Robert Walker - Fatal Instinct

The waiter quickly deposited their meals and backed off, hurriedly asking if they needed anything else, quite anxious to make his exit. Rychman waved the poor man off.

They dug in, both hungry, the aroma of the hot meals and juices swirling about them. Rychman poured them both more wine until she placed a hand up to him.

Jessica's cane slid softly away from the unoccupied chair she'd propped it on, slapping the floor. She reddened and began to reach for it, but Alan was faster, lifting it and laying it gingerly across the arms of the chair.

“ That'll do better there.” He stared at the Irish shillelagh. Its clublike pearl handle had a brass band around it, like the markings on the neck of a wild goose, the rest of the cane a simple black.

“ Nice cane, a real beauty.”

“ A gift,” she said.

“ Oh? From a friend?” He was fishing.

“ From several friends at headquarters.”

“ I'm sorry I'm so nosy.”

She waved it off. “Not necessary, really. As for any more details on the predilections of the Claw, it's going to take a little more time. You'll have to remain patient.”

“ Tell that to everybody that's after my… neck.”

She took a deep breath. “Is this why you asked me to dinner? To interrogate me? To draw at straws?”

“ No, no,” he replied. “I just don't know what else to talk to you about.”

“ Tell me about yourself.”

“ Me? I'd have thought you'd learned all you wanted to know from Lou by now.”

“ I did, but there are a few holes. What do you do to relax?”

“ Firing range helps me, sometimes.”

She nodded. “Me, too.”

“ You a good shot?”

Grinning, she replied, “The best.”

“ You're on, anytime.”

“ How about after dinner?”

“ All right… you're on!”

She could feel his tension easing.

“ What do you do for fun?” he asked.

“ Recently learned to scuba dive.”

“ Really? That's a kick, isn't it?”

“ You dive?”

“ Since I was seventeen, sure.”

“ I love the feeling of freedom it offers.”

He nodded knowingly and their eyes met. “We do have something in common, after all.”

“ I'm not what you're used to, I know. Not your typical M.E.”

He thought of Perkins and some others he'd worked cases with and this made him laugh. “No, you sure aren't.”

“ Lot of men have a hard time dealing with a woman who isn't easily intimidated,” she said.

“ A lot of women are easily intimidated,” he countered.

“ By you, I'm sure.”

“ But not you.”

“ No, not me.”

“ Good.”

The food beckoned, and they drifted into other areas of discussion as they ate. She talked passionately about hunting deer and bear in Minnesota, Canada and Alaska. He had hunted deer in northern New York but hadn't gone after larger game. She talked about her father and how he had brought her up to be proud and independent and a capable gunwoman. The evening seemed to evaporate around them, and when she looked at her watch, it was nine forty-five.

“ I guess the range is out, huh?” she asked.

“ Closes at ten, but I've got a little pull. Come on.”

He took her to his former precinct headquarters where they rode an elevator down to the sub-subbasement to find an enormous indoor shooting range unnaturally silent and unlit. He shouted an order to the cop on duty to bring up the lights.

“ Captain!” came the quick reply. “Been a while. Hope you're not turning into a full-time desk jock. Just lock up when you go,” said the sergeant as he tacked a pair of targets to the electronic runners and sent them on their way.

“ How many yards?”

“ Make it fifty,” he said.

“ Seventy-five,” she countered.

“ A hundred, Pete. Make it one hundred.”

“ Wanta make up your mind?” Pete, a wizened, leathery-faced man, lightweight and short enough to pass as a jockey, stared first at Rychman and then at Jessica, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Havin' a little contest, huh?”

“ Just put 'em up, Pete.” Rychman whipped out his Police Special, a standard. 38, and she pulled out hers, a near identical Smith amp; Wesson, but hers was a. 44-caliber.

“ Nice-looking weapon,” he complimented her.

“ Put up or shut up,” she replied, turned and without hesitation drilled the target at a hundred yards with successive rounds until she had emptied the chamber.

He was impressed and she knew it. “Your turn,” she said.

He took a casual stance and clicked off bullet after bullet as quickly as she had.

Pete had been about to drift out, but was held back by their display of shooting. “I want to see this,” he said, punching the buttons that returned the targets to their owners. As they approached, the two targets looked almost identical in every detail, every bullet hole. It was impossible to tell which of them was the better shot; both had several shots going through the same hole.

Pete was bug-eyed, stammering.

“ I knew you were good, Captain, but… wow… Young lady, you're quite a shot.”

“ Thanks, Pete.”

“ Come on, I'll drive you home,” Alan said.

“ That'd be some drive. Home's in Virginia.”

“ Your hotel, then. Pete,” he said, turning at the elevator door, “log these for us, will you? I need the points.”

When they got into the elevator and were going up, he said, “So, you relaxed a little now? Got some of that stress out?”

“ It feels great, getting a few rounds off. Relieves a lot of tension.”

He came across the elevator toward her and took her in his arms, kissing her passionately. She pushed him away.

“ Stop it, Captain, stop,” she said, and he backed off.

“ Sorry, I shouldn't have done that. Too much wine lingering in the brain, I suppose, but… well, dammit, you are-”

“ Captain Rychman, we… we are going to be working together, and I don't think it's wise to get involved in… in any other fashion until our work together is… is complete.”

She was feeling the effects of the wine, too, and finding it hard to put into words what her exact feelings and thoughts were. It seemed odd to her that a little alcohol gave her a sharp edge as a shooter, but that it dulled her emotional senses. She wasn't sure how she felt at having him kiss her. She wasn't sure if she had invited or allowed it, whether she enjoyed or disliked it. It had been a long time since she'd been touched-either physically or emotionally-by a “sane” man.

And the big, strong Alan Rychman, although very different in appearance, so reminded her of Otto. In his mannerisms, in the fact he was trying so hard to hide the little boy curled up deep within him.

“ I'd still like to take you to your hotel.”

“ Hotel, yes, hotel room, no.”

It had been nice having Alan Rychman escort her to the hotel, and he had no idea how much she had honestly wanted him to stay. She dreaded nights alone, especially away from her Virginia home in Quantico, the only place she felt completely and wholly safe. But even home had been invaded by her night visions and the shadows.

Jessica got into bed and sat up reading a recent report put together by one of the best psychological profiling teams at the FBI. The report served a double purpose: to induce a sound sleep, along with the pills given her by her shrink, and to bring her up-to-date on the most recent advice in dealing with killer couples. She knew that reading had lately become a way to avoid thinking about her continuing insomnia and what amounted to fear.

She concentrated on the cold, explicit, factual report in her lap, desperately trying to stay on her train of thought. It was well known in violent crime cases that there was often a dominant-subservient partnership involved, in which two killers formed a symbiotic bond of need and lust that led to mutual gratification through torture and murder. Killer couples weren't always a man/man team; quite often it was two women, and much more often, a man and a woman. Often one was so infatuated with the other that he felt a “spell” had been cast over him.