Unnatural Instinct (Instinct thriller series)

by Robert W. Walker

  “The other lone renter. Did Nancy have any misgivings about him?”

  “No more than the usual.”

  “Let's keep digging for the Shaw property as well. Just in case,” said Jessica, and together, she and Richard went back to work on it.

  In a moment, they came across papers on Shaw's rental. The property here, too, was in a remote area.

  Jessica asked Carmella, “Show me on the map where these two properties are located.”

  After a moment's study of the respective rental papers and a bit of glaring at the county map, she stuck a tack into two exact spots. “The one Brown bought into beside the chemical factory is just here, east of Killamey Farms Road and right at the apex of Cresswell and Cornflower. Two dirt roads maintained by Ravenshire County. Here alongside is the dump site and commercial plants I told you about. Shaw, on the other hand, is here. Off County Line Road just outside Sweetwater, Maryland.”

  “Brown is closer to Nokesville, Virginia,” Richard pointed out. “We'll need this map and the contracts. We'll want to compare the signatures to handwriting we have from a man who abducted a D.C. judge two days ago. We think Nancy's disappearance may have some connection to the abduction of this earlier victim.”

  “Oh, my God...” The woman turned a shade of pale that threatened them with a fainting. Jessica helped her to an office chair. “You all right?” she asked the woman.

  “Until now, it just didn't really register with me that Nancy might... that she could really be missing, you know, or hurt, maybe dying somewhere.”

  JESSICA and Richard made their way back to FBI head-quarters, and Jessica sat silent for most of the ride. Richard finally broke the silence, saying, “We go rushing in there and—”

  “Alarms, bells, and whistles are sure to tip him off long enough that he could kill her outright—if she's alive. Even if we're as quiet as we can be, he might have the land around booby-trapped. We have to go in cautiously but fast, extremely fast.”

  “Yes, I agree... if he's alerted to our coming, he's likely to kill her.”

  “It's a moonless night. That'll cover us,” Jessica said. “We go in black commando gear. We take control of the compound and the factory beside the farm. We have to take charge before Purdy knows what's happening.”

  “We've got probable cause, and we'll have a search warrant this time. We'll use the factory next door as a staging area. Arrange it with the owners.” Richard drove on, but he looked across at Jessica, seeing the concern creasing her features. “You're as worried about Kim as you are DeCampe, I know.”

  “You read minds, too?”

  “I figure it had to do with your making a call back there.”

  Jessica had taken a moment to wonder how Kim Desinor was doing about now. An earlier phone call to her doctors revealed that she was sitting up, taking liquids by mouth, and that while her lesions hadn't gotten any worse, neither had they begun to heal. Jessica imagined that some part of her brain did not fully accept the placebo lie, that she must first see hard evidence. Dr. Shoate continued his treatment of ice and antibiotic gels, still treating it as a strange outbreak of an Ebola-like disease, for which he could only make the patient as comfortable as possible.

  Jessica then contacted the famous psychic Edward Lighttoller, who lived in the D.C. area. Peter Hurkos had been Lighttoller's mentor. Lighttoller was said to have remarkable gifts as a psychic, and Jessica knew that Kim had great admiration and respect for the man. Jessica started out by flattering the man and telling him about Kim Desinor's curious case, and in doing so, she made him curious about the DeCampe case as well.

  “How can I help you, Dr. Coran?” he finally asked.

  “If you would just see Dr. Desinor. I have no expectations, but if you could just see her, see what condition she is in, speak with her, offer her what you can.”

  “I'm not sure what I can offer her.” She asked, “Is there any way to reach out to Kim to convince her that she can and should disengage from the thing that holds her enthralled, the thing that is slowly killing her?”

  “And this thing... is it not also slowly killing DeCampe?” he asked.

  Jessica felt a sense of the man's power even over the phone. “Yes... yes, we are working under that assumption, sir.”

  “How do you do this for a living, Dr. Coran?”

  “Do this?”

  “Dance with the lunatic and the satanic?”

  “I do it. I just do it. I don't slow down to ask why or how; if I did, I'd likely go mad myself.”

  “Careful that you don't find yourself, in the end, dancing with the devil.”

  “Will you help Dr. Desinor?”

  “I will go see her, speak to her, offer what I can, yes. I have always held her in the greatest esteem.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No, Dr. Coran, thank you.”

  SEVENTEEN

  ... he who finds a certain proportion of pain and evil inseparably woven up in the life of the very worms, will bear his own share with more courage and submission.

  —THOMAS H. HUXLEY

  MAUREEN DeCampe whimpered and pulled away from the old man's touch. She'd been returned to the awful prison of being bound to the dead man. The old man now roughly slapped her in the back of the head and shouted for her to be still as he worked.

  “Jimmy tells me he's real proud how you still got spirit, Maureen... but he also wants now to hear you a-moaning and a-pleading, so he wants me to leave the gag outta your mouth.”

  He then returned to his three-legged stool, watching the slow progression of her death, the unmistakable look of fatigue and glee intermingling on his otherwise dour countenance. “No one can save you, Miss Maureen. No one in the whole world even exists for you now, nor nobody in all of Hell itself 'cept you and me—and Jimmy Lee, of course.” He then lifted the RE/MAX woman's cell phone over his head and said, “It's deader'n a doornail, this thing. I know that bitch lying yonder didn't reach nobody else.” He then hurled the cell phone into a black comer, the result a metallic rattle.

  He began humming and then singing a hymn, “I looked over Jordan...” to the sound of crickets and scurrying mice... “and what'd I see? But a band-a-angels, coming for me....”

  He somehow looked comfortable enough on the three- legged stool to easily remain there for eternity, and after a few bars of “Jordan,” he closed his eyes and appeared the picture of peace. He muttered under his breath, “I do right by you, Jimmy Lee. I do right by you.”

  Maureen DeCampe wondered if she could withstand a moment longer of this horror, this torture. She felt her mind slipping from reality. She'd experienced one, two, three blackouts, possibly more. The blackouts began with thoughts of loved ones, of seeing them again, of one day being reunited both with those who'd gone before her and those remaining behind. It was all she thought about now. She did not think about Isaiah Purdy perched like a gargoyle nearby; she did not think of Jimmy Lee's decaying body below her. She did not think about why the old man placed her on top so that the torture might last longer. She did not question why he had held her here in a dark, cooler area rather than in a sun-baked field or on some sun-baked rooftop, so as to hasten the decay. She no longer wished to ask such questions, questions that all seemed answered in one fell swoop: “It's Jimmy Lee's wish...” And she no longer cared to know the answers to such inquiries. It was useless, a waste of precious time. She chose rather to visit with her grandmother, her mother, her father, her grandfather, and other loved ones who'd passed over so many years before.

  She chose to not allow the putrefaction of her body to control her mind; chose not to allow her mind or soul one more single hopeless or negative thought, concentrating instead on the people she loved, her children and grandchildren.

  These thoughts gave her solace and peace and allowed her to drop off; he could not hurt her further if she were at peace. This much she knew; some voice from far beyond this place had posited that fact in her brain, and she felt certain it had been her mother's voi
ce. While the old bastard that had done this horrible thing to her heard Jimmy Lee in his head, she heard her mother's voice in hers. She hoped that Isaiah Purdy's punishment—his personal hell—would be Jimmy Lee forever in his head. That would be just retribution; she kept telling herself that somewhere beyond this world, a sure justice awaited the old farmer, one that was already dealing with his son.

  As a result of her acceptance, her peace with her impending death and the manner of her death, she had found the one weapon the old man had not suspected. She had found silence. She had become too quiet, too content for him, not making enough discomfiting noise. She no longer swore or moaned or whimpered. She would use the one weapon left her: her silence, her serenity, her peace. A small place in her soul told her that this above anything else she might do would make him crazy with rage and anger, and if it worked well enough, he might put the pitchfork through her and put her out of this misery. So now that Jimmy Lee wanted the gag out of her mouth, she would hold onto silence like a life rope thrown to her by her very soul— thrown out to her where she floated amid the pain, the suffering, and humiliation.

  Accepting the inevitable, she sublimated all her high emotions at having had a near escape, the death of Willis, her hatred for her tormentor and his dead son, this time, and this place.

  Where she lay, if she opened her eyes, she would see again that the devil had returned the pitchfork to Willis, standing it up neatly through her three wounds, using the woman's stiff body now as a kind of instrument, a place to keep the prongs sheathed. This scene of horror no longer created tears in her, although Purdy made sure that she lay within inches of Nancy Willis's dead eyes. Nothing touched her any longer. Not the smell of decay, not the touch of it against her skin. Her mind and strength of will to not care, to not smell, to not see, to not feel a thing, negated it all.

  Still, she knew that she had not given in or given up; quite the contrary, she had accepted her imminent death, and she had made peace with it, with her Maker, a God who could allow this curse to be placed upon her in her final hours. She still held onto her inner resolve, her inner strength, believing she would need all the energy she could muster to find her way along the blinding path to the true light shining down from the hands of her ancestors, a light she believed would lead her to their arms, to that safe harbor, God's kingdom. Mother had always called it a safe harbor with a sturdy lighthouse—her euphemism for the other side. Funny it should seem so obviously true now. She could smell the surf, and she smelled the chemistry that was home, the odors of her mother and the house she kept. Whatever form that kingdom took—lighthouse or home, shore or doorstep—she meant to be a part of it, and she meant to see her children there, to greet them on arrival when they would come. When all dreams would this way come, she thought.

  Yet she still found strength to condemn the old man in the deepest recesses of her heart, to mark him for God's special attention in a future arena. She silently condemned his soul to the farthest rung of Hades.

  He merely continued his hymn: “Looked over Jordan...” But something about his missing a beat here, a beat there, told her that the silence, the peace she had come to, had begun to disturb Isaiah Purdy to his core.... “What did I see....”

  She secretly, inwardly smiled. She felt that even in death she would win the final victory over Isaiah and Jimmy Purdy—the lice of Iowa. Purdy could no longer hurt her.

  Take me any time, Lord, she thought, resolved to never speak another word or make another plea.

  “What? What'd you say?” asked Isaiah, trying to coax words from her now, agitated because Jimmy Lee wanted to hear her beg more.

  “Go ahead, curse me, woman.” Isaiah hoped to hear more tortured sounds from her as he worked to rig a booby trap for anyone else who might come snooping.

  But Maureen would not give him the satisfaction. Silence is golden, she thought.

  JESSICA knew that DeCampe was likely to be killed quickly if the old man smelled a threat to his game. She would have to orchestrate the perfect raid, a commando-style hit on two locations: the house and the bam, if Maureen DeCampe had any hope whatsoever of living through this nightmare. Jessica and Richard had rushed back to the center of operations, and before she had even arrived, Jessica had assembled her entire team for debriefing and planning, using her cell phone. She had assembled as much firepower as they could muster for the raid.

  A map of the two suspect locations, Brown's rental and Shaw's rental, were already on the wall when she stepped into the ops room. Everyone was front and center, and at the back of the room stood Santiva, carefully taking in every detail.

  Jessica told them, “We need to move on the Shaw address and the Brown address. We'll need an aerial attack as well as a ground attack—aerial helicopters equipped with mega lights and infrared. Whatever else happens, I don't want this bastard slipping off into the night or getting into those woods and costing us days of manhunt. I want him locked down immediately. I've asked the military for support. They have infrared telephoto lenses that will tell us where the heat sources are, even through rooftops. We'll concentrate our ground attack where the choppers tell us to. We can't go in blind.”

  “He'll hear the choppers.”

  “We've contacted the factory beside the property to make enough noise to cover the choppers' approach. He won't be able to distinguish the sounds until late in our arrival. The factory is equipped with a sound system and a horrible old work whistle that will likely blow out our ears as well. They have an alarm system that we intend on using simultaneously as well.”

  “It's going to sound like an air raid over London in '44,” said Richard.

  “We've done a lot of old-fashioned homework already. One of the guards out at the plant has spoken to this man claiming to be Gideon Brown, and he characterized him a talkative but weird and antigovernment, the sort that might blow up a federal building. Maybe there's some truth in it, maybe not, but the man has I D'd Brown by the sketch artist's depiction we've been going by.”

  Jessica then told the assembled force, “While we're awaiting the paperwork, I want two teams assembled, one at each location, ready and waiting to go in, and I want you all to pray we have the right location in one of these choices.”

  “We can't afford another Iowa,” muttered J. T.

  “Iowa lost us time, but it was a logical step, and the noose we're about to put out there makes good sense as well. We'll pair off and go at each location with SWAT team backup.”

  ONE entire unit went for the Shaw residence, the other for the Brown rental. Nothing was spared. Both sites received equal attention. They needed results, and there was no room for error.

  Jessica's instincts told her, however, that the Brown place would be where they would find Maureen DeCampe, or what was left of the poor woman. Their first stop was the chemical/paint factory, which, at a glance, must be breaking sixteen federal laws. Having no time for such concerns, they worked out a timing with the owners to blare their whistle and alarm at once. The shock of noise would at first alert Purdy aka Brown, but he would just as quickly determine the noise to be coming from the factory, and as such, he would likely ignore it. At precisely ten seconds after the factory alarm, the hovering helicopters were to move in with minimum running lights and noise, searching infrared cameras seeking body heat, at which point Jessica would be given a go.

  Jessica and the others were in radio contact with the helicopters. Once given a report as to where the warm bodies were, they would simultaneously hit the lights and kick in doors.

  Everyone was aware of the risk of booby traps.

  Jessica and Santiva were in constant contact with the helicopters. Santiva insisted on leading the team at the house, Jessica at the bam. Keyes remained close at Jessica's side, J. T. and Sharpe with Santiva.

  Jessica gave the nod to the factory boss, who called his man to let loose with the enormous noisemakers. Jessica and the others had ready earplugs. In the allotted ten seconds, the helicopters moved into place to
begin scanning the structures for signs of life. Meanwhile, Jessica and the others, backed by SWAT teams, descended on the farmstead like an army seeking out its front lines. They moved rapidly to encircle both structures, and they had been able to do so efficiently, given the location of the chemical firm from which they poured. In less than forty seconds, with the helicopter lights now creating an eerie daylight scene outside the bam and homestead, Jessica got word through her earphones that the only signs of life were coming from the bam. The copilot shouted, “Possibly two life forms of any size.”

  Jessica knew that Santiva had gotten the same message, but his force still meant to enter and secure the house before joining the second squad at the bam. They proceeded there with caution, being alert for any traps the old man might have laid for them.

  J. T. went straight in behind Eriq Santiva, followed by Richard and the others. At the same time, the first strike force was entering the house, Jessica signaled for more men to go around to the rear of the bam to secure any exits there. When Eriq Santiva had learned of their plan to move on the two locations simultaneously, he knew there were inherent risks, but Jessica's argument that tonight was DeCampe's last night of life if they did not act had persuaded him to climb down the throat of a reluctant federal judge who had given the warrant to move on the Iowa location. The judge, understandably, wanted far more to go on than they had, but Eriq put on all the pressure of his office, and finally the warrant came through some twenty minutes after they had arrived within sight of the chemical factory abutting the targeted farmstead.

  “The realtor was right to be suspicious of anyone willingly paying up front cash money for this place,” Jessica noted in Shannon's ear.

  Still, they had found no sign of Nancy Willis's car or the woman. If she had come out here to learn more about the man to whom she'd rented the property, there was no evidence of it. The infrared had, however, picked up two living people inside the bam. Perhaps the realtor was being held hostage alongside DeCampe. But that still left Purdy. Was he one of the red flares on the infrared, or was he gone from this place already? His van was then spotted, parked to the rear of the house, beneath a stand of trees. Jessica got the report from Richard, who broke into her frequency.