Blind Instinct

by Robert W. Walker

  “Are you sure? It often changes things.”

  He kissed her under the pale lampposts of Blackfriar's Bridge. She eagerly kissed him back. It had been a long time since a man had made her feel light-headed, giddy, and wanted all at once.

  “Let's go to my place,” he suggested. “I can make you breakfast there.”

  “Why not enjoy the York? We'll order room service,” she countered.

  “I have no other reply than .. . Yes, why not?” With Richard Sharpe's deep, rhythmic breathing a soothing anthem alongside her, Jessica studied his peacefully dozing countenance. Unfortunately with her evil friend insomnia also in bed with her, Jessica took only fitful breaths of air; at the same time, she brought back the images and the wonder of Sharpe's and her intermingling. They'd meshed effortlessly, naturally, intuitively in their lovemaking; the two of them in sync, in symbiosis. How truly free and extraordinary.

  Unable to sleep, Jessica cautiously pulled herself up to a sitting position, not wishing to disturb Richard. She sat con­templating the feelings within her, stirrings which Richard had left rummaging about inside her. Jessica carefully brought her legs over the bed. She searched through her purse on the bedside table, and from it, she pulled forth the last letter she had received from James Perry.

  Both she and James had tried to hold on to the unraveling shreds of a long-distance relationship. Trying to make love work from across oceans and continents was hard to do in any time zone, and in any historical era. Was it an impossi­bility in the late 1990s, she wondered, or simply an impos­sibility for the likes of Dr. Jessica Coran? At any rate, their long-nurtured, long-distance affair had proved impossible, no matter whose fault, hers or Jim's or theirs.

  Perhaps, she simply hadn't the determination required to maintain any close relationship. “So what do I do?” she mut­tered to herself. “I intentionally seek out relationships divided by continents and pernicious seas. Ultimately, safer that way,” she finished with a disdainful moan. She then stared down at Richard, whose catlike serenity irked her; she so envied it. A part of her, a large part of her, wanted to simply cry her eyes out, here and now. She wanted to cry for James, cry for the death of their love, cry for the confusion she felt, cry for Richard and herself, for what they had now undertaken to­gether, cry for the future of their obvious long-distance rela­tionship—the one that could come of this night, if she let it. She wondered if it would simply be a great deal easier and wiser and cleaner and better if she told Richard they had no future whatever together. That he must immediately forget any thoughts along those lines. She wondered if she ought not to simply lie to him, tell him that she could never love him as she did James. “Would certainly make things simpler,” she mumbled aloud.

  She wanted to bum Jim's last letter, bum it in effigy to their several “reconciliations” and get the anger out. Instead, she sat rereading it, reminding herself that her intuition, upon reading the letter the first time around, had told her the rela­tionship was over. She'd stubbornly and foolishly ignored the information from within, denial being the predator of all rea­son, the predator of all who failed to heed their own inner voices.

  Jessica realized now for the second time, that all the signals had been given her then, and they were vivid, huge signals, like billboards in the sky. Signs she had simply chosen to ignore; signs she unconsciously shunned, like an insistent dream that one ignored only to find it coming to full-blown life.

  “And me with my handwriting expertise, learned the hard way on the job,” she muttered in a whisper. “If only I'd sub­jected this letter to the same analysis I would a criminal's letter.” If only I had paid attention to the handwriting, the hesitation marks that skitter between the lines, she thought now. But like a motorist on an interstate, she'd been moving too fast to read the fine print on the billboard.

  She imagined that if she closely examined his last several letters, she would find signs of the impending doom that had befallen the two of them. Love makes you blind, she told herself. She told her shadow self, the one keeping her awake, something altogether different. “Love's a war, a battle for one's soul, and in the battle pieces are lost, scars won, mostly scars bearing the appearance of defensive wounds. Love's poison. Love's a bitch. Love's a killing offense.”

  Richard—half asleep and in what appeared a muddled nightmare—crinkled his forehead and mumbled something about a bastard, stakes, and crosses. Jessica imagined his per­sonal nightmare of the moment filled to overflowing with the spirits of menace in a place thickly populated by demons. A pained gasp for air made her wonder if he were dreaming of his own crucifixion death, pinned to a cross, unable to move or to fight back. Then as suddenly as the darkness had swept over his brow, the dreamer smiled a grin similar to those she'd seen on Coibby and Burton, one of contentment, peace.

  Obviously, Sharpe lives, breathes, and sleeps his work, she thought. Just as I do. The conviction grew the longer she stared down at his prone figure. Still, he was older than James, and retirement for him loomed on the near horizon. He'd be free to come to America. They could both live in the Quantico area where he might buy a large farm—no, a ranch with horses. She loved horses and horseback riding, and when he would call for her to come out on a weekend, she'd drop everything and be there and . .. Her dreams ran a bit rampant for a half second, her eyes fixed on Richard Sharpe lying alongside her, her “alongsider” friend and lover.

  Their lovemaking rivaled any lovemaking she'd ever known, and she sensed it the tip of the iceberg with this man. They had been cautious, yet passionate with one another, halt­ing yet fulfilling each other's needs. Jessica knew that she could grow to love this man.

  She reread the letter for the eleventh time. James had des­perately tried to make it come clear to her, clear that she either choose her career or him, clear that he could no longer accept the status quo: the burden of the long-distance love affair they'd established had fallen squarely on her shoulders—typ­ical of the male of the species.

  Checking the time, realizing it is after twelve noon in Ha­waii, Jessica impulsively telephones James. She checks the digital figures on her bedside clock and while she realizes the hour puts him at work, she calls nonetheless. Her toe begins tapping at the air where it dangles alongside the bed, and she mentally taps her thoughts: He will be at his desk, she assures herself, pacing, wondering if he'd done the right thing, calling off their relationship, worried sick about her. On the fourth ring, he answers, acting surprised to hear from her again, when in fact he is not in the least surprised. When he speaks, he spews forth venom, telling her, “Jess, damnit, it's over now! Now, please never call here again!”

  In the background, she hears someone softly asking if everything is all right: a female associate. Jessica throws the telephone through a nearby mirror where it is swallowed up. Her eyes open, and she finds, found, located herself in time and place, found herself being held against Richard Sharpe's powerful chest, listening to the beating drum of his heart, feeling the power of his grip on her back where his hands and fingers massaged while his voice soothed her pain.

  Sharpe had grabbed her, holding on, telling her, “You're all right, Jessica. Your nightmare is just that, a nightmare.” His voice flowed like fine wine, strong, firm, reassuring, solid.

  “Sorry,” she softly apologized, awake enough now to dis­tinguish dream from reality, to assure him that she was no infant in need of coddling.

  “Lamenting the death of an old relationship is never easy,” he replied, holding up the letter from Jim Parry.

  She snatched at the paper, tearing it even as he welcomed her taking it. “That's private!” she shouted, realizing that this moment could end their relationship with one stroke, that it represented one of those escape exits from a relationship that Dr. Donna LeMonte, her psychiatrist and friend, had so often told Jessica she grasped at like straws. She could so easily overreact, sending Richard out into the night, screaming at him for daring to touch her letter from Jim. She could easily accuse h
im of having read her private correspondence, of finding the act vile. Or she could hold on. Hold to the mo­ment, hold to Richard, hold.

  “I quite well know and understand the depression and hor­ror of a long-term relationship falling apart,” he calmly said, his hands still massaging her back.

  “None of my relationships have any chance whatsoever, thanks to my ... This obsessive drive to be the best forensic scientist I can be.” She found herself confessing and not knowing why. Sharpe brought it out in her. She wanted to share everything with him, including her darkest moments and her every mole.

  'To be the best at something. No better desire or goal on the planet. And you are, you know, the best M.E. I've ever seen at work. You don't have to keep proving yourself to me. Boulte, yes. Me, no.” He said it with the rich, lusty laugh which he'd trumpeted at the theater.

  “God, you're a wonderful man,” she told him.

  “That's the nicest thing a woman, any woman, has said to me in a long time.”

  She bit on her lower lip, pouting. “So, you've found me out, and quickly. I found you irresistible from the start, from the moment I first saw you in my office.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “Nonsense, Inspector. You're both too observant and too fast for that, Sharpe.”

  He countered, saying, “I find you keenly quick—intelligent, capable—and as to your obsessions, well, I rather fancy them admirable obsessions. Far more so than those of women ob­sessed with hair, lipstick, and ornamentation.”

  She smiled at this. “Will you find it so admirable once I've returned to the States?”

  “We're both adults, Jessica. We've both been in prior re­lationships, both good and bad. I have no wish to put any yokes on you. Besides, it's a great deal closer to London from Washington than it is to Hawaii.”

  She looked peculiarly at him. She hadn't explained to him anything about James Parry or ever mentioned Hawaii to him, not that she could recall. “Then you did read Jim's letter. How else could you know it was Hawaii?” she asked, point-blank. “You said so, in your sleep.”

  “I did?”

  “You repeatedly said the words 'paradise' and 'Hawaii' amidst a gibberish about spawning whales. I could not follow. I tried waking you before you toppled the phone, but—”

  'Toppled the phone?”

  He pointed to the floor beside the bed. She realized now that the buzzing in her ears was the phone off its cradle where it lay on the floor beside the bed.

  “Perhaps you're not quite over this fellow in Hawaii, in which case, I feel that perhaps I ought not to have stayed.”

  “No, no, Richard. I'm glad you and I, that we . . . that we have had this moment. It's been ...” She wanted to say ther­apeutic, but she feared he'd take that description badly. He reached her mouth with his and covered her halting words, taking her breath away, feeding on it. She responded with quick energy, returning his probing kiss, feeling the heat and passion rising in Richard Sharpe again, feeling her own passions well up and boil over.

  “It's been a long time since I've enjoyed a woman, and never one so beautiful as you,” he continued the none-too-subtle flattery, and she loved it.

  “It's been a long time since a man has lied so well to me,” she countered.

  “Lie!” He laughed and repeated it. “Lie? Me? Inspector Richard Sharpe of Scotland Yard? Lie to a lady? Never about such matters of importance.”

  “Shut up. Kiss me.” She kissed him, James's letter falling in a crumple on the floor beside the bed with the phone still off the hook.

  They made love for the second time, and the second proved better than the first time. Jessica's thoughts and memories of James Parry dissipated and faded as Richard's touch opened her mind to new possibilities. She particularly enjoyed hearing Sharpe laugh in complete and total abandon when he came in her.

  They enjoyed a shower together and a large breakfast via room service the next morning, and Richard, having no change of clothes, left ahead of Jessica to swing by his flat to find what he needed. They both felt a euphoria about the step they had taken in forging a personal bond. Neither felt obligated to the other, and yet both wished to get to know the other at a still deeper level. They had parted with this feeling strong between them. Jessica had stopped just short of telling Richard how awful she felt at ever having, even for a moment, suspected him in setting up the Crucifixion murders to further his career. The nasty, vulture-atop-a-tree suspicious mind she had cultivated over the years, so rich in its cynicism, so ca­pable in its bullshit detection, had simply kicked in prema­turely there in Hyde Park when Richard had stepped off the crime scene so abruptly, leaving her alone with Copperwaite. Now she rather admired his having simply dropped every­thing—all of his duties and responsibilities—to seek out his girls in an effort to reassure himself of their safety.

  Still, she thought better of telling him of her foolish sus­picions during that fleeting moment in Hyde Park. The sus­picion had come and gone like a bird flying in through an open window and out another. No big deal. Funny, really. Perhaps, one day, she might tell him, so that he might see clearly and exactly the bad sort he'd become involved with. But not now, not here. She feared spoiling what they had only just found.

  The phone rang, and Jessica found Chief Inspector Boulte on the other end. “I've gathered together every available de­tective, policeman, and investigator in and out of Scotland Yard who has devoted any time at all to the case, and it has amounted to some one hundred and fifty chaps and ladies, all of whom I wish for you to speak to this morning.”

  “Speak to ... today?”

  “As soon as you can get here, yes.”

  “About what we've uncovered thus far about the Crucifier? “Exactly.”

  “You know how very little that is, Chief Inspector.”

  He cleared his throat before replying, “I do, but our chaps need some guidance, and that is what you are here for, cor­rect? Haven't you developed a complete picture—profile—of the killer as yet?”

  “I have some preliminary notes, but—”

  “Good show, then read from your notes. See you in half an hour, then?”

  He hung up before she could protest with another word.

  Jessica quickly dressed now in a lime green two-piece suit with a forest-green blouse. The colors accentuated her auburn hair and set off her smooth, tanned skin and hazel eyes. She located her black valise and keys and set off for the stroll from the York to the Yard.

  The morning air felt crisp, clean, and brand-new, and the sun felt like the life-giving source that it was. All around her, life appeared bright, teemed full with promise, and Jessica realized that her dream of telephoning Parry had been a com­pensatory dream. Compensating for her true feelings of relief that it was finally and cleanly over with James. While she cherished their most intimate and fun-filled moments together, she, too, had felt the weight of their relationship like heavy chains of late. Her entire body now felt airy. Still a lump of remorse stuck in her craw, a set of smoky, mirrored images of James and her together in past moments, embracing; im­ages of them in an imagined future. This sad and wasted hope conspired with her unease at presenting what little evidence they had against the Crucifier at an open meeting at Scotland Yard. It proved enough to make her feel nauseous. Her stom­ach felt as if someone had left a hot poker inside her.

  She tried to concentrate on her surroundings, ban the ill thoughts, doubts, and fears. This area of London displayed wealth and pomp on every comer, at every hotel door and lobby, even down to what the doormen wore. Public pounds kept this area of the City clean day and night. The vagrants were kept out, leaving tourists with the impression that Britain suffered no homeless problem, no poverty, prostitution, or drugs. All social ills locked away or kept at bay, just beyond the tourist-dollar districts.

  Jessica watched London cabs and buses and people bustle about the streets. Each had a purpose, a sure destination; while she, like a rank tourist, stared at all the wonders of the City.
Suddenly a strange, odd, eerie twinge of fear struck like small lightning down her spine, as if the Crucifier were close by, damned near within touch, simply observing her out of mor­bid curiosity, having learned of her presence on the case. Yet when she stopped to look in every direction, staring down one cabdriver, she found no one stalking her, no cameras pointed.

  She dismissed the notion and continued on to Scotland Yard, finally coming within sight of the revolving cube-shaped sign. At the entry, she flashed both her FBI badge and her temporary Scotland Yard ID and was allowed to pass by the armed security guards.

  She didn't relish the idea of speaking before the huge crowd Boulte had assembled, and she wondered where in the building such a crowd might be stored. She stepped back to the guards, asking advice. One of the pair, in his late twenties to early thirties, said she must take the elevator for the top floor. “Entire top floor is a theater with a stage,” he told her.

  When the elevator opened on the top floor of the building, she found people in suits milling so thick that she had to fight her way off the elevator before the doors closed on her. She'd found the meeting room, a large lecture hall with a micro­phone and chairs set up before a table at the front.

  Richard Sharpe, Stuart Copperwaite, Father Luc Sante, and Paul Boulte sat at the panel table, all of them looking sharply up at her as she entered. There was an expectant look on Boulte's face, like a pit bull before feeding. Luc Sante gave her a professional nod and a beaming smile. Copperwaite bit his own lower lip, and Richard dropped his gaze, as if pre­tending no interest in her whatsoever.

  Just as it should be, she thought before plunking down her valise at her feet and a small notebook on the table.

  “Good, Dr. Coran,” said Boulte. “Glad you could join us. I've informed Dr. Coran that we wish to share all we have with the citywide task force, including but not limited to the information Dr. Coran unearthed regarding the tongues, and the meaning of the words found on those brands. We may proceed now, gentlemen and ladies.”