“Perhaps,” he replied, “someday.”
“What, then, damn you?”
“I want you... I want your... forgiveness.”
“Bullshit, and you'll never have it.”
“Then at least let me explain why.”
“Why... why?”
“For the blood... the addiction.”
“Liar.”
“I am telling you how it was.”
“Liar.”
“If not for the blood—”
“The power, you bastard. You wanted the power, to hold the threat of death over another—”
“No, I-I-I—”
“The power of feeding on another life; taking life through your mouth, down your fucking gullet. You thought it made you special, didn't you? Didn't you?”
“I was addicted.”
“Didn't you!”
“I thought it made me immortal. That tells you the extent of my... my addiction.”
“So you're no longer crazy?”
He said nothing to this.
“You're no longer going crazy?”
He refused to reply.
“Now, you're going sane? And we're supposed to believe you?”
“If you cooperate with me, and I cooperate with you, as my mind improves, then perhaps you can learn something about Kentucky, Ohio, other places. The question,” he said, standing now, pacing in his cell, “is whether or not you want that information unlocked.”
“You're in no position to blackmail the FBI, Matisak.”
The madman's scars were on her body, but the deeper scars were those done to her psyche and her soul.
“There are others, you know,” he teased.
“Other bodies, yes.”
“Others like me. Vampires.”
It dawned on her what he was saying. “Do you really believe for a moment that the Federal Bureau of Investigation would ever in a million years, Matisak, ask you in on a case involving vampirism? Is that really what you expected of this meeting here today?” There are a lot of others like me, spread across this country, and when another one's craving and addiction reach the heights of mine, nothing will stop him from killing for blood, and you and your agency will come crawling to me for help. Do you hear me? Do you hear?”
“I think I've heard enough of your rantings, Matisak. This interview is over.”
She clicked off the tape, stood up and rang for the guard to open the door and let her out. Behind her he said, “Look in the woods in Kentucky off 1-75, about a mile from the intersection of county road 54 near Lexington. You'll find a shallow grave not a hundred yards from an abandoned old farmhouse.”
Her jaw quivered where she stood. Without turning back to face him, she said, “I'll see that it is checked out.”
The door opened and she hobbled out on her crutches to his final words to her. “I hope you're healing well.”
The door closed with a resounding echo and his laughter. He had just posited information with her that only she knew about. It hadn't been taped. He had waited for the tape to be turned off. He had baited her intentionally. With this new information she had a choice to make. If she told O'Rourke and the others and a search actually turned up a body, then she would be sent back again to speak with this devil, and the more he cooperated with the FBI, the more likely he would be viewed by prison officials as a rehabilitated man. The body in Kentucky was most likely Julie Marie Hampton, missing for over two years, a time when Matisak took many more precautions, before he began to feel supernormal and invincible.
As she made her way back down the long white corridor she struggled with herself about what to do, knowing that in the end she must do the right thing. The Hamptons in Kentucky had to know; O'Rourke had to know, along with the others; and if she could get more information out of Matisak, then she would have to come back to this awful place again and again, consigned to this hell by her counterpart.
She could still hear his laughter.
She could imagine the official stance on this one: play out the bizarre game that Matisak had initiated... see where it leads. But she feared it would lead to no good. And she feared his games and where they had led in the past, and she feared that he might get what he wanted. There was nothing in this life that she wanted him to have; seeing him stripped of his personal freedom was not enough. Like the dream of carrying in the concealed weapon and blowing his head off, she feared that her cooperating repeatedly with him as he cooperated with the agency would lead to her one day carrying out that dream for real.
There would be other cases of Tort 9 level, and even some cases of a lesser degree—cannibalism, for instance— in which information gleaned from the mad mind of Matisak could help in the pursuit of an equally deadly killer that was not in a federal facility but walking loose on the streets.
Jessica had made the distance from Matisak's cell to her car in the lot with great effort both physically and mentally. She chugged the crutches into the rear seat and got into the car, where J.T. had fallen asleep at the wheel as he waited for her. He was instantly awake and when she slid into the seat beside him, he asked if she was all right.
“I'll never be all right again, but for now... yeah.” She held her tears in check.
“What did he want?”
“He wants to use us.”
J.T. frowned. “Then you were right all along. Prick bastard.”
“And O'Rourke's going to want to use him.”
“How can you be so sure about O'Rourke?”
“Oh, something Otto told me once about her.”
“Which was?”
“That she played like him; that he admired her for being as ruthless and as tough as him.”
“So where to next?”
“Lexington, Kentucky.”
“He opened up about Kentucky?”
“He did.”
“Holy shit, Jess. Do you know what that means? Boy, you really got to him, then, didn't you? You really got him talking. Got it on tape?”
“Let's get to the airport, shall we?”
“You're really good, you know that, Jess?”
“Yeah... yeah, I know, I know... I'm good... Wake me when we get to the airport.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Robert W. Walker is the author of more than forty published novels, beginning with SUB-ZERO in 1979. He has millions of books in print. You can visit him at www.robertwalkerbooks.com.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
THE INSTINCT THRILLERS featuring FBI forensic pathologist Dr. Jessica Coran
Killer Instinct
Fatal Instinct
Primal Instinct
Pure Instinct
Darkest Instinct
Extreme Instinct
Blind Instinct
Bitter Instinct
Unnatural Instinct
Grave Instinct
Absolute Instinct
THE EDGE THRILLERS featuring Detective Lucas Stonecoat
Cold Edge
Double Edge
Cutting Edge
Final Edge
THE GRANT THRILLERS featuring Medical Examiner Dean Grant
Floaters
Scalpers
Front Burners
Dying Breath
THE RANSOM MYSTERIES featuring 19th century detective Alastair Ransom
City for Ransom
Shadows in the White City
City of the Absent
THE DECOY THRILLERS featuring Chicago cop Ryne Lanarck
Hunting Lure
Blood Seers
Wind Slayers
Hand-to-Hand
THE BLOODSCREAMS SERIES featuring archeologist Abraham Stroud
Vampire Dreams
Werewolf’s Grief
Zombie Eyes
HORROR NOVELS
Dr. O
Disembodied
Aftershock
Brain Stem
Abaddon
The Serpent Fire
Flesh Wars (the sequel to The Serpent Fire)
Children of Salem
THRILLER NOVELS
Sub-Zero
PSI: Blue
Deja Blue
Cuba Blue (with Lyn Polkabla)
Dead On
Thrice Told Tales (short stories)
YOUNG ADULT
Daniel Webster Jackson & the Wrong Way Railroad
Gideon Tell & the Siege of Vicksburg
NON FICTION
Dead On Writing – Thirty Years of Writerly Advice
Excerpt from Whiskey Sour by J.A. Konrath
Chapter 1
There were four black and whites already at the 7-11 when I arrived. Several people had gathered in the parking lot behind the yellow police tape, huddling close for protection against the freezing Chicago rain.
They weren't there for Slurpees.
I parked my 1986 Nova on the street and hung my star around my neck on a cord. The radio was full of chatter about “the lasagna on Monroe and Dearborn” so I knew this was going to be an ugly one. I got out of the car.
It was cold, too cold for October. I wore a three-quarter length London Fog trenchcoat over my blue Armani blazer and a gray skirt. The coat was the only one I had that fit over the blazer's oversized shoulders, which left my legs exposed to the elements.
Freezing was the curse of the fashion savvy.
Detective First Class Herb Benedict hunched over a plastic tarpaulin, lifting up the side against the wind. His coat was unbuttoned, and his expansive stomach poured over the sides of his belt as he bent down. His hound dog jowls were pink with cold rain, and he scratched at his salt and pepper mustache as I approached.
“Kind of cold for a jacket like that, Jack.”
“But don't I look good?”
“Sure. Shivering suits you.”
I walked to his side and squatted, peering down at the form under the tarp.
Female. Caucasian. Blonde. Twenties. Naked. Multiple stab wounds, running from her thighs to her shoulders, many of them yawning open like hungry, bloody mouths. The several around her abdomen were deep enough to see inside.
I felt my stomach becoming unhappy and turned my attention to her head. A red lesion ran around her neck, roughly the width of a pencil. Her lips were frozen in a snarl, the bloody rictus stretched wide like one of her stab wounds.
“This was stapled to her chest.” Benedict handed me a plastic evidence baggie. In it was a 3”x5” piece of paper, crinkled edges on one end indicating it had been ripped from a spiral pad. It was spotty with blood and rain, but the writing on it was clear:
#1 YOU CAN’T CATCH ME I’M THE GINGERBREAD MAN
I let the tarp fall and righted myself. Benedict, the mind reader, handed me a cup of coffee that had been sitting on the curb.
“Who found the body?” I asked.
“Customer. Kid named Mike Donovan.”
I took a sip of coffee. It was so hot it hurt. I took another.
“Who took the statement?”
“Robertson.”
Benedict pointed at the store front window to the thin, uniformed figure of Robertson, talking with a teenager.
“Witnesses?”
“Not yet.”
“Who was behind the counter?”
“Owner. Being depoed as we speak. Didn't see anything.”
I wiped some rain off my face and unbunched my shoulders as I entered the store, trying to look like the authority figure my title suggested.
The heat inside was both welcome and revolting. It warmed me considerably, but went hand in hand with the nauseating smell of hot dogs cooked way too long.
“Robertson.” I nodded at the uniform. “Sorry to hear about your Dad.”
He shrugged. “He was seventy, and we always told him fast food would kill him.”
“Heart attack?”
“He was hit by a Pizza Express truck.”
I searched Robertson's face for the faintest trace of a smirk, and didn't find one. Then I turned my attention to Mike Donovan. He was no more than seventeen, brown hair long on top and shaved around the sides, wearing some baggy jeans that would have been big on Herb. Men got all the comfortable clothing trends.
“Mr. Donovan? I'm Lieutenant Daniels. Call me Jack.”
Donovan cocked his head to the side, the way dogs do when they don't understand a command. Under his left armpit was a magazine with cars on the cover.
“Is your name really Jack Daniels? You're a woman.”
“Thank you for noticing. I can show you my ID, if you want.”
He wanted, and I slipped the badge case off my neck and opened it up, letting him see my name in official police lettering. Lt. Jack Daniels, CPD. It was short for Jacqueline, but only my mother called me that.
He grinned. “Name like that, I bet you really score.”
I gave him a conspiratorial smirk, even though I hadn't “scored” in ages.
“Run through it,” I said to Robertson.
“Mr. Donovan entered this establishment at approximately 8:50 PM, where he proceeded to buy the latest copy of Racing Power Magazine...”
Mr. Donovan held out the magazine in question. “It's their annual leotard issue.” He opened it to a page where two surgically enhanced women in spandex straddled a Corvette.
I gave it a token look-over to keep the kid cooperative. I cared for hot rods about as much as I cared for spandex.
“Where he proceeded to buy the latest copy of Racing Power Magazine.” Robertson eyed Donovan, annoyed at the interruption. “He also bought a Mounds candy bar. At approximately 8:55, Mr. Donovan left the establishment, and proceeded to throw out the candy wrapper in the garbage can in front of the store. In the can was the victim, face down, half covered in garbage.”
I glanced out the storefront window and looked for the garbage can. The crowd was getting larger and the rain was falling faster, but the can was nowhere to be found.
“It went to the lab before you got here, Jack.”
I glanced at Benedict, who'd sneaked up behind me.
“We didn't want things to get any wetter than they already were. But we've got the pictures and the vids.”
My focus swiveled back to the scene outside. The cop with the video camera was now taping the faces in the crowd. Sometimes a nut will return to the scene and watch the action. Or so I've read in countless Ed McBain books. I gave the kid my attention again.
“Mr. Donovan, how did you notice the body if it was buried in garbage?”
“I... er, Mounds was having a contest. I forgot to check my wrapper to see if I'd won. So I reached back into the garbage to find it...”
“Did the can have a lid?”
“Yeah. One of those push lids that says THANK YOU on it.”
“So you reached into the push slot...”
“Uh-huh, but I couldn't find it. So I lifted the whole lid up, and there part of her was.”
“What part?”
“Her, uh, ass was sticking up.”
He gave me a nervous giggle.
“Then what did you do?”
“I couldn't believe it. It was like, it wasn't real. So I went back into the 7-11 and told the guy. He called the police.”
“Mr. Donovan, Officer Robertson is going to have to take you into the station to fill out a deposition. Do you need to call your parents?”
“My dad works nights.”
“Mom?”
He shook his head.
“Do you live in the neighborhood?”
“Yeah. A few blocks down on Monroe.”
“Officer Robertson will give you a ride home when you're done.”
“Do you think I'll be on the news?”
On cue, a network remote truck pulled into the lot, faster than the crappy weather warranted. The rear doors opened and the obligatory female reporter, perfectly made up and steely with resolve, led her crew towards the store. Benedict walked out to meet them, halting their advancement at the police barricade, giving them the closed crime scene speech.
The Medical Examiner
pulled up behind the truck in his familiar Plymouth minivan. Two uniforms waved him through the barricade and I nodded a goodbye to Robertson and went to meet the ME.
The cold was a shock, my calves instant goose flesh. Maxwell Hughes knelt down next to the tarp as I approached. His expression was all business when I caught his eye, drizzle dotting his glasses and dripping down his gray goatee.
“Daniels.”
“Hughes. What do you have?”
“I'd put her death at roughly three to five hours ago. Suffocation. Her windpipe is broken.”
“The stab wounds?”
“Post-mortem. No defense cuts on her hands or arms, and not enough blood lost to have been inflicted while she was alive. See how one edge is rough, the other smooth?” He used a latex-gloved hand to stretch one of the wounds open. “The blade had a serrated edge. Maybe a hunting knife.”
“Raped?”
“Not from what I can tell. No signs of semen. No visible trauma to the vagina or anus. But this isn't an autopsy.” Max was fond of adding that final caveat, though I'd yet to see an instance when the coroner didn't corroborate every one of his observations.
“The mouth?”
“No apparent damage. Tongue intact, protruding slightly. Consistent with strangulation. No bite marks. The blood in the mouth seeped up through her throat after she died. That coincides with the pooling of blood in her face. She was stored upside down.”
“She was found face-first in a garbage can.”
Hughes made his mouth into a tight thin line, and then reached into his pocket for a clean handkerchief to wipe the rain from his glasses. By the time he tucked it away, the glasses were wet again.
“Looks like you've got a real psycho here.”
“We'll need the report on this one right away, Max.”
He opened up the yellow plastic tackle box that housed the tools of his trade and began bagging the corpse's hands. I left him to his work.
More cops and newsies and gawkers arrived, and the carnival atmosphere of an important murder got into full swing. It would offend me if I hadn't seen it so many times.
Killer Instinct Page 30
