Robert Walker - Grave Instinct

Captain Emil Hammerski had plied his trade as a tugboat captain for sixteen years along the Mississippi. In the darkness the water and the waterway, the tree-lined, fog-bound earth and sky often played tricks on a man's eyes; but traveling during the early morning hours meant less traffic and fewer problems, if you knew how to avoid the snags and continually developing sandbars. What he stared at now was no sandbar or snag, but it seemed a real enough threat-a huge black square up ahead where it oughtn't be.

Captain Hammerski knew every inch of the river from Minnesota to the Gulf of Mexico. “I tell you, this here is something foreign to the shoals along Three Forks Bend,” he told his first mate, handing over the night-vision binoculars.

“ You sure have an eye for obstacles, Captain,” replied his first mate. “You think we ought to invest time in it or run round it?”

Busy at the moment, the captain reminded himself. His tug was pushing a barge filled with metal and wood structures for homes being built in Mobile. He was on the clock, and already running behind schedule. Slowing to look over something he could not identify would mean explanations when he showed up even later at the other end. The company's insurance would go up. He'd be to blame. The crew working the barge wouldn't care for the delay either.

He decided to ignore it, go on by. “Whatever it is… UFO maybe

… maybe a government secret of some sort… some things aren't meant to be seen,” he muttered.

His first mate, young Bryan Carsen listened to the old man closely. He had learned all he knew of the river from the captain. He stood just outside on the bow, trying to get a closer look at what the old man had discovered. It was not a natural formation, that much was for sure.

Shrouded in fog and cold, Carsen spoke to Hammerski through the window. “Whataya think it is, Captain?”

“ I just told you, not sure I want to know.”

“ Looks like a black refrigerator. Folks use this poor old river for all kinds of junk, like's as if it were a great big garbage disposal.”

“ Likely somebody's junk, all right, that thing,” replied Hammerski, puffing on his pipe.

As they neared, the captain asked for the binoculars again and peered through to the strange object. “Damn if it don't look like a huge trunk.”

The other man took the binoculars from the captain for a closer look. After a long moment of study, Carsen said, “Oh, my God. It's worse than we thought.”

“ What is it, Carsen?” “I think it's the backside of a van that's somehow gotten into the river.”

“ See anyone around it? Any survivors?”

“ No… and no telling how long it's been stuck there facedown.” Young Carsen looked as if he might be readying to dive into the water, but they were still a hundred yards from it, and the captain reminded Carsen, “We got a two thousand ton barge drifting under our direction.”

Carsen looked to be considering this.

The captain also reminded Bryan, “Remember our first responsibility is to the cargo, Bryan. We can't do anything anyway. No survivors. Possibly only an empty truck. We'll call it in to New Orleans police.”

“ Hell, yeah, we are close to New Orleans. Hell, Captain, radio's been buzzing about how the cops there're looking for a van they think might be linked to the Skull-digger case.”

“ Yes, I heard something about that. Do you think this is connected?”

“ We gotta call it in, Captain.”

“ Yes… Will you do it, Bryan? You're much better explaining things over the radio than I am.”

The first mate went back inside and immediately got on the radio to call the NOPD. The conversation was long and confusing on both ends, but finally, Bryan got his message across. He explained who he was, about the barge and that they could not stop until after they were miles past the van crash site. He identified the location of the van as Three Forks Bend. Finally, he got off the radio, saying, “They're on their way. The guy assured me that if we have seen no one in or around the van, then we are free to continue on.”

The same morning

An FBI vehicle met Jessica at the airport, and a young agent introducing himself as Michael Sorrento pumped her hand and told her how much he had admired her work over the years. “I've read every word you've ever published, Dr. Coran. Real fan.”

She thanked him and asked if he'd had an opportunity to check out Dr. Swantor's Grand Isle address. “I have,” he replied, “but it's an all clear. He's not there according to the local sheriff, a man named Potter.”

“ Did he go out to the address?”

“ Said he did.”

Sorrento was going to drive her to the NOPD laboratory and medical examiner's office. Sorrento told her about the ditched van located in the Mississippi River by a tugboat crew.

“ Get me straight there then.”

“ No… it'll take the wrecking crew they have out there hours to haul it out. May as well go on with your plan to look over the bodies of those two officers.”

“ I brought tire and footprint impression photos. I'd like to compare them to anything that may've been found at the scene.”

“ The only prints found, due to the rain last night, were those across Labruto's clothes and his chest. Coroner says one tire ripped open his uniform, the other tattooed his chest pretty good.”

As they made their way to the morgue, Jessica's cell phone rang. She took the call from J.T. He apologetically said, “Jess, sorry to inform you but that SquealsLoud guy's PO box in Steeple Top that's registered to a Mark Sweet? Turns out to be a literal dead end, all information on file proving fictitious, the Mark Sweet in question being a dead man.” “Damn it.” She told Sorrento the news, and the agent took it calmly.

“ But we have reason to believe a Saundra Franklin, living in New Orleans, may be worth looking into. She and the Seeker were tight, e-mailing back and forth.”

“ What's the address?” She jotted it down. “Let's get a couple of agents over to check this out,” she suggested to Sorrento.

“ We can do it ourselves. It's on the way.”

She liked this agent. “All right. Let's do it.”

They drove to the address. Sorrento quickly located the landlord, asking after the Franklin woman, and they were told she'd relocated in a rush, leaving no forwarding address.

“ How long ago?” Jessica asked.

“ Three days ago, and now suddenly she's real popular.”

“ Whataya mean 'popular'?” asked Sorrento.

The pudgy little man replied, “A middle-aged guy, too old for her, come looking for her last night.”

“ At what time?”

“ About tenish. I was watching the news.”

Jessica flashed a copy of Kenyon's photo. “Was this the man?”

He studied it. “Yeah… yeah, that's him, but he looks different: long hair, unshaven, dirty.”

They journeyed on to the NOPD medical examiner's office. “We're close,” said Sorrento. “I can feel it, Dr. Coran.”

In the car, she got Lorena Combs's call back and the Florida sheriff verified that Swantor had supposedly left Florida for a trip to Cancun. Nothing had come of it or the Wells connection in Elixir, Mississippi. Agents there could only locate the wife.

With no other pressing leads, Jessica reasoned that going first to the M.E.'s office made sense. They soon reached the NOPD headquarters and the coroner's office. As they located the elevator from the underground garage, Jessica asked, “How far is this place, Grand Isle?”

“ It’d take some getting to. Most of your daylight hours. But like I said, he's not been spotted there.” Jessica thought young Sorrento an ambitious man. She liked his enthusiasm for the hunt. “Look, if you say he's operating off a boat, then maybe the marina near where we found the van is where we ought to start. There're more boats in Louisiana than there are people,” he exaggerated with a smile.