Grave Instinct

by Robert W. Walker

  Sorrento's phone call had determined that indeed Sheriff Potter had gone out to Swantor's island home, and that he'd found Swantor's missing yacht. But Sorrento's final call to Potter returned an ugly sound, the sound of the bone saw.

  They had long since left the canal behind them and were now in the safer waters of Grand Isle Bay.

  “How close are we?” she asked the captain.

  “Quite close, a matter of twenty minutes perhaps. I'll have a launch ready for you and Agent Sorrento to board. I can't risk the cutter in this weather, and I don't think you want us taking time to make depth soundings. It can get extremely shallow along the banks.”

  “Where do we board?” asked Sorrento, turning from watching the storm.

  “Below decks. My first mate, Mr. Konrath, will guide you and take you ashore with two of my best men.”

  A tall, uniformed officer with a boyish face, Konrath stepped forward, handing them each a rain slicker and saying, “This way, please.” Like the FBI agents, Konrath was armed and prepared to use deadly force.

  Jessica and Sorrento followed him out into the storm, down the steps and past a bulkhead, and finally through a hatch and down into the ship. While topside, they had seen men working to lower a boat over the side. Konrath now directed them to an interior hatchway. On the other side of this door, they heard the pounding water and the thud of the lowered lifeboat.

  Konrath checked his watch, went to a nearby phone and called up to the captain. “We're in position, Captain.”

  “Stand by,” Quarels said. “The island has come into sight. Searching for the right house and dock.”

  “We'll stand by.”

  Moments passed like hours as the storm slammed the lifeboat into the side of the hull and they waited for the go sign.

  Finally, the captain rang their position. “Konrath, we've located the dock—a police boat is tied there. It's directly off our starboard bow.”

  “We're on our way then, sir.”

  “Good luck and be careful. Keep in radio contact. . . . Out.”

  The two armed guards stood nearby. Konrath indicated the hatchway door, and one of the Coast Guard men turned the wheel on the hatch, and in a moment it was pushed open. Rain and wind stormed through the hatch, making it difficult to see, and just below the hatch, the lifeboat swung wildly in and out against the side of the cutter. Overhead, crewmen worked to hold tow cables firm to keep the boat from thrashing about wildly, but the cable was being given a battle by the wind and water.

  Joe Konrath went first, leaping across the sometimes short and sometimes gaping space between the large cutter and the small lifeboat. Jessica was then helped across by Konrath onboard the smaller craft and Sorrento from behind. Finally, Sorrento joined them, along with the two armed crewmen. The only light Jessica could see at this vantage point was that coming from the hatchway they'd exited. A moment later even that small beacon was shut off when a crewman, struggling with the door, finally closed it from the inside.

  The tow cables came off the boat and rattled upward and disappeared like angry snakes. The smaller craft bobbed and whirled uncontrollably at first, but in a moment the crewmen, under Konrath's orders, had manned the oars and stabilized the boat. Though they had an engine on the boat, Konrath suggested they go in as quietly as possible. The cutter overhead of them had long since shut down its lights.

  When they pulled silently into the now-crowded dock, Konrath ordered the line secured. The nose of the craft nestled into the front of the dock and they disembarked from there. First Mate Joseph Konrath shouted over the wind, ordering his two men to follow his lead. He said to Sorrento and Jessica, “I'm taking my men with me up those stairs and to the house.”

  “Wait here until we've had a chance to check out the yacht,” said Sorrento, urging Jessica into the boathouse. The two of them climbed aboard Swantor's craft.

  “We've got to locate Potter. If he's still alive, we can get him medical assistance on the cutter,” she said.

  “And if he's dead, it's my damned fault. If only I could’ve gotten him to listen to me!” complained Sorrento.

  “Yeah, if the old fool had only listened to you.”

  Sorrento insisted on leading the way down into the yacht. The rainwater dripping from their slickers puddled and ran down the steps ahead of them.

  His gun in the ready position, Sorrento lost his footing, going to his back and sliding down the final stair and into the living room area. Jessica was blocked by his body. If someone should come from the control room the other side of the stairs, Sorrento was a dead man. She leapt over him and turned, her gun pointed into the control room.

  “Nobody here,” she told Sorrento.

  Mike made it to his feet, his gun still held firm. Jessica looked about the room they stood in, filled with computer equipment and two screens she remembered well from Florida. Splashed across one screen were the remains of the Skull-digger's second-to-last victim, Selese Montoya. Jessica gasped anew at the sight and shut the screen off.

  “Oh, Christ. . . look at this,” said Sorrento, staring at the second screen.

  Jessica gazed at the prone body in a yellow rain slicker with the letters that spelled out SHERIFF in black. The man's head was smeared with blood and bone that had caked his hair. Potter lay on his stomach, the back of his head splayed open, the wound obviously the work of the Skull-digger's bone cutter. “Sonofabitch,” Jessica muttered.

  “Was the old fool deaf? Why didn't he listen to me? Why'd he go near Kenyon?”

  Sorrento went deeper into the bowels of the ship, kicking open each cabin door, his gun pointed and ready. Jessica sensed that no one but the dead were aboard. She held back, waiting for Sorrento.

  When he was satisfied that there was no one else aboard, Mike relaxed his grip on the gun, put it away and returned to her.

  “Both Swantor and Kenyon must be up at the house. Potter must have helped Kenyon to get free, and that”— he indicated the screen displaying Potter's body—”that's what Potter got for his trouble. Damned old man. Why didn't he stop talking long enough to listen to reason?”

  “Shut it off,” Jessica said of the screen, but Mike continued to stare at Potter's body.

  “It's not your fault, Mike.” Jessica cut off the image on the second screen.

  “Tell that to my priest.”

  “You couldn't have predicted this. All you asked of the man was to give you a phone number. He wanted to play hero, get her off the island. You begged him to wait until we got here, and you tried to tell him to stay away from Kenyon.”

  “Let's get up to the house before these butchers kill someone else.”

  “Shoot to kill,” she told him.

  He took a deep breath and nodded. “Count on it.”

  Jessica and Sorrento made their way topside and off the death ship. Stepping out of the boathouse, Jessica and Sorrento found themselves in a renewed, vigorous downpour and alone. Konrath had taken his men up toward the house.

  They rushed up the rain-slicked cypress boards of the stairs leading to the mansion. Jessica stared up at the house as she went. The place was cloaked in a kind of ethereal green darkness from all the ivy on its walls and the foliage all around the structure. All the lights were out except for one that appeared on the third floor. Ahead of them, they saw the cautious Coast Guard men inching ever closer to the house.

  “Wish we knew the lay of this place,” said Jessica, near breathless. She slipped but caught the handrail and continued. Sorrento had gotten twenty yards ahead of her. He stopped and turned, asking if she were OK.

  “Keep moving. I'm fine,” she called back softly. Looks like G.I. Joe Konrath intends a frontal assault on the place.”

  “He should've waited for us like we asked.” “Everyone wants to be a hero, bring down the Skull-digger.”

  SEVENTEEN

  And then it started like a guilty thing Upon a fearful summons.

  —SHAKESPEARE

  INSIDE the house, Jervis Swantor inched
his way toward the master bedroom and bath, and looking into the bathroom, he found Lara, her head on a satin pillow and her eyes closed in a bubble-filled tub. “How's the water, sweetheart?” he asked in a chillingly calm voice.

  “Jervis, my God!” she replied, her eyes coming open in shock. “I ... I didn't expect to see you here tonight.” She recalled yesterday's visit from Sheriff Potter, asking after Jervis's whereabouts, and she'd thought then of vacating the place, but then she had James to protect her. “What do you fucking want, Jervis? What are you doing in my house?”

  “I have someone I want you to meet. We're all going for a nice cruise to Cancun.”

  “You're mad.”

  “I know. Now get up and come with me.” He jabbed her cheek with the barrel of his gun. “I said get up from there, you cunt!” he ordered.

  She took in a deep breath of air, wondering if he'd harmed James and left him bleeding somewhere in the house. “Jervis, what the hell are you doing? What more can you possibly want from me?”

  “Only a little more, sweetheart. Now stand up and step out of there!”

  She stood before him, clothed only in tumbling bubbles, still wondering what condition James might be in. She gasped again at the sight of the gun.

  Outside the wind howled about, and she could feel a scream welling up from inside her, but she controlled it.

  “I'm surprised to find you alone. I thought you'd have had another man by now.”

  “What nonsense are you planning, Jervis? I always knew you were insane, but killing me? Everyone is going to know you were behind it.”

  “At this point, Lara dear, I really don't care who fucking knows that I had you killed. It's the way in which you're going to die that interests me.”

  She reached for a towel and wrapped it about her body. “Don't tell me, you're going to make good on all those times you threatened to feed me to the alligators.”

  “Better . . . much better than that. I have a guest on the yacht I'd like you to meet.”

  “A guest. . . the yacht?” She unconsciously clutched at the towel she'd wrapped herself in. He yanked it off.

  “Down at the boathouse. We're going to go down there, you and me, just as we are. My guest won't mind.”

  “I mind! It's cold and wet out, and—”

  He slapped her hard across the face, sending her to her knees, pushing the gun against the nape of her neck. “You never could follow simple orders, Lara. Do you want to die here, like this? Now, just do as I say!”

  While on her knees, she saw a shadow of movement near the darkened doorway leading out into the hallway. She dared believe that James had come back to save her. But now Swantor pulled her to a standing position and ushered her ahead of him, the gun held to her back, coldly kissing it here and there. As they exited the bathroom, and went through the bedroom, she sensed it was true, that the shadow must mean that James was nearby.

  “I'm sure you've heard of the now infamous Skull-digger, sweetheart, haven't you? The serial killer who carves out people's brains and consumes them?”

  “What's that got to do with me?”

  “I told you ... I have someone down at the boat who wants badly to meet you, sugar.”

  “What are you saying, Jervis?”

  He urged her forward. “I intend feeding you to him, darling, and filming it when he carves open your head for that useless brain of yours. I'm going to film it, so that I can watch it over and over again.”

  “You are insane!”

  They entered the hallway where she saw the silent phone off the hook, not even a dial tone. She recalled the two phone calls she'd not taken and momentarily wondered if either one of them had been from Potter over on the mainland, to warn her. “The sheriff was here only an hour ago, Jervis,” she lied, “wanting to know your whereabouts. They'll know it was you, Jervis.”

  “Old Potter! That's a laugh!”

  When they arrived at the stairwell, a shaky hand came out of the shadows. Wielding a butcher knife, James Harris slashed wildly, cutting deeply into Jervis Swantor's forearm and wrist, causing him to drop the gun, which bounded down the stairwell. Swantor wheeled to his left, blood from his wrist spurting in all directions, coloring the walls. At the same time, dazed, his weight went forward and against Lara. She lost her footing and screamed, her body following the gun, tumbling down the stairs.

  While Swantor fought off the naked man who'd leapt out at him, he heard Lara's scream and the sound of her thumping down a half-flight of stairs. She lay halfway between the third and second floor landings as the two men continued to struggle. Swantor held firmly to James's wrists, seeing that the other man had a knife in one hand and a bottle of Swantor's wine in the other.

  Incensed at this development, Swantor growled and sent his knee into the other man's testicles. Using all his strength, he brought James Harris up over the top of him and the railing, sending the other man out into thin air. The wine bottle hit the bottom first, followed by Harris's naked form, which had spiraled down to the marble foyer below, his head plopping open like the sound of a ripe melon. He'd held on longer to the knife, but it too had followed Harris down, and it had come to rest in his chest.

  “Son of a bitch,” Swantor cursed, rushing for his ex-wife, praying she hadn't been killed, while ignoring his bleeding arm and wrist. When he got to her, he found her breathing. “Oh, thank God. I so want you to meet the Skull-digger alive not dead, dear thing.”

  He looked about for the gun, but it wasn't anywhere near her. It must be on the second-story landing. He hefted Lara into his arms and began the trek downstairs, looking for the gun. Outside, he could hear the winds gusting far stronger and louder than before. Lara started to come around, her eyes blinking. “Now, let's go see Dr. Kenyon . . . See if he appreciates you, Lara, as much as I do.”

  She screamed again.

  “Go ahead, scream all you want. There's no one to hear you. Your boyfriend is dead, and it's off season, sweetums. No one on the island but us. It's as if God himself has ordained it all.”

  “Jervis . . . don't. . . don't do this,” she pleaded as he carried her down. “You can't do this.”

  “A little late for any further negotiations, dear Lara.”

  A rain-soaked, dripping Grant Kenyon stood staring at the dead man lying in blood on the marble floor of the foyer where he had watched the man's flight from above. In the dark, he'd heard a struggle and screams, followed by the explosion of the wine bottle at his feet, splashing him with wine. The body and the knife followed instantaneously.

  Obviously, Swantor had an unwelcome guest. Giant's pants legs and shoes were splattered with the mix of wine and blood.

  He stared up into the darkness but could only see movement of shadows on the stairwell. In a moment, he overheard Swantor talking to the woman, referring to Kenyon. He caught only snatches of words, but he could hear her pleading with him.

  Looking back at the nude dead man, Kenyon reasoned that had been the boyfriend.

  Swantor was a dangerous man indeed.

  He wondered if he should lie in wait, ambush the man and kill him outright with the bone cutter he'd brought with him—risk being shot—or just make his escape from this asylum. He wondered how much the authorities had been able to piece together about his and Swantor's connection, and decided they likely knew everything by now since SquealsLoud had shown them Kenyon on tape killing the New Orleans woman.

  Now Swantor wanted to repeat the process with his ex-wife as victim. Grant—and especially Phillip—didn't like being used by Swantor for his malicious ends. Phillip had said it best: “We are not going to be remembered as someone else's puppet, Grant. That's what Swantor will have authorities believing, that he was in control of my—our—actions all along.”

  “The video will go a long way to prove that. Now that it's done, how can we change it?” Grant had asked Phillip.

  “We kill the bastard, so he can't spread his lies anymore. He can't be left alive after we're gone. Imprisoned, he wo
uld only have a forum to continue his lies about us.”

  Grant was then startled to hear someone shouting, the sound coming in from the storm outside. “In the house, this is the Coast Guard! Open up! Show yourselves!”

  Kenyon backed into the shadows. Swantor had arrived at the foot of the stairs, forcing Lara to her feet, holding out the gun he'd recovered. Mrs. Swantor stood frozen over the body at her feet, repeating the name “James” over several times before she screamed again.

  “Shut up!” ordered Swantor, tugging at her and pushing her out toward the rear of the house. Kenyon quietly followed them, going toward the kitchen and the rear exit where he had earlier found the unlocked door and entered. It appeared that Swantor meant to make his getaway there.

  “But there's no escaping me, Swantor,” he whispered to himself as he held firm to the bone cutter. Time was running out; the authorities were at the door. If Grant and Phillip were to kill Swantor, it had to be now and quickly.

  Again the strong voice at the front door shouted. “U.S. Coast Guard! We're coming in!”

  Thanks to Swantor, Grant Kenyon had enemies to the front of him and enemies to his back now. A flood of desperation, like an unchecked raging river, inundated Grant's and Phillip's every sensibility.

  WITH one man standing at the rear of the house, Konrath and his other man marched up onto the front porch as they heard screams erupt from within. He had again ordered the door to be opened. No one responded to his second order accompanying with his pounding fist. The doors were ornamented with beautiful stain-glass windows. “We're going in, so break the glass. Break it in, O'Hurley,” Konrath ordered his hefty guard.

  It took the butt of O'Hurley's rifle to break the glass and scatter the metal parts wide enough open for O'Hurley to reach his meaty fist inside and maneuver the lock. They then rushed in, fearful of what they might find and stopped cold as both stared at the naked dead man with the knife through his chest, lying akimbo like some oversize rag doll on the bloodstained marble foyer.