Grave Instinct

by Robert W. Walker

  “Damned AOC,” said Eriq. “We might've shut this guy down before he killed again if they'd cooperated with us.”

  Midnight

  GRANT Kenyon awoke feeling groggy, disoriented, drugged even . . . like one of his own victims. He awoke to the nightmare he had gotten himself into. He awoke to the realization of being shackled by one ankle to the wall of a cabin on a boat that, presumably, was traveling along the stretch of islands and canals that made inroads to the Mississippi Peninsula.

  He worked to recall what had happened to him. He had driven to and searched for his destination, one he had counted on should things get too complicated or hair-raising. Killing two NOPD cops certainly qualified, so he had located a quiet cemetery, parked and found his laptop computer. He hadn't used it in a long time, and he had subscribed to another server on it, wanting to keep his Internet tracks as blurred as possible. He now used it to make contact with Dr. Jervis Swantor.

  He had been lucky. Swantor even joked in his reply:

  SQUEALSLOUD: I was expecting you sooner. Come to the address on the screen. You will find I live on my yacht.

  SEEKER: A yacht. You said you lived on a boat.

  SQUEALSLOUD: Only thing I got from the divorce. She got the rest.

  After signing off, Phillip insisted they feed on the girl first and dump the body in the graveyard.

  Grant put his foot down. “No! This van's too damned hot. We've got to find safe shelter and devise a plan to get rid of the van, the woman and us—you and me.”

  He tried to remember more . . . what had happened. How he had become a captive himself, and what had happened to Selese Montoya. But the drugs wore him down and he again fell into a deep slumber. Phillip tried to rouse him, but nothing could, not now.

  He had a vague sense that someone was nearby, but he had seen no one. He also had a vague sense that the camera mounted high above, across the room, was running, capturing his image. He had a vague sense he was in some pain and bleeding from a head wound. But all his vague fears were overwhelmed by the drugs in his system.

  WHILE Jessica was on an FBI Cessna headed for New Orleans, back at Quantico headquarters, J.T. began the daunting task of tracking Dr. Grant Kenyon—the Seeker— through time and cyberspace, thanks to AOC's now-downloaded files. He kept a list of the men and women that Kenyon had shown an interest in and they in him. J.T. was amazed when he came across the name of Anna Gleason, first victim of the Digger.

  He instantly asked Dana to track the user list sent by AOC to quickly determine if any other victim—other than Gleason—had used Cahil's list, while he himself searched on for information on SquealsLoud.

  Dana announced that a second victim came up, the Winston-Salem woman, Miriam McCloud. He instantly contacted Eriq and then Jessica with the news. They had discussed the possibility before, that the killer could be enticing his victims via the Web. Victim families had been asked questions designed to determine this, but here was the definitive proof that at least two of his victims had accessed Cahil's website.

  J.T. continued to search for contacts Kenyon had made in and around New Orleans. It appeared that the mad doctor made friends easily and frequently over the Net. While his other victims' names did not appear on the list, he had made contacts with women and men in all the areas he'd visited.

  Over the phone, J.T. now told Jessica, “This fellow calls himself Mr. SquealsLoud. Registered to a PO box in a place called Steeple Top, Louisiana, fifty miles from New Orleans. Name is Mark Sweet. Sure is easier to locate information now. We'll have to wake up the postmaster in Steeple Top. Get an address on this PO box for Sweet.”

  “Get back to me when you have it.”

  On the plane, Jessica tried to get some sleep. Her thoughts drifted like a ghost ship over a foggy ocean until she fixed on a single boat named Uneven Odds. That was the boat Amanda Manning's body had turned up on. Then she envisioned another, far more spectacular boat, a yacht with beautiful running lights named Lands End. She thought of how persistent Jervis Swantor been about visiting the body. She pictured the man's large yacht in Jacksonville, thought again of his inordinate interest in the case and recalled how the live computer image of Dr. Grant Kenyon had been bobbing.

  He's on a boat. . . perhaps Swantor's boat! she suddenly realized. Swantor had listed his home address as Grande Isle, Louisiana. Cahil's website was Isle of Brain. Could it be coincidence or more than that? Could Kenyon be a prisoner on Swantor's boat?

  She immediately telephoned Lorena Combs in Jacksonville, waking her at home. “I need to know what Swantor listed on his manifest as his next port of call after leaving Jacksonville.”

  “Neighbors and the harbormaster told me he was off to Cancun. I can check it for you. What's up?”

  She informed Combs about the live feed and her hunch that it had originated aboard a boat.

  Combs replied, “The man made my skin crawl, but he checked out clean.”

  “I got bad vibes off him, too, if you remember.”

  “I'll get over to the marina, check it out firsthand. I'll get back to you if anything's changed.”

  GRANT Kenyon, trying to shake off the latest drugs injected into his arm by SquealsLoud Swantor, tried desperately to piece together how he had been so blind to his captor's mad plan. On meeting Jervis Swantor in the flesh, Kenyon had quickly sized him up. The other man's size and weight, his skin color, the same blue color of eyes and brown hair as his own—it all played out beautifully until Grant got careless.

  Soon after shot gunning to death those two cops, Grant's likeness had unaccountably gone out to the world, radio announcers giving details of his appearance down to a mole on his upper lip. Undoubtedly, the TV news would also have his likeness. By tomorrow morning, his picture would be on everyone's kitchen table. On seeing Swantor's general resemblance Kenyon believed he could use Swantor as a body double, should he have to fake his own death—at least long enough to throw off authorities when the time arose, and that time had come. He needed only a little sleight of hand to put such a plan to work. Anyone discovering a pair of torched dead and hopefully long-decayed bodies in his van, one at the wheel, one chained in the rear, might easily be led to the conclusion that he had discovered the body of the Digger and his last victim. Phillip liked the plan. Grant even thought of sending the fiery van over the side of a cliff and into the Mississippi River.

  He had had ideas of taking Swantor's yacht before moving on. So he had followed Swantor's directions down to the parking lot at the marina, and next found his way to the Windjammer yacht of Jervis Swantor, his marina address and the name of his boat, Lands End.

  Grant had hesitated, for a moment fearful of Swantor's reception, wondering if it was a setup. He had circled for an hour, dangerously so, desperately anxious about the police patrols that were surely looking for him and his van. In the rear, he still held his victim shackled and drugged, but he had had no time to feed on her. Phillip would have to wait.

  He went up to the yacht and rang the bell and the cabin door quickly opened. Jervis Swantor beamed with a wide smile and told him to come inside. “So, you are the Seeker. I'm delighted you've come. Mi casa es su casa, and all that, as they say. Anyone with the chutzpah to do what you've done, imagine it. The Skull-digger here with me.”

  “What do you mean? I'm not the Digger.”

  “Your face is plastered all over the tube, Kenyon. Yes, they've got your name, too.”

  “Jeez-us!”

  “It's wrong to worry about me, my friend,” Swantor assured him. “If I only had your guts, I'd be doing the same thing. I tell you, I'm so . . . touched that you've come to me for help and shelter. I'd hoped we'd have met before now. I just can't tell you.” He took Grant's hand and patted him on the back and insisted, “Sit down, relax, your secret's safe on Lands' End. Have a drink, relax. I waited for you in Florida, but you didn't show up.”

  “You really feel this way?”

  “Absolutely. I admire you.” Swantor smiled wide, his eyes beam
ing as if meeting his hero.

  “In that case, I need you to help me outside to ... to ditch the van. It's hot.”

  “Yeah, nightly news is going on about how two cops were shot tonight.”

  “I need to stow the van,” he repeated.

  “I'll take care of it entirely. You come inside and find your bed. It's got to have been a trying night for you, and it's getting rather late.”

  Grant then sized up Swantor, finding him a bit larger than himself, beefier. He thought of how he needed to find the right moment to gain control over Swantor. He wondered if the fire would remove the fingerprints. In the middle of his back, he carried the gun, but he wanted Swantor's death to appear to be the Skull-digger's suicide. However, he might have to improvise and modify his plans as he went. Aside from the gun, he had a ready needle with Demoral in his pants pocket, should it go that way. Should he have to overpower the larger man. But first he needed him to step out to the van.

  He awaited the exact right moment to attack Swantor.

  “I've closely watched your development, Grant,” Jervis said to him, “and I guessed you to be the Digger given your sudden absence from the website, along with those girls you were always flirting with, some of whom also disappeared abruptly from the Net. You were busy with the real thing. ... Or should I say the 'Rheil' thing. Nifty how you sent that Island of Rheil tissue to Cahil to implicate him. You do know they've had him in custody for the killings, right? You really should have laid low after that, but not you . . . you're something else.”

  “Yes, I guessed as much about Cahil even before the public knew.”

  “An educated assumption.” Jervis had ushered him belowdecks, and he now pushed open a door and pointed, saying, “This cabin is yours, if you want it, for as long as you want it. We'll set off tonight, Cancun perhaps. Get you out of the country. Put some distance between you and New Orleans at least. Whataya say?”

  “And in return?”

  “Showing is better than telling. Come with me.” Swantor turned his back and led the way to the midsection of the yacht where a large living-room space abounded with state-of-the-art computer equipment, several screens sending forth images at once. “It's my control room, you might say.”

  “This is fantastic. Incredible.” Grant and Phillip already thought of it as their own—as soon as they ridded themselves of Swantor.

  “I have the capability of beaming all over the world any words or images I choose, and I can do it from international waters. I've got a stop tracer on my hard drive that's stupendous. I've bought myself a new identity, and I'm ready to start my own Web page, and you, sir, are my star— America's Most Wanted.”

  “Star? What exactly do you expect of me?” Grant walked about, staring at the electronics, awed by the display of power, but confused by the man.

  “All I ask is that you share with me and my audience, what it's like.”

  “What it's like?”

  “To be the Skull-digger! Feeding on human brain tissue. In feet, I'd like to film you in the act.”

  “Film me?” “Doing the operation, yes, and feeding. I'll provide you with the means.”

  Grant had swallowed hard at that point. This guy's crazier than Phillip, he thought. “It's a deal, but I need your help with—”

  “The woman you abducted from the city? She's still alive? Perfect.”

  “She's in the van, along with my tools.”

  “Yes, you will need a costar. Don't worry. I'll assist you in discarding the van, and I'll arrange for you to feed on your latest victim, so long as I can film it, you see. By the way, what's her name? I think viewers will want to know her name.”

  “Selese.”

  “Lovely . . . yes. I think we should get her situated in here first”—he opened a door opposite the room offered to Grant—”and then we can get your tools inside, and then I'll take care of the van.”

  “I think we should take care of the van as soon as possible,” Grant replied.

  “Of course, agreed. We can do the filming later.”

  Grant immediately replied, “Of course, you're right. We transport the girl here, and then get rid of the van.” Grant frowned and decided that Phillip had to have the Montoya woman aboard the boat, and that authorities would be left with Swantor's body alone. Phillip wasn't about to give up Selese until his hunger was satisfied.

  Amendment one to Grant's well thought out plan.

  Jervis Swantor and he had then gone to the van and, careful to see there were no witnesses, they took hold of the still-drowsy Selese and led her, dragging her heels, to the yacht.

  “How're we going to keep her from escaping?” asked Grant. “I'm prepared for that, too,” Swantor replied. He led the girl into what was to be her cabin. There he chained her hands to the metal-framed bed. As he worked the handcuffs, he asked Grant to help him with her ankles.

  While Grant worked the bonds, he let his guard down around Jervis for a moment as the other man stood and went to the door, saying, “I know of a road that will take us to a backwash of the river, a perfect place to ditch the van.”

  “And you,” Phillip said only to Grant.

  It was then that Grant and Phillip felt a crushing blow to the back of their shared head, and all turned to black.

  FOURTEEN

  Another iron door, on which was writ, be not too bold.

  — EDMUND SPENSER, 1552-1599

  In a back bay in the confluence of the Mississippi Peninsula Island area 3 A.M.

  THE effort of having fought his way to wakefulness caused a searing pain to throb throughout his brain.

  When Grant Kenyon had fully awakened, he'd found himself shackled to a wall and lying in a bed in a room opposite Selese Montoya's accommodations. He fought to a sitting position and discovered his left ankle was bound by an enormous chain, each link the size of a crab. The girl was nowhere to be seen. He fought with the chain on his ankle, a futile effort. It had been securely bolted to the cabin wall. He then suddenly remembered his hidden gun and the needle in his pocket, all meant for Swantor.

  He reached for the gun, not surprised to find it gone. He patted for the syringe, also gone, along with his wallet and keys.

  He imagined Swantor would be turning him over to the police now, but then why the elaborate hoax? Why hadn't he simply had the cops waiting in the bushes? How much time had elapsed since taking the blow to the head? he wondered. Then he felt the rhythmic movement of the boat and realized they were on the water en route somewhere known only to Swantor.

  He screamed out, “Swantor! You bastard! What're you pulling here?”

  He got no answer.

  He tore at the chain, bruising himself in the process.

  He sat on the edge of the bed now, his head in his hands.

  He looked up to the ceiling corner to watch that damned camera eye moving from side to side, watching him.

  Muttering to himself, he realized that Swantor meant to do exactly what he'd said he would, film the Skull-digger at work on his latest victim and put it on the Internet. “Not if I kill him first . . .”

  Phillip told him, “I'm angry as hell. Angry enough to tell you this, Grant. I'm hungry to the point that this creep's brain will do as well as any.”

  “He's a bigger psycho than you, Phillip.”

  He recalled now how Swantor had earlier entered the room with a gun—Grant's gun—and the Demoral-filled needle. “I insist you inject yourself now. I'm going to attend to your van, and when I return, we'll leave New Orleans together, the three of us.”

  “But we're on the water, already set sail.”

  “Just took us off a bit. I don't want anyone showing up at the marina to find the three of us. That won't do.”

  “But the van?”

  “I'm on it.” He pointed the gun and held out the needle. “Puncture yourself with this now! Or die now!”

  “That would spoil your plans for a good show.”

  “But it would make me a hero—saving the girl, killing you!
Shoot up or be shot.” Grant now recalled how it had all come down to this, having to administer the Demoral into his own arm.

  AFTER securing both hostages in the yacht, Jervis Swantor had moved his home to a private marina covered with low-hanging willows, a place no longer in use on the other side of the river. He then took a dingy and returned to the van, all the while a timer on the computer photographed his two hostages and sent out a few minutes of each directly to Cahil's website in cyberspace.

  He expected little trouble ditching the van, but on closer inspection from behind the wheel, Swantor cursed the fact that it was a stick shift. He sat grinding gears trying to find reverse, sending up a cat cry to the marina residence and the moon. When finally the thing lurched backward, Swantor drove off calmly, heading for the back bayou road he had surveyed a day earlier for this purpose.

  Oblong black objects—buzzards—slept on the branches of trees garlanded with eerie moss. “Witch hair,” he muttered, recalling what he had heard Spanish moss called in his youth.

  Off in the distance behind him, he heard the wail of a siren. He knew the danger of being caught within a hundred yards of the van, much less in the driver's seat, but he didn't want it located smack in front of his marina address, either, should some enterprising cop locate it.

  He wound through the thicket and finally came up on the bluff overlooking the Mississippi, a granite cap. Swantor first opened the driver's side door should he need to jump. He then shifted into first, holding the brake hard against the machine's desire to go forward. Tires rotated madly now as he held firm to the brake. He then shifted and rolled from the cab as the monster van screeched and squealed headlong into the air, diving nose first into the great river.

  Swantor got up, mud-encrusted, feeling his heart pounding as he did so. His heart had been racing along with the van's tires. He went to the edge of the bluff to stare down at his handiwork by the half moon, crouching on his knees in the soft drizzle. Only the rear of the van showed, and if the river swelled, it would be washed downstream and perhaps consumed altogether.