Robert Walker - Grave Instinct

She could save Besant and his divers any trouble now. They would not find the body in the river, at least not yet. Selese was being held somewhere, likely Swantor's boat.

“ That's her! I've seen her picture,” said Sorrento, looking in on Jessica. “That's the Montoya woman.”

“ And this is being fed to us live.”

Sorrento had tossed his boots in the trunk, and he'd climbed in beside her. No one else saw the images being fed them. Now the image of the woman in chains was replaced by Kenyon, pacing like an animal. His ankle chain rattling and visible in the shot. He paced. He shouted into the camera, presumably at Swantor, but the words were edited, and at times nothing came out of his open mouth.

“ We've got to locate Swantor and fast. I don't know what his plans are for the next installment, but I can imagine it's not going to get any prettier.”

“ We'll get him,” promised Sorrento. “He belongs to the FBI, not the NOPD. We take him, he's ours. Besant gets to him first, we lose him. It's as simple as that. They'll put him up on charges of murdering Labruto and-”

“ We've got to tell them the Montoya woman's not down there in the river,” Jessica said.

“ No, that's valuable lead time that we need, so we can make the grab, Dr. Coran. Trust me, NOPD just wants to blow this guy away as a cop killer.” “Michael, we have an obligation to cooperate with these guys.”

“ Do you want this guy to stand trial for the string of murders of all his victims in a federal court or not? Louisiana's got some jurisdictional loopholes a homegrown lawyer could run a twenty-ton elephant through. Unless we pick him up, they could spend a year prosecuting him here for cop killing, he goes away to Angora to serve time. I want him the fuck executed. How about you?”

She mulled over Sorrento's logic. It made a certain sense, although she knew the state had the death penalty. Still, she didn't know Besant, but she had gotten the distinct impression that he wanted Kenyon every bit as badly as she did.

“ Just buy us a little time. They were going to do the search here anyway. If we hadn't seen that video…” He backed the car up into an embankment, cut hard to the left and turned the car around, heading back toward the marina.

As they drove away, Jessica had mulled over the names, SquealsLoud, Sweet, Swantor in her mind. Were they all the same man? “All right,” she finally agreed. “We do it our way.”

Downriver Later that night

Jervis Swantor awoke to the sound of a boat whistle, someone hailing his ship, he feared. It was far too soon to be caught and stopped.

He looked out the porthole above his bed and could see absolutely nothing. Just as predicted by the weatherman, the Mississippi was awash in a thick, gray fog, a soup that blotted out sight.

He grabbed his night-vision binoculars and saw that it was a southbound barge, pushed by a tugboat, and it came within feet of his yacht. Barges were plied up and down the river like silent dinosaurs, but he could not believe these fools were still running under such conditions. If they saw his lights at all, they must think the same of him. He feared anyone seeing him out in this would report his position, thinking him in danger.

The swells from the barge also indicated just how close they'd come to swamping Swantor's yacht, as they caused it to bob like a giant cork, stirring his two guests to shouts and pleadings.

He picked up the tool kit belonging to Kenyon, and went to the woman's room to look in. She pleaded with him to save her from a madman. “I've got your madman next door, opposite you.” He pulled forth the brain saw and held it up to the camera, which could only catch his upraised hand and the saw. “I've got his tool kit. For now, you needn't worry, my dear.” He had turned the audio off for now to lessen his need to edit out his voice and any references to himself.

He straddled the two rooms and pushed open the door, which allowed him to see both Kenyon and the woman at the same time.

“ You stinking, lousy bastard, Swantor!” shouted Kenyon, getting up from his bed and rushing Swantor, but the chain stopped him a few feet from Swantor, like a collared dog.

“ Well now, everyone's awake. Likely hungry, aren't you?”

“ I'll kill you, Swantor.”

“ Make nice, Mr. Kenyon. I intend on feeding you.” He held the saw out to Kenyon. “Take it.”

“ What's going on?” pleaded the woman.

Kenyon took firm hold of the bone cutter. His eyes locked with Swantor's. “What're you planning?”

“ I'm going down to the galley to fix you a bite, my dear! No one should die on an empty stomach,” Swantor said to the woman. “Be right back.”

Swantor smiled as he closed each door and left. He'd gotten it all on film. His next installment. Before his last installment for this episodic adventure, he would first prepare a hearty meal for the lady.

Swantor glanced at the monitor screens for each room. The woman looked weak, vulnerable in her chained position. By comparison, Kenyon was enervated by the bone cutter, huddling over it, rocking, and once or twice he placed it to his temple, but he didn't turn it on. Instead he held it at arm's distance and studied it in his fist. He looked as if he were revisiting each of his kills, savoring each moment, his jaw hanging open, his eyes fixed.

He then applied the bone cutter to his ankle chain, creating sparks. Swantor turned off the tape and turned on the intercom, warning Kenyon that he would not eat if he broke the blade. “The chain is made of titanium steel. You're wasting your time and the blade on it.”

“ If I get my hands on you, Swantor, I'll kill you.”

“ They're going to say you were crazy, Dr. Kenyon, and I must agree. I've heard some of your conversation with your friend, what's his name? Phillip. Yes, they're going to call you crazy, but they're going to say I was even crazier.”

Kenyon stopped the horrid scream of the bone cutter, and as its whirring ended, he heard the woman's screams. “Music to all our ears, Dr. Kenyon, Phillip,” Swantor said and turned toward the galley. “Must now fatten the calf, as they say.”

Information about Swantor at the marina proved scarce. According to everyone they spoke to, the man was a loner. He had come off a bitter divorce battle and had been living on his boat for several months. It hardly sounded like the know-it-all, nosy Swantor of Florida, and here he was known as Jacob Swift. Except for these few details, their time canvassing the marina had proved useless. Besant had joined them there, filled with questions. Sorrento asked the frustrated Besant to place his men on a boat-to-boat search for the Montoya woman. This done, they drove off for a small nearby airport where Sorrento chartered a small helicopter. The pilot agreed to get them to a Coast Guard cutter but that was all. “Bad weather and poor visibility'11 make any river search for a single craft impossible until conditions improve. Weather report says that could be twenty-four hours.”

They accepted the ride to the cutter.

Jessica and Sorrento soon stood on the deck of Triumph, the Coast Guard cutter, plying through the water at a good clip, considering the weather, in search of Swantor's yacht. Sorrento had called for the cutter to pick them up at a designated rendezvous point thirty miles south of where the van had been found. They assumed Mexico to be Swantor's destination. Still, to be certain to cover any escape, they also sent a cutter north along the river.

Jessica felt good being on the ship, felt good at being in pursuit.