Robert Walker - Unnatural Instinct

Maureen DeCampe whimpered and pulled away from the old man's touch. She'd been returned to the awful prison of being bound to the dead man. The old man now roughly slapped her in the back of the head and shouted for her to be still as he worked.

“ Jimmy tells me he's real proud how you still got spirit, Maureen… but he also wants now to hear you a-moaning and a-pleading, so he wants me to leave the gag outta your mouth.”

He then returned to his three-legged stool, watching the slow progression of her death, the unmistakable look of fatigue and glee intermingling on his otherwise dour countenance. “No one can save you, Miss Maureen. No one in the whole world even exists for you now, nor nobody in all of Hell itself 'cept you and me-and Jimmy Lee, of course.” He then lifted the RE/MAX woman's cell phone over his head and said, “It's deader'n a doornail, this thing. I know that bitch lying yonder didn't reach nobody else.” He then hurled the cell phone into a black comer, the result a metallic rattle.

He began humming and then singing a hymn, “I looked over Jordan…” to the sound of crickets and scurrying mice… “and what'd I see? But a band-a-angels, coming for me…”

He somehow looked comfortable enough on the three- legged stool to easily remain there for eternity, and after a few bars of “Jordan,” he closed his eyes and appeared the picture of peace. He muttered under his breath, “I do right by you, Jimmy Lee. I do right by you.”

Maureen DeCampe wondered if she could withstand a moment longer of this horror, this torture. She felt her mind slipping from reality. She'd experienced one, two, three blackouts, possibly more. The blackouts began with thoughts of loved ones, of seeing them again, of one day being reunited both with those who'd gone before her and those remaining behind. It was all she thought about now. She did not think about Isaiah Purdy perched like a gargoyle nearby; she did not think of Jimmy Lee's decaying body below her. She did not think about why the old man placed her on top so that the torture might last longer. She did not question why he had held her here in a dark, cooler area rather than in a sun-baked field or on some sun-baked rooftop, so as to hasten the decay. She no longer wished to ask such questions, questions that all seemed answered in one fell swoop: “It's Jimmy Lee's wish…” And she no longer cared to know the answers to such inquiries. It was useless, a waste of precious time. She chose rather to visit with her grandmother, her mother, her father, her grandfather, and other loved ones who'd passed over so many years before.

She chose to not allow the putrefaction of her body to control her mind; chose not to allow her mind or soul one more single hopeless or negative thought, concentrating instead on the people she loved, her children and grandchildren.

These thoughts gave her solace and peace and allowed her to drop off; he could not hurt her further if she were at peace. This much she knew; some voice from far beyond this place had posited that fact in her brain, and she felt certain it had been her mother's voice. While the old bastard that had done this horrible thing to her heard Jimmy Lee in his head, she heard her mother's voice in hers. She hoped that Isaiah Purdy's punishment-his personal hell-would be Jimmy Lee forever in his head. That would be just retribution; she kept telling herself that somewhere beyond this world, a sure justice awaited the old farmer, one that was already dealing with his son.

As a result of her acceptance, her peace with her impending death and the manner of her death, she had found the one weapon the old man had not suspected. She had found silence. She had become too quiet, too content for him, not making enough discomfiting noise. She no longer swore or moaned or whimpered. She would use the one weapon left her: her silence, her serenity, her peace. A small place in her soul told her that this above anything else she might do would make him crazy with rage and anger, and if it worked well enough, he might put the pitchfork through her and put her out of this misery. So now that Jimmy Lee wanted the gag out of her mouth, she would hold onto silence like a life rope thrown to her by her very soul- thrown out to her where she floated amid the pain, the suffering, and humiliation.

Accepting the inevitable, she sublimated all her high emotions at having had a near escape, the death of Willis, her hatred for her tormentor and his dead son, this time, and this place.

Where she lay, if she opened her eyes, she would see again that the devil had returned the pitchfork to Willis, standing it up neatly through her three wounds, using the woman's stiff body now as a kind of instrument, a place to keep the prongs sheathed. This scene of horror no longer created tears in her, although Purdy made sure that she lay within inches of Nancy Willis's dead eyes. Nothing touched her any longer. Not the smell of decay, not the touch of it against her skin. Her mind and strength of will to not care, to not smell, to not see, to not feel a thing, negated it all.

Still, she knew that she had not given in or given up; quite the contrary, she had accepted her imminent death, and she had made peace with it, with her Maker, a God who could allow this curse to be placed upon her in her final hours. She still held onto her inner resolve, her inner strength, believing she would need all the energy she could muster to find her way along the blinding path to the true light shining down from the hands of her ancestors, a light she believed would lead her to their arms, to that safe harbor, God's kingdom. Mother had always called it a safe harbor with a sturdy lighthouse-her euphemism for the other side. Funny it should seem so obviously true now. She could smell the surf, and she smelled the chemistry that was home, the odors of her mother and the house she kept. Whatever form that kingdom took-lighthouse or home, shore or doorstep-she meant to be a part of it, and she meant to see her children there, to greet them on arrival when they would come. When all dreams would this way come, she thought.

Yet she still found strength to condemn the old man in the deepest recesses of her heart, to mark him for God's special attention in a future arena. She silently condemned his soul to the farthest rung of Hades.

He merely continued his hymn: “Looked over Jordan…” But something about his missing a beat here, a beat there, told her that the silence, the peace she had come to, had begun to disturb Isaiah Purdy to his core… “What did I see…”

She secretly, inwardly smiled. She felt that even in death she would win the final victory over Isaiah and Jimmy Purdy-the lice of Iowa. Purdy could no longer hurt her.

Take me any time, Lord, she thought, resolved to never speak another word or make another plea.

“ What? What'd you say?” asked Isaiah, trying to coax words from her now, agitated because Jimmy Lee wanted to hear her beg more.

“ Go ahead, curse me, woman.” Isaiah hoped to hear more tortured sounds from her as he worked to rig a booby trap for anyone else who might come snooping.

But Maureen would not give him the satisfaction. Silence is golden, she thought.

Jessica knew that DeCampe was likely to be killed quickly if the old man smelled a threat to his game. She would have to orchestrate the perfect raid, a commando-style hit on two locations: the house and the bam, if Maureen DeCampe had any hope whatsoever of living through this nightmare. Jessica and Richard had rushed back to the center of operations, and before she had even arrived, Jessica had assembled her entire team for debriefing and planning, using her cell phone. She had assembled as much firepower as they could muster for the raid.