Robert Walker - Killer Instinct

Still, his feelings for her were undeniable. He wondered if he should not declare them to her. He wondered if he dared.

Marilyn had been gone from him long before her actual clinical death. The lingering coma had sapped him of hope, reducing him to the little boy who watched his father's slow death. He needed someone to turn to, someone who would take the pain away, draw it off the way Jessica did, sometimes without her even knowing.

Was he acting like a fool? Would Jessica respond to him? Would she understand his needs? Or would she confuse them with motives of a different nature?

The hum of the engines was like the thinking of God, deep and resonant and peaceful but also unfathomable. He let the black-and-white copy of the letter from Teach slip from his grasp and onto the circular tabletop as his head fell back and he rested his eyes just for a moment before falling into a deep slumber.

He dreamed of Jessica.

# # #

Otto Boutine arrived at her door, and she welcomed him in. He had come alone except for the copy of the letter he had on his person, and it seemed like there was a third person in the room-the killer.

She went to the kitchenette and brewed them coffee. Otto spread the letter out on the table, saying that Documents was picking it apart, along with several shrinks and as many of his P.P. team as he was able to get back to Quantico. Byrnes was still in Wekosha, where he had uncovered very little new information, except for the fact that a guy with a medical supply company had made some purchases in the town at a music store, tapes of classical music primarily. The name of the place was Pernell's Music Emporium. A weak description of the man was of very little help, but it supported much of the theorizing that the P.P. team had done: the killer was in his late twenties or early thirties, a medical supply salesman of some sort, quiet and wallflowerlike, if not a regular shrinking violet.

With their coffee and the strange letter from Teach between them, the two FBI agents discussed its deeper meaning.

“ I'm worried about this, Jess,” he admitted. “It means that he's picked you from a crowd. Of all the hundreds of law enforcement people involved in this case, he has fixed his bloody attention on you. Gives me the chills, just thinking about it.”

“ Hasn't done much for my digestion either,” she admitted. “Or my beauty sleep.”

He had noticed that she'd been staring at the TV from the couch rather than in her bed when he had come in. “That's why I flew out. Christ, Jess, J.T.'s analysis of the blood scrapings-”

“ What? What about them?”

“ The blood on the letter matches Copeland's in every detail.”

“ Bastard,” she muttered. “Pisses away the dead girl's blood, uses it for ink… God knows what other uses he makes of it.”

“ A real Marquis de Sade. Wouldn't be surprised if he bathed in it,” he said. “So, little wonder I got worried about you out here. Called Joe Brewer personally to ask him to stick by you.”

“ Oh, he did that.”

“ That jerk didn't make a pass at you, did he?”

“ Not quite.”

“ Meaning?”

She frowned and shrugged. “It was nothing.”

“ Jess?”

“ He… he asked about our relationship.”

Otto dropped his gaze. “He's not the only one asking.”

“ I told him we were just best of friends.”

“ And we are,” he replied, reaching across to her hand and covering it. “But I've had… hopes… that we might be more to one another… someday.”

She covered his hand in hers. “I've had similar… hopes.”

“ So I came a thousand miles to be with you.”

She stared at him, trying to uncover the unspoken words here. “Against orders? Not against Leamy's holy wishes, I hope.”

“ No, nothing like that,” he said, but there seemed to be something hidden in his tone.

“ What, then?”

“ Someone's been spreading stories about… well, about you and me, Jess.” He scratched nervously behind his ear, and she saw that he was exhausted.

She frowned, but leaned across to him and kissed him. “Can you blame anyone for talking? There's some fire in this smoke… isn't there?”

“ There is… a fire.”

“ Brewer… some of your friends… are just worried it's too soon after Marilyn. Afraid I'll not be good for you or your career. And maybe, maybe they're-”

“- wrong,” he finished for her, kissing her deeply, probing her mouth with his tongue.

She felt her passion for him rise like the energy above an open flame; she felt as if all her inner turmoil and emotional conflict, the horrendous nature of her long, defeating search for the killer, the stress of being in charge of a forensics division of the largest law enforcement agency in the world-all of it melted within her, turning to an invisible, yielding mist that drained off her mind, to be replaced with his touch.

She could feel, also, Otto's inner trembling as he gave into his need for her. He tenderly held her, his mouth hungrily exploring hers, until suddenly he swept her up and carried her into the bedroom, where he softly placed her against the pillows. The earlier darkness of the room had been too heavy and somber and cold, but now it was as if a ray of morning light had filtered in. She could see Otto clearly over her, his features distinct and his eyes probing. She reached up and helped him tear away his shirt, her nails going into his flesh, making him arch toward her. She lifted her mouth to his chest and suckled at him, making him groan. She lay back and opened her robe to him.

“ I need you, Jess,” he moaned into her ear when he eased himself over her nude form.

“ And I need you,” she replied, wishing that he'd said “I love you,” instead. A part of Otto was still being held in check; a part of him was elsewhere. But she gave herself to him without reservation, praying that it would be enough for him, and that his coming to her like this would never be to his regret.

She pleased him.

She suiprised him.

She soon realized that he would never regret tonight.?

The discovery of a body on Chicago's near North Side rocked the city, its police force and the FBI. From all appearances, the fearsome Chicago-Wekosha vampire was dead of his own hand, a suicide note written in blood beside him, and he had been an aged, white-haired old man, just like the original Count Dracula of Bram Stoker's novel. The man's body was found by a neighbor who often played chess with him in the evenings. Maurice Lowenthal was a retired medical instruments specialist with a firm called Balue-Stork Medical Supply of Chicago, and except for his age, he very nearly fit the PPT profile the FBI had created in its attempt to locate and end the career of this vampiristic sadist. He lived alone. He had never married. He had buried his parents. He was a man of few friends, none beyond the man in the building who enjoyed a game of chess. He had been something of a loner in his work with Balue-Stork, something of a model worker. Never complained, never a claim for workmen's compensation. Had worked steadily for over eighteen years.

The suicide note told the whole story, and it was on the midnight news even before it was confirmed. The note read: “I cannot any longer live with my guilt and my evil inner self. I killed those poor women and boys for their blood. I now take my own.”

It was signed once more, Teach.

It was even in the same flourishing print, and in the man's stuffy little apartment, inside the refrigerator was found ajar of blood, labeled Renee. The blood would test out as belonging to the Zion woman; of this, Jessica was certain. Other, empty jars were found lying about. There was amid Lowenthal's sprawled body and his own blood, on the carpeting, a saucer and a teacup. The suicide note itself was on the coffee table, glued there by a pool of blood beneath. There were additional blood splotches on the note.