Robert Walker - Fatal Instinct

Time was crawling by. To keep everything completely objective and unimpeachable, she had turned the Emmons examination over to J.T. and a team that was unlikely to miss the smallest hair or fiber on the slate-white tissues of the body.

And so she had gone home.

How she now missed Alan.

Would she soon be missing J.T.?

She felt alone in her comforting little world, snuggled deeply into the cushions of her soft, beige couch, staring up at the walls, the silence, taunting time and memory, beating out a rhythm not unlike that of her saddened heart. It was not just her loneliness that was poisoning her homecoming, but her fear. She realized now that all this time, since she had recovered from the attack on her by Matisak, O'Rourke had played on her weaknesses and Jessica had become afraid not only of her own decisions but those of others, and of O'Rourke's in particular. O'Rourke held sway over her and had been trying to use her like a dangling marionette first here and then there. It had been O'Rourke who pushed her into taking the Claw case, and she had manipulated her to the interviews with Matisak long before this, and urged her into Gerald Ray Sims' cell, all the time knowing what it must be doing to her, eroding away her mental stability, washing away her strength.

And like a weak and bullied kitten, Jessica had allowed this to continue. No wonder J.T. seemed so estranged. J.T. didn't know her anymore, didn't recognize her, because she had changed long before J.T. had. The tragic effect was that their relationship had also been eroding away. She wondered if it could yet be saved.

In the past, J.T. would never have doubted her actions; in fact, he had always been her chief advocate and champion. The memories flooded in. Cheering her, J.T. was always there to dig in and learn from her actions, to become a principal player in her sometimes dubious attacks and feints, never quite fully apprised of her motivations, and yet trusting her on faith alone, the way Alan Rychman had come to trust her, she thought. John Thorpe had never questioned her ability as a super-sleuth M.E. who worked hard to please the memory of her father.

But she had let J.T. down somewhere along the way. She had let herself down, and the wolves were waiting on the periphery of her waning strength, prepared to tear her apart. And J.T.? Was he among them?

Theresa O'Rourke was her division head now, and Jessica must answer to her, must work with her instead of around her as she had in the past, but she must first face her down, show the woman what she was made of. Until now O'Rourke had only known the wounded Jessica Coran. It might take some doing, and the confrontation might end in her dismissal, but on her way out, she would see that J.T. got her position. No one was more qualified.

Another full day at the lab had netted her nothing, and now Jessica had returned home where her thoughts wandered back to New York City, to Alan Rychman. Alan had calmed down later that night of their last evening together and had allowed her to speculate on the possibilities, had held her and had comforted and counseled her. In light of there being no evidence, he had likely been humoring her when he said he would continue to investigate, to locate the shadowy Casadessus, and to try to link him with Archer, as they were both medical men. Had it just been Alan's way of soothing her, his way of leading her back into bed?

She covered her eyes now with both hands and recalled every sumptuous moment of their lovemaking; they were good together, good for each other, too.

Alan was gentle with her, his touch so light, at odds with his size and the hardness of his body and muscles. But she knew she could not depend on him-or any man, for that matter. In the end, she knew that her full recovery from the fear and suffering the Matisaks of the world had caused her would come only through her own hard-fought, inner battle with the demons residing deep within.

Unable to sleep, she wondered if she ought not to return to the lab, if it hadn't been a mistake to leave Emmons' body in J.T.'s hands; if she shouldn't be there overseeing his every move. In her absence from Quantico, it seemed that J.T. and O'Rourke had found a little too much common ground for her liking.

She sat up and checked the blinking, light-emitting diode signal coming from her alarm clock. The patterns went on and off at 11:07.51, 11:07.52, 11:07.53. Time was in slow motion, she thought.

Unable to stand things as they were a moment longer, she got up, stumbled in the dark and found a pair of jeans in the closet and pulled a sweatshirt on, forgoing a bra. She found her shoulder holster, thinking that since the range was open all night, she might go there instead of the lab. Over the gun she placed a light jacket with the insignia of the Washington Redskins on it. Uncertain of her destination at the moment, she nonetheless rang for a cab. She then grabbed up her cane and her keys and was out the door.

On the street outside the lobby doors to her condo complex, she beat out a rhythm on the sidewalk with her cane, a little angry at herself for slipping backward again, allowing sleeplessness its way with her. At least, she told herself, she wasn't on any pills anymore, and she wasn't drinking heavily as in the early days of her battle with the shadows that came in on all sides, turning even her spacious haven upstairs into a claustrophobic vise.

If shadows were without substance, then how did they crawl up from out of her psyche to do a lurid dance along the walls? How could they take shape and stand and stare back at her? Dr. Lemont said she had to stare her fears down. When Alan was near, the phantoms had let her be, afraid to show themselves to another human being-or maybe just afraid of Alan! Now that he was no longer near, they'd slinked back on stealth feet: all her self-doubt, her remorse over Otto's death, her guilt and shame.

She was relieved to see the taxi's lights when it pulled into view. When she got into the cab she knew where she wanted to be, a well-lit place with others around her.

“ Quantico gates, please,” she told the cabbie, who grunted in response.

After a moment, he said, “Whataya do out there?”

“ I'm a doctor,” she told him.

“ Oh, yeah? That must be in-ner-resting work.”

She said no more, thinking of J.T. instead. She wondered why he hadn't telephoned with something. The old J.T. would have.

As the cab pulled from the curb, the cabbie caught a rear-view glimpse of someone who'd stepped from the shadows.

He said in a smoker's rasp, “You was alone, wasn't you?”

“ What?”

“ A single fare?”

“ You see anyone with me?”

“ No, no… Sorry, Doctor.”?

Simon Archer had arrived in Quantico, Virginia, very early that morning.

Casadessus wouldn't leave Archer alone about Jessica Coran; he would not let Archer sleep. Days had gone by in which he had fought the influential force within him that kept saying over and over that he must have her, must see Jessica Coran's insides turned out, must feed on her. Casadessus' appetite for the more youthful and powerful was not surprising. Casadessus believed that by feeding on the physical energies of others, by feeding on organs such as the heart, that Archer simultaneously fed on the psychic energy of his victims, thereby making him stronger. Of all the hundreds involved on the case of the Claw only she had an inkling of what had actually occurred, and it stood to reason that only she, now with Emmons' body under her full control, might someday show others that she was right: that Simon Archer was the Claw.

He had carefully arranged to leave New York without anyone's knowing, booking his flight under the name of Ernest Casadessus, the name belonging to his grandfather, a man who took delight in beating, torturing and biting his own children, if his mother's rendition of her upbringing could be be-lieved.