Robert Walker - Bitter Instinct

“I'm working on relating to other women more and more, but I gotta tell you, it's not easy. You… you're so understanding, so gentle and caring. I've never met anyone quite like you. There's a fire in your eyes when you're listening to me talk, and that's so cool, so attractive.”

She was right about the poet; he was the most gentle being she would ever encounter in this world. His eyes blazed with the light of attentiveness whenever someone bared his or her soul, as Micellina, Caterina, and Anton had all done before leaving this world.

True enough, a fire burned behind the poet's eyes, the fire of a crusader, a person on a quest for the holiest of spirits on this plane. The Holy Grail was not a thing, not a chalice, not an object, but a soul, a rare soul indeed. It mattered not a whit that some sordid and polluted moment existed in their pasts on this plane, or even if they were presently sleeping with someone, for they remained innocent of their own true natures, innocent of the power they wielded, the power of their souls when taken by the angels. And while none of the chosen had been old enough to have committed any great sins against God or man-none had been cheats, liars, whores, none had practiced prostitution or promiscuity of either the worldly kind or the ethereal kind that characterized so many so-called experts on art and creativity. Certainly, no one in this life remained pure. People didn't long endure on this plane without smut attracting to them. Only the children of the angels, chosen by the poet to go over, remained pure of heart and being.

This had certainly been the case with Caterina Mercedes, the poet thought, groggily getting up and searching for something to wear to work this morning. While Micellina had been easy to lead, Caterina had been a holdout. It had taken a great deal more persuasion to convince her that it was in her best interest to have a private moment with the poet. When she finally acquiesced, it proved almost as hard to get her to meet with him a second time. She had serious reservations about seeing him privately, and she had serious doubts as to his intentions, almost up to the end. But the poet's dexterity with words, both spoken and written, finally won her over. In the end, Caterina, like Micellina, felt a joyous and heartfelt obligation to carry out the poet's plan-to write her into eternity. They had both, in the end, willingly gone over, first believing they would achieve a kind of immortality among their peers for displaying the poems on their backs, but in the end knowing that he had a greater immortality in store for them.

Then came Anton Pierre, a beautiful young man, not unlike the two women who had preceded him in physical beauty and mental purity.

The poet stepped from the modest apartment, located the elevator, and with his valise in hand soon stood on the avenue fronting his building. A penniless man with a squirt bottle in hand asked if he could hail a cab for the poet. He nodded, indicating that yes, he would like the beggar to help him, but to remain at a safe distance. As he waited for the cab, he felt a wave of revulsion wash over him at the sight of the derelict. When a cab pulled over, he threw a five-dollar bill at the homeless man and rushed to enter the cab, glad to be speeding off.

It wasn't every day he took a cab to work, but it looked like rain again, and he'd left his umbrella in the stand, the one with the Victorian hounds that stared out at the poet, hounds whose eyes burned with a fire to match the poet's own.

Dr. Jessica Coran stepped from the soupy Virginia fog that enveloped Quantico Naval Air Station to greet Dr. Kim Desinor. Taking her by the hand, Jessica said, “The boys at the hangar have a new toy to play with, a Soviet-built MiG tactical helicopter. It's not exactly new to us, nothing like a big mystery, but they're incredible machines. I think I've convinced them to transport us to Philadelphia in it instead of in that boring departmental Cessna Citation.”

“That boring Cessna is just fine with me, Jess.”

“But you want to know you're flying, don't you?”

“Flying's one thing, hovering Peter Pan fashion in something like a spinning top is quite another.”

“No, it's more like a magic carpet ride or a floating platform. Come on, you'll love it. I think they've got clearance.”

“Why do we have a Soviet helicopter?” Kim asked.

“Part of the struggle to fight boredom, the struggle to stomp out ignorance, all of it. We swapped ours for theirs. Happens all the time. They have our technology, we have theirs, everyone's happy, and no need for the spy business.”

“With the Russians? We do this with the Russians?”

“KGB, Russian military, sure. Look at this machine, will you?” Kim glared at the thing like an angry cat.

Jessica, ignoring this, said, “I've only had the privilege of flying in her once before. She's decked out with lounge seats and a Bureau VIP bar-at a cost government watchdogs must never know about.”

“So, I see you've already met the pilot and crew, as usual. Are you staking a claim?” Kim knew of Jessica's love for flying, one of her many passions. In fact, Jessica had earned her pilot's license some years back.

“Staking a claim? I'm spoken for, remember? Richard Sharpe. You're not still sore about New Orleans, are you?” Jessica recalled how on first meeting Kim, she had behaved badly. Not in the best frame of mind, knowing she was being stalked by an escaped convicted bloodsucking killer who had fixated on her, her nerves shot, Jessica had drunk too much on the flight, and she had flirted with the pilot. She recalled how wrong that first meeting with Kim had gone, and how patient Kim had been with her, showing her great understanding and giving her the benefit of the doubt several times.

“All I know is that every time you fly off someplace, you cozy up to the pilot or you wind up at the controls of the plane.”

“Come on. I wasn't at the controls for more than ten minutes.”

“Or you land yourself a new bureau-chief boyfriend, or a boyfriend who happens to be Scotland Yard. I'm so impressed!” She did a mock curtsy right there on the airstrip.

“You make me sound like a loose woman on the prowl!”

Kim laughed. “Not at all. Liberated, a role model for others all over the globe who have succumbed to the stereotype of barefoot and pregnant and in the kitchen.”

“Please, give it a rest, Kim. What about your love life? You still seeing Alex Sincebaugh, or has he uprooted himself and returned to New Orleans?”

“He's holding on in Baltimore, but he hates his situation. I'm not sure how long he's going to fight it.”

“You can take the boy outta the bayou, but you can't-”

“I see him most weekends and holidays. Some truth in that old saying 'Absence makes the heart grow fonder.' “

“That's crap and you know it; only works for a while before the charm of the distance between you wears off. I know from experience.”

“The alternative, cohabiting, is just as impossible, if not more so.”

“What's a girl to do?”

Boarding the wide-bodied helicopter, Jessica patted her inside suit pocket to be certain she hadn't forgotten her special scalpel; her father had given it to her the day she'd told him she meant to go to medical school. Nowadays, she never left home without it. In fact, she felt downright superstitious about having it near at hand.

Jessica and Kim looked at each other in the modified, VIP interior of the monster chopper. While they worked together at profiling sessions in the same building and in the same unit, each saw surprisingly little of the other. “Pity the bar's not open,” Kim lamented.