Darkest Instinct Page 28

  “Are you sure that’s what he said?” pressed Jessica, excited by this unsolicited corroboration.

  “I’m more than sure. He... he even said he had expe­rience ‘cause he worked at a place once where trophy fish were done up.”

  “Are you sure he said that?”

  “Said they were turned into works of art, and asked me if I didn’t want to be a forever work of art as a sacrifice for his god, something like Thou or... Thor or something.”

  “Did he say where this place was, where he learned to mount trophy fish? Did he give you a name, anything?” Quincey pleaded.

  “No, nothin’.” Marilee had become too distraught over the memory to go on now, and Jessica felt they had gotten all they might from the young woman who—although far from robust since her encounter with the killer—fit the vic­tim profile preferred by the Night Crawler. Jessica imagined her as having had natural good looks before all this had happened, but the debilitating aftermath of her encounter with this fiend had worked dramatic effects upon her ap­pearance, as well as her self-esteem and confidence as a woman. Of this, Jessica had no doubt. They said their good-byes to Marilee and her uncle. Just outside the cabin, they said good-bye to Carl Wotten, the deputy, who wished them success. His final epitaph: “I hope you catch this sonofabitch and fry him several times over in the chair.”

  The night sky was impenetrable, the ocean breeze a purr­ing, sniffing cat, and Jessica, on first hearing the unmistak­able sound of soaring tobacco spit thudding into dry leaves, now saw that Uncle Jake was leering out a window at her. She shivered and thought only of getting back to the black­top safety of U.S. 1.

  “Let’s get to a motel, get some rest,” Quince suggested, his eye resting on Uncle Jake for a moment as well.

  “I’m with you.”

  “You-all don’t forget us now when it comes time to divvy up the money,” Jake called out after them.

  Climbing into the car, Jessica said to Quincey, “We’ve got a long way to go to Naples, catch up with Eriq and your partner on the other coast.”

  “To hell with driving,” countered Quincey. “I’ve got a friend on the key who’s a charter captain.”

  “Really?”

  “Old war buddies. Toured in Nam together. He’d do anything for me, drop whatever he’s doing, if we meet his usual fees.”

  “What’re you suggesting, Quince?”

  “Why don’t we see if we can’t get into this creep’s wake, and then maybe his face.”

  “What have you got in mind, Quince?”

  “Elliot Anderson knows these waters. Since the last body washed up at Key Largo, and now our guy is in Na­ples, the bastard had to’ve taken to one of the channels. Teatable Key Channel is just north of here. Elliot could take us along that tack. It’s got to parallel the path the Night Crawler took in getting to Naples. Along the way, we can flash his picture. See what comes of it...”

  She looked out at the darkness and the water lapping at the land. “All this water out here ... Guess it is a waste not to use it. All right, you’re on. Quince.”

  Quincey’s smile was wide and endearing. “Great choice. You won’t regret it. But tell me: Did you believe every word of our Junior Miss Clueless back there?”

  “She couldn’t have known about the mounting, the tro­phy fish business.”

  “I don’t know. These people have their own telegraph system, and Key Largo’s on the wire.”

  Jessica bit her lip and asked, “You think that news is out already?”

  “If some of the doctors or cops up there at Largo are talking about the hook in that Jane Doe’s back—and I can’t see that Dr. Oliver being shy about talking it over with every Tom, Dick and Harry—well... it could’ve filtered down this way.”

  “But what would the girl gain by lying?” Stupid ques­tion, she told herself even as she spoke it.

  “Reward money and a moment on prime-time TV’s enough incentive for most.”

  “I don’t know... I didn’t get the impression Marilee was acting,” countered Jessica as Quince pulled away from the house, sending a sand and pebble cloud in their wake.

  “Maybe not...”

  “I tell you this much: I’m beginning to get a hell of a picture of our Night Crawler, Quince.”

  “Know what you mean.”

  “A picture of a guy who wants to create the perfect trophy for his wall.”

  “But why?” he asked as he located a broken-down sign for U.S. 1.

  She didn’t skip a beat. “So that he will no longer have to go on killing.”

  “Really?”

  “Once he has the perfect prize, then there’s no use in continuing; at least that’s what he’s telling himself now.”

  “So, he thinks he’s getting closer with each new vic­tim?”

  “That’s what I think he thinks. Remember, there is no new victim to him, because they’re all the same. That is, he thinks they’re all the same. Treats them all the same, as if they are the same object. They’ve all become objects of his obsession.”

  “How can a human mind get so freakin’ warped? And how can such a beautiful lady such as yourself think like such an animal?”

  She slapped him on his considerable shoulder and said, “Quince, really... and you’ve known a few crazed and obsessed sportfishermen? And you can, if need be. think like them?” Quincey laughed a full, hearty laugh in response. “Damn, you’re something, Dr. Coran.”

  “Listen, Quince, do you think your charter captain friend’ll know any of these fish-trophy taxidermists work­ing the area?”

  “There’s quite a few freelancers and little shops all up and down, but Elliot, he’ll know the majors, sure.”

  “Excellent.” She flipped now through the pictures she’d taken with her from Key Largo, pictures of the latest victim. “We’ll see what your friend makes of the marks on the Key Largo Jane Doe’s back.”

  Jessica leaned her head out the window, realizing only now how awfully warm and red-faced she’d become while in Uncle Jake’s presence. “That Jake Lovette made me feel like a piece of meat,” she confided in Quincey.

  “Yeah, I got that impression. The man even made me feel like a piece of raw meat. His eyes actually seemed to be asking the question, ‘Ever ‘et raw meat afore?’ “ He laughed at his own summation, and Jessica joined him.

  “I got another impression about Uncle Jake as well— one not so funny,” she added after the last guffaw.

  “I asked the deputy about the arrangement.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “He said they’re building a case against Jake on a drug charge, but that without Marilee’s testimony or some of the other, older children, that child abuse charges aren’t going to stick. But after tonight, Marilee asserting herself a bit, who knows?”

  Jessica winced up at the night sky, so filled with thick­ening clouds and with not a star in sight. “Damn but this world gets ugly and uncaring at times, doesn’t it, Quince?”

  He nodded, understanding.

  “Wish we could save all the children and right all the wrongs,” she mused. “I guess there’s really no Catcher in the Rye, save God.”

  Quince didn’t understand the allusion to J. D. Salinger’s novel, but he didn’t let on. “Appears we’ve got larger fish to fry than a child abuser, so to speak.”

  “Yeah, and meanwhile the bottom feeders carry on.” Her fatigue and frustration with the case was showing through. She sank deep into her seat, resting her head against the headrest and closing her eyes.

  “That about sums Lovette up.” Quincey was going five miles over the posted limit in search of his friend’s boat. “We find Elliot home, he’ll put us up on the boat tonight and we can both catch some Zs, Doc.”

  But Jessica was already asleep.

  • FOURTEEN •

  Nothing binds so fast as souls in pawn, and mortgage past.

  —Samuel Butler

  The Following Dawn

  Jessica didn’t recall boarding
the boat or how she’d gotten into the berth upon which she had slept, but she woke to the pleasant beat of waves lapping at the sides of the big sportfisherman’s boat, a beautiful forty-five-footer. She sinelled coffee and stretched, located a change of clothes, as she’d slept in her blouse and skirt, and found Quincey and his friend on deck. They were well on their way west­ward through the channel, heading toward Naples, Florida.

  Captain Elliot Anderson took Jessica and Quincey on a west-by-northwesterly trek toward the other coast, where Florida met the Gulf of Mexico. They passed luscious, vivid and untamed areas, as wild as anything in the Ama­zon, she thought. They passed the Thousand Islands area at Florida’s southernmost tip, an area teeming with wildlife and fowl. Here the waters were strewn with vegetation, dot­ted and peppered by islands of every size and shape, their deep green and emerald colors meshing with the sea, look­ing for all the world like a meteor shower of land masses on Captain Anderson’s maps and radar. However, on the horizon, the scattered islands looked more like sentinels, their silent byways witness to long-ago pirates.

  Captain Anderson explained that most of the area was a national wildlife preserve, “good for little else except maybe oil drilling, and God help us all if it ever comes to that.”

  Only when they neared the eastern coast of Florida did they begin to see some homes deep in the density of the island world, most being houseboats, more squatters. Houseboats gave way to the occasional Texaco sign, and here and there a welcoming wharf, at the end of which would be a watering hole where a person could get a beer and a sandwich. These establishments were soon replaced by the occasional resort, nightclub and full-fledged restau­rant fronting the water.

  The intense sun beat down, creating a brightness so ra­diant as to be nearly unbearable as it surrounded Jessica from all sides and reflected up from the water. Feeling strong and a bit daring, she was the first off the boat and onto the dock when Captain Anderson brought them ashore for a quick bite and a rest. She busied herself playing the sailor, snatching at one of two lines which needed securing to the dock and going about this in good fashion while Quince and Elliot exchanged a word about her, whispering so that she couldn’t hear. She smiled across at them and felt the touch of her skin against the thick, black nylon rope the skipper used. It suddenly reminded her of what she’d left behind in Miami and Key Largo and of darker moments in the lab when she’d cut away the exact same brand of nylon rope from the victims of the Night Crawler several weeks before. She composed herself and glanced around from behind her dark glasses. Quincey joined her on the dock.

  “You know Elliot finds you very attractive, Doctor,” Quince said. “Wants you to consider coming down per­manently to live on his boat with him.”

  Jessica went along with what she imagined a joke be­tween friends. “Can he keep me in all the pina coladas and macadamia nuts I require?’’ “On what he makes?” Quince bellowed aloud for his friend’s ear. “Not hardly.”

  Naples, Florida, That Night

  Eriq Santiva and Mark Samernow looked across at one an­other as they sat in Samernow’s squad car, the lights of a Naples street playing over their features.

  “Hell of a gas voucher you’re going to have to put in,” Eriq said to hear himself talk. They’d traversed what the maps referred to as Alligator Alley, the entire strip of sun- bleached concrete slicing through the Everglades, the wild beauty after many miles becoming monotonous and awe- inspiring at once. Now, here in Naples, they had every wharfside, dockside beer joint and restaurant on the Gulf Coast under surveillance. It had taken a massive effort to coordinate, but Santiva had called for assistance and more manpower from surrounding counties, sheriffs’ offices, the Florida Marine Patrol, the Coast Guard, and the local FBI field office.

  According to the local authorities, every conceivable hunting ground for the Night Crawler was covered, and now the killer’s description, alias and sketch were all in the hands of law enforcement everywhere. The summer breeze wafting off the Gulf of Mexico felt like a woman’s scarf being pulled lightly across Santiva’s face. It was a night to excite the senses.

  “Whataya think, Samernow? Do we have a chance in hell of catching this turkey in Naples?” Eriq asked, trying to get up a conversation with the stoic Miami detective and wanting a release from his thoughts, which kept returning to Jessica Coran. He wondered how she was doing in the Keys, and why she had not contacted them yet.

  Samernow raised his shoulders in response to Eriq’s question and said, “The bastard moves fast when he moves. He could well be up the coast by now, on to Tampa, Cedar Key, points north... the panhandle, who knows?”

  “Ahh, I don’t know,” countered Eriq. “Maybe we’ll get lucky. Our luck’s gotta change, right? Who knows, maybe he thinks he can settle in here like he did in Miami.”

  “You mean, maybe he’s a fool?”

  The stakeout had been on for twelve hours, having begun at five in the afternoon, happy hour for most upscale res­taurants fronting the Gulf of Mexico. The fatigue was be­ginning to show in Samernow’s features, but the man was a much happier camper than he had been in days past, Eriq thought. Samernow had seen his ex-wife and his daughter, and apparently, the reunion had been quite successful and there was the hint that they might reunite permanently. San­tiva had wished him the best when he’d heard.

  “Let’s go look around, talk to this guy Ford who’s got the most men posted. See what’s going on.”

  Captain Richard Ford of the Naples Police Department was inside the Blue Whale, doing his part, working under­cover at one of the tables. His best undercover guys and some uniforms who had volunteered to do undercover were doing it in shifts all over the city. It was a fairly small force, but they’d called in all off-duty and temporary-duty cops to fill in elsewhere.

  “Better take the remote with us then, just in case,” sug­gested Samernow.

  “Right.” Santiva lifted the heavy remote radio and jammed it into his coat pocket. Together, they casually walked across the street and were preparing to enter the Blue Whale when suddenly the radio crackled to life inside Eriq’s pocket.

  He found an alcove and responded to the call. A Detec­tive Bear of the Naples undercover squad had a suspect in hand, “apprehended at a place called Bayfront Charlie”s, next door to Captain Jack’s,” he said, “Decker and Riv­erside Drive.”

  Neither Eriq nor Samernow knew Naples well enough to fly straight for the scene, so they waited for Ford to appear at the door. Wired, he’d have gotten the same message where he waited undercover in the Blue Whale.

  When Ford came racing out, he saw the men from Mi­ami, and he immediately told them to follow him out to­ward the northern section of Naples along the waterfront.

  They sped toward the scene of the apprehension, each man silently praying this was it: a final end to their shared nightmare and vigil. Over the radio, another call came through from Bear. He was shouting for medical assistance. “Suspect down! Ap­parent heart attack! Captain Ford, if you can hear me, bring medics with you! I repeat, we need medical assistance at

  the scene!”

  The other restaurant was within twelve city blocks of where they’d come from. When they entered Bayfront Charlie’s, a waiter whisked them through the place and out the back and onto the dockside dining area, where Detective Steve Bear was alternately pounding on the suspect’s chest and administering mouth-to-mouth, but the man lying on the weathered deck flooring looked as stone-still and un­responsive as a mannequin.

  “Damnit, we’ve lost him before we had him!” Eriq cursed, rushing ahead of the others, going to his knees over the suspect. A young girl stood nearby, simpering and blowing her nose; her eyes wide with fear: she kept repeating, “Is he... is he... is he...” Santiva looked down at the blue-faced man below the dim light, knowing that he was dead, sensing it, and also sensing that he was not the Night Crawler. He put a hand on Bear and told him to back off, a bit more harshly than he’d meant to.

  “There’s no
more you can do, Steve,” Ford assured his man.

  Eriq then took a pulse and found none. Medics rushed in and confirmed Eriq’s quick diagnosis while Eriq and Mark Samernow tried to match the face with the sketch of the Night Crawler. It was close, very close, but there were significant differences. This man was older, for one, more wrinkled; heavily tanned, yes, but it appeared a cosmetic tan, the sort one purchased in a bottle or a salon. His hair was streaked with silver, blue under the lights here, and it was wavier than Patric Allain’s.

  “He... he just keeled over when we moved in to make the bust; just freaked,” said Bear, a burly man doubling as a waiter in a black-and-white penguin-style tux tonight.

  Santiva went to the girl. “How well did you know him?”

  “I didn’t... I just met him.”

  “How did you meet him?”

  “He offered to... bought me drinks and dinner, and he... he propositioned me.”

  “Propositioned you?”

  “Said we could do it on his boat. It’s in the harbor. He offered me money. Nobody never did that before...”

  Stupid child, he thought. “So you met him here, at the restaurant?’’

  “I was at the bar...”

  “Do you know which boat is his?”

  “No... we didn’t get that... far...”

  “Anybody here know which boat is... was his?” asked Samernow of the lingering crowd and other police officers.

  “He said it was the two-masted schooner at the other end.” said the girl. “Said it was his baby. Said he named it the Southern Cross, after the diamond, not the star. He laughed about it. Said he was a retired real estate broker and former naval officer. He seemed like a real nice gen­tleman, and then all of a sudden he’s being arrested, and then he grabbed his chest, and... well, now he’s dead...”

  “Checks out from his wallet,” said Samernow, rum­maging through the dead man’s cards and photos.

  “Doesn’t quite appear to jive with our information on the Night Crawler—” began Eriq.