whole matter, blaming Lew Meade for having bungled the whole operation.

  Zanek had called Kim, shouting at her, but she hadn't taken any crap from Zanek either, telling him, “What operation's that, Paul? The bag-Matisak operation? Well, you can stop worrying about Matisak. Jessica bagged him just fine. Meade's got a report on the Matisak matter coming over your fax as we speak, and I'm sure you'll like the results.” She'd then briefly explained what had been found at the Gatorland Storage facility.

  Paul had punctuated all she said by remarks such as, “Are you sure? Are you putting me on? Is that exactly how it went down? But that's damned good news, damned great!”

  “Yeah, sure it's great, but at what expense to Jessica, Paul? Have you given her any thought at all?”

  “What're you, crazy? She's all I've thought about. Damned straight I have. I put round-the-clock surveillance on her, despite the fact she didn't want it! I arranged everything through Lew Meade with clearance from Santiva.”

  “Well, congratulations, Paul. Hoist a glass for Jessica. In the meantime, she's surviving quite nicely.”

  She'd hung up on Zanek, and turned and looked across the room at Jessica, who'd chosen to hide out at her place. Kim had realized that Jessica simply needed some time and emotional distance. She'd been consoling Jessica when she learned of Alex's brush with death and how poor Ben deYampert had met his end.

  At that point, Kim had dropped everything and rushed to the hospital, Jessica chasing after. Moments after her arrival, Kim had learned of Landry's request that Alex undergo hypnosis so they could learn all they could about what had happened in the apartment where Ben deYampert was killed.

  Alex was now insisting on getting up and going straight for this place called Raveneaux without a warrant, on probable cause alone, and he meant to do it with or without anyone's help, and he meant to do it this moment, disregarding his doctor's advice, disregarding his captain and Jessica's objections or Kim's concern for him. His attempt to get up, however, caused a flurry of dizziness and a tongue-biting pain searing up from his midsection where damaged, bruised ribs were still sending out shards of gnawing distress. His arms were both in bandages, but his hands were free. An orderly was called in by Landry and the hospital machine was put into motion, and in a few minutes Alex was being pumped with a sleep-inducing medication that calmed him into a stark white doze.

  Just as Alex was going under, he mumbled to Landry, “I'm going ... with you... to this place...Raveneaux.”

  “For now, you get some rest, Alex,” Landry said. But now he was speaking to an unconscious man.

  Jessica took Landry aside and said, “Me too, Captain. I want to be with you when you go out to this Raveneaux place.”

  “Listen here, I want you to get some rest yourself, young lady. You've gone through a terrible trauma with that fiend Matisak, and both of you”—he included Kim with a ges-ture—”you've been up all night on this vigil over Alex, and I appreciate your concern for him, but you're not going to be any good to anyone if you collapse.”

  “I'll get some rest now, knowing he's okay,” Kim countered.“It's going to be a while before I get that warrant—if I can get it at all. As to probable cause, that's a long shot and not a very good long shot at that.”

  “I'll see what I can do about a federal warrant,” suggested Jessica.

  “That would be great.”

  “But don't count on it,” cautioned Jessica. “Meade doesn't like the idea.”

  “I'll be in touch, and truth be known, there's some things we picked up at the scene which I'd like you to touch over, Dr. Desinor. See what comes of 'em. Would you mind terribly?” asked Landry.

  She shook her head. “No, of course not. That's what I'm here for. Anything I can do to help, which so far hasn't been much.”

  “You don't go second-guessing yourself now, Doctor. You've done far more than we could've expected here.”

  Dr. Longette shook Landry's hand. “I want to see you raid that old plantation out there. Wish I could be with you, in fact, but... anyway, that's going to be a sight for the six o'clock news.”

  “Hold on now, Dr. Longette, you promise me you won't go calling Channel 2 or anybody. Say it... say it.”

  Longette took a deep breath and finally nodded. “All right, Captain. If that's how you want it.”

  “Say it.”

  “I promise you, Carl.”

  Now Landry breathed out of relief. Longette then left, a light chuckle on his lips.

  “You'd best get that rest yourself now. Dr. Desinor, Dr. Coran,” suggested Landry.

  “I will,” replied Kim, “but for now, I think I'll just stay a while with Alex, so he doesn't wake up alone.”

  He wakes up alone every morning, Landry thought, but did not say. “He'll be out for hours, maybe till tomorrow. Go home... get some rest, both of you.”

  “You go on back to the hotel, Jess. I'll just stay a little longer,” Kim lied, and sen
t Landry and Jessica on their way.

  When Alex's eyes opened and cleared after the dreamless, white-cloud sleep which only sedation could bring, he found Kim Desinor sitting alongside him, holding his hand in hers, her eyes red and moist from her having had no sleep and from weeping.

  “Hey, what gives? What're the tears for? You okay?” He tried to clear a dry, cracked throat. “Somepin happen while I was out?”

  “Everything's such a mess. Ben's gone, you've been hurt so badly, Jessica's so depressed, and I... I haven't been of any use to any of you. If I'd only heeded my own best voice. I knew I was getting crazy, mixed messages from the killer about identity, so why couldn't I have—”

  “You're talkin' nonsense, Kim. That's crazy talk, and I don't want to hear you blaming yourself over Ben's death. God, if anyone's to blame, hell, the big lug wanted to go home to his wife, and I insisted we make one more stop.”

  She leaned in over him and found herself hugging him. With bandaged forearms and wrists, he returned the hug as best he could, and they were both surprised at how casually he found her lips, his own passion rising to the surface of its own volition. “It's all right,” he reassured her. “I'm going to be okay.”

  Behind them someone had stepped into the hospital room. It was Carl Landry, accompanied by Jessica Coran, who was polite enough to noisily clear her throat, a smile coloring her features, obviously happy to see that Kim and Alex at long last were getting along so well.

  Landry cleared his throat almost in echo of Jessica and said, “Glad that I've found you here, Dr. Desinor. Alex, how're you feeling?”

  “Some better.”

  “Doctors are saying bruised ribs, nothing broken,” Kim began, pushing away from Alex, standing now, a bright and energetic glow about her. “And the forearm gashes should heal in a few weeks like new.”

  Landry nodded knowingly and muttered, “Battle scars.” Then his tone changed to one of accusation. “You never left this room, did you, Dr. Desinor?”