Unnatural Instinct (Instinct thriller series)

by Robert W. Walker

  She choked and coughed uncontrollably, and a medic placed an oxygen mask over her face. Again, Richard held her. She snatched away the oxygen mask and said, “I've got to be with J. T.” This brought on another coughing spasm, but she forced out the question, “What hospital?”

  Richard firmly said, 'Take it easy. He's in shock, Jess.”

  Coma due to blood loss, she feared.

  “He isn't going to miss you for a while, Jess. Slow down.”

  She stumbled but pulled away from Richard. “I gotta be there for J. T.”

  Keyes, also in bad shape from smoke inhalation, on her back in the nearby ambulance, pulled up to her elbows and shouted, “They're taking us to the same hospital, Jess. Don't worry.”

  Richard gritted his teeth and said, “Don't be so stubborn, Jessica. You are into a case of the seriously ill leading the seriously ill.” He guided her to the second bed in the waiting ambulance, but Jessica failed to climb in, instead taking several steps toward Santiva as he approached. Meanwhile, another ambulance pulled up toward the open area fronting the bam, this one kicking up yet another cloud of sand and gravel. “Exactly what you need,” Richard said to her. “More bloody smoke filling your lungs.

  Jessica noticed for the first time that Eriq Santiva was bleeding from the forehead and shoulder. Still, he somehow managed to be overseeing everything. Jessica saw him bend over the somewhat charred body of Nancy Willis, her RE/ MAX badge discolored with grimy soot, the puncture holes in her chest caked with dried blood. Her body would also leave here by ambulance.

  Jessica met Eriq halfway, asking about his wounds.

  “Swinging ax almost took off my head,” he grumbled. “I was just ahead of J. T., and if he hadn't shoved me ahead... well, I would not be here talking to you... or anyone else, at least not in this life.”

  JESSICA'S head bandaged now, she and Keyes having had plenty of oxygen by this time, both women concerned themselves with Eriq Santiva's obvious wounds. Both refused any further attention, instead wanting to not be treated as invalids. Both also wanted to know how DeCampe was doing.

  Seasoned paramedics, who had seen almost every kind of wound imaginable, had difficulty dressing Maureen DeCampe's wrists, ankles, her cheek, and several abdominal areas where the skin had broken down, where the pericardial glue of the cells had dissolved and become part of the decay. They were busy pumping her with fluids and antibacterial and antibiotic medications. She'd been hooked up to an IV drip. Jessica believed her to be in good hands. Looking down at the still figure beneath the blanket, flanked by Eriq and Keyes, Richard Sharpe asked, “Is she... do you have any hope for... will she make it? How bad is... the decay?”

  “It's not good, and she's damn near out of her mind, and she'll need repeated surgeries to repair the damage done her skin, but for now, she needs to be stabilized,” replied Jessica. “And she's going to need a great deal of psychological help, believe me.”

  The medics began working furiously on DeCampe's heart, as it suddenly began to falter. The medics roared into life and rallied, pleading with DeCampe to stay with them as they did what they were trained to do. The scene riveted Jessica's attention, and she thought how very sad if that monstrous Isaiah Purdy had won after all.

  These thoughts began to filter in when suddenly, from out of the flaming bam, a screaming, clothes-smoking banshee with a giant red poker—a flaming pitchfork that was scorching the flesh of Isaiah Purdy's hands—lunged straight at the ambulance holding DeCampe. Afire yet determined, Purdy came straight for DeCampe, resolved to drive the pitchfork into her where she lay. Eriq was thrown off balance when Jessica turned at the disturbance, her shoulder smashing into Santiva as she wheeled and fired a single round. The single bullet bit into the man's brain, precisely between his eyes, sending him and his pitchfork down with a thud. The pitchfork still smoldered in the cool night air. Richard Sharpe, who had also reacted with gunfire, had sent a bullet through the old man's heart. “God damn it! We should throw his stinking carcass back into the flames,” shouted Jessica, raising a fist to the dead man. “No, no... better that we can ID him beyond a reasonable doubt,” Santiva countered, as he climbed to his feet, his gun in his hand, looking dizzy now from loss of blood and the recent excitement. Richard Sharpe now took charge, running on adrenaline, ordering one of the medics to look after Chief Santiva's wounds. He and Jessica both realized only now that Eriq had been in a state of walking trauma, and that the loss of blood he had sustained threatened to kill him.

  “How is he?” Jessica asked the medic attending Eriq now, and she thought what a mess the lot of them were. All brought to you by the Purdys of Iowa City.

  “Bleeding badly. An ax on a pulley severed an artery in his arm, and the blow to the head is causing internal bleeding. I gotta tend the arm first, then we need to get him to Holy Cross stat—do something about the head injury.”

  “Get yourselves attended to,” said the medic. “You still haven't gotten an all clear for that smoke inhalation.”

  Richard guided Jessica and Shannon back to their own waiting ambulance.

  EPILOGUE

  Three Months Later

  JUDGE Maureen DeCampe sat up in bed, receiving visitors for the first time since her hospitalization. She would see no one except her immediate family until now. She had sent word that she wanted to see Dr. Jessica Coran. And now Jessica was here, looking in at the door, and DeCampe was smiling and laughing with her daughter. She appeared to be doing well in her therapy. She looked strong, and she was coping both physically and psychologically.

  At least on the surface. Jessica wondered what it was like inside DeCampe's mind at three A.M., when she was alone. Jessica knew she needed extended, serious therapy, despite outward appearances. No one could suffer the indignities she had and come out unscathed.

  She spied Jessica, who stood hesitant, not sure she wanted to intrude. But DeCampe called her name and waved her into the room, saying she must introduce her to her daughter.

  “Mother, Dr. Coran and I know each other.”

  “Of course you would have met.”

  “I'll just leave you two to chat.” Evangeline, the daughter, hugged Jessica and left.

  The judge thanked Jessica for coming by.

  “No problem whatsoever,” she replied.

  DeCampe pointed out a seat, and Jessica came further into the room. “I wanted to... well, I never had the opportunity to thank you, Dr. Coran.”

  “No need, Judge DeCampe.”

  “Oh, but there is. From what everyone tells me, you were the bulldog that never slept, the one who finally caught on to who had me and why and most importantly where.”

  “I did my job. I did what I am trained to do.”

  “Not from what I hear. You went without sleep, you put your life on hold for me, and then you put your life in danger for me, going into that bam for me, braving Purdy and fire.”

  “Please, I only wish I could've done more—a lot sooner.”

  DeCampe waved this off. “I want you to know that if ever I can repay you... Well, we both know that is impossible.”

  “All of us down at the bureau just want to see you back on the bench, Judge. That would be reward enough.”

  Jessica thought that DeCampe's skin grafts had healed beautifully, and that the healthy tissue below that which had decayed had bonded perfectly with the skin taken from other areas of the woman's body. “You look wonderful, by the way,” she told the judge. “Thanks, the doctors here are the best.”

  “I know. We flew them in from Johns Hopkins and the Mayo Clinic.”

  “Oh, I had no idea.”

  “The FBI and the U.S.A. are footing your medical bills, Judge DeCampe.”

  “So my daughters have told me.”

  “But there's a catch.”

  “And that being?”

  “You also continue with psychotherapy.”

  DeCampe half smiled and nodded. “Thank you for caring so much, Jessica, and as it happens, I will have plenty of tim
e to pursue psychological help along with the rehab.”

  “That's good to hear, Judge.”

  “Maureen, please... please call me Maureen.”

  “You do look remarkably well, Your Honor.”

  “You can stop that.”

  “But I mean it.”

  “I mean the 'Your Honor' stuff. I'm no longer a judge. I'm done with that life. I won't be returning to the bench, not after this.”

  “I... I had no idea.”

  “No one does. You're the first to know. I don't know why it is important for me to tell you this, but... well...

  you gave me my life back; you granted me a second chance with my children, with life itself. I'm retiring early to enjoy what is left to me.”

  “That's commendable... good news, I think.”

  “Well... when you've really got one foot literally in the grave—something few of us ever really experience—it does change your outlook.”

  “I just didn't want that bastard to win,” Jessica said through gritted teeth.

  Maureen shook her head. 'Trust me, he didn't win. He isn't taking me off the bench. I am. I am taking control of my life again, and I'll never allow anyone ever to do it for me again in any way, shape, or form.”

  “There's someone I would like you to meet, Judge DeCampe,” said Jessica.

  Kim Desinor entered the room, going to DeCampe and extending a hand that lightly fell over the judge's forearm. The touch was magical. Somehow DeCampe knew that Desinor was extremely important and instrumental in finding her, but only a handful of words were shared: “How are you,” and “You are looking fine,” and “I know you will be on your feet soon.”

  Kim had made a full recovery, not a psychic wound evident, but this strange miracle had occurred only after Judge DeCampe was truly found. Kim had earlier thanked Jessica for “saving my life” as she put it. They had hugged and cried together, and Kim had wanted a full description of how they had found DeCampe, and how Purdy had been dispatched.

  Richard Sharpe stepped into the room just as Jessica was trying to determine exactly the price exacted from Maureen DeCampe at the hands of the madman who'd abducted and tortured her in so heinous a fashion. Jessica caught the facial expression, the glint in the eye that rose and waned all in a millisecond, one that spoke of DeCampe's honest indecision about this decision made for her, most likely, by the worried family.

  Richard warmly greeted DeCampe, asking after her comfort, asking if he could get her anything from the hospital commissary.

  DeCampe declined, and they said their pleasant goodbyes. On leaving the hospital, Jessica confided in Richard, holding his hand as they walked, “I believe that the nightmare ordeal that woman has gone through will decide her entire future.”

  He nodded. “One way or another, I am sure it will.” They made their way down in the elevator.

  “Don't you see?” continued Jessica.

  “See what, sweetheart?”

  “That at the back of her mind, she knows that the horror she endured will always be—in one form or another—in control of her.”

  “So, what're you saying, Jess? That she can't get past this? Ever?'

  “I couldn't.”

  “But you'd have to, to live a normal life.”

  “Richard, she is adept at deflecting the depth of her pain.”

  “Isn't that preferable to the alternative? No control? To live the rest of one's life in fear?”

  “She thinks she chooses to no longer be a judge.”

  “That will be her decision.”

  “No, don't you see? She only thinks she's making the decision,” Jessica replied, throwing her hands up.

  Past the information desk now and out into the light of a crisp day, they made their way to the parking lot. “She thinks she knows her mind.” All the way to the car, she kept spinning the same thought: The judge intends instead to devote all her time to her family. The family now is all around her, and outwardly all is serenity. Maybe she needs the illusion of serenity, and she even believes it herself at this time, but in six months, in a year, she might well have a change of heart and wish to return to her passion, the law.

  “But in the meantime, in a way, Jimmy Lee and Isaiah won,” Jessica said to Richard as he slipped inside the car beside her. “Those bastards will continue to run through her nightmares and continue to win, unless the woman can take real advantage of good professional help.”

  “Shannon Keyes is working on that department, my worried sweetheart. You can't do it all alone, Jess.” She leaned into him and they kissed, and he held her firmly against his chest. 'Time we got some alone time, Richard.”

  “I'm in absolute agreement, Jess. Absolutely.”

  JOHN Thorpe had returned to consciousness but remained in the hospital for long-term observation. One of his doctors feared he could lapse into a coma again. Another said this was highly unlikely. A third said there was no way to know at this point. J. T. only wanted to find his pants, get up, and get back to his lab in Quantico, vowing never to leave it ever again, feeling a great deal safer in the confines of its walls. He believed himself fully recovered from his life- threatening wound, and when he came out of the coma, he found Jessica at his bedside, fast asleep, holding his hand. He'd called this his best medicine.

  Jessica insisted on remaining until she knew for certain that J. T. was out of any trouble. J. T. had been sleeping fitfully on and off since his “return.”

  Eriq Santiva had come to Jessica the day after J. T. had come out of the coma. He had come to see J. T. but also to tell her again what an excellent job she had done on the DeCampe case, and that her superiors were extremely pleased with the results and her performance in particular. She had won over her worst critics in the department, according to Eriq. And then he launched into a confession of sorts, admitting how close he came to pulling her off the case when things looked at a standstill.

  “Eriq, you never fooled me.”

  “What do you mean?” He feigned ignorance.

  She walked him just outside J. T.'s room and lashed out at him. “Eriq—boss—I've known since you took over the office that your ambition superseded all else, including anything we might call a relationship.”

  “Now, Jess, that's not really fair.”

  “I know you have done secret info reports on me to our superiors to—”

  “Only to... only because...”

  “I know why! To keep the bastards at bay. I know I have enemies at the highest levels of the bureau.” People milled about them where they stood in the hallway, visitors in search of room numbers, patients combating boredom, walking the corridor. Santiva's eyes followed every move made around him, a sign of paranoia, she thought. Did he really believe they were being watched?

  Finally, he said in a near dead whisper, “No one can achieve as much as you have, Jess, and expect to have no enemies. Despite the good you do. Hell, we both have enemies. The higher you climb... all that...”

  “The more success you achieve, yeah, I know. Look, Eriq, like it or not, I know you're between a rock and a ... a love: me. I know you would not intentionally do anything to harm me. I know we've been through hell and back together.” She had taken up his hands in hers, unable to recall the last time they had touched. “And despite you and your behavior, I love you anyway, so quit sweating the small stuff.” She gave him a wide smile and a laugh.

  He laughed hard at her good nature. “Well, you survived this litmus test that asshole Nicholson and the others put us through.”

  “And you will, too, Eriq. I know you will.”

  “Not so certain of that, Jess, but to add injury to insult, they're combing over my records in quite a determined way these days. Of course, they will find some expedient information and twist it to their ends.”

  Jessica had seen it before. There seemed a constant need for top-level administration to grow antsy and develop polyps up their asses and to get a burr under their collective skin whenever someone below them shone too brightly
and did too well. It occurred in many a profession, and FBI work was no more an exception to this Rule of Intended Harm than the medical, legal, or even the education field where top-flight teaching became a “menace” to administrators who could not understand how top-flight teaching came about.

  “Maybe you and I are just too damned good for this place, Eriq. Ever consider private practice? We'd make a hell of a team.”

  “Nice of you to say so, Jess, but the bureau is where you belong.”

  “And so it is with you, Eriq: You've got to fight any attempt to replace you. I will do all I can to help you and stand by you; you know that.”

  “You're already under scrutiny, Jess. You'll want to distance yourself from me as much as possible.”

  'To hell with that.”

  Eriq laughed again.

  “Good to hear you laugh.”

  “You know your every decision for the past five, maybe ten years, Dr. Coran, will be looked into, not to mention your personal life.”

  “Let 'em look.” She also knew that her personal life had somehow become the talk of the higher-ups, and that some in the bureau believed that it had in some bizarre twist of bureaucratic illogic been shown to interfere with her judgment on the DeCampe case.

  “All the gossip, all the innuendo, all things nonsensical, our new fearless leader—Jeffrey Allen Nicholson—believes, or wants to believe. He wants to believe the worst and pursue it as such; he doesn't give a rat's ass about the source or the motive behind the source.”

  “And that source being other so-called professionals, my colleagues, people I thought my friends.”

  Eriq's tight-lipped frown and groan were answer enough.

  “I've had my suspicions for some time. Carl Wittinger for one, not to mention complaints from police autopsiests like DeAngelos in Philadelphia and elsewhere.”

  “I blame the boss. The man's got the ears of a goddamn rabbit, and the brain to boot.” He laughed again. “Maybe private practice isn't such a bad idea, you know, for me, I mean.”