Darkest Instinct

by Robert W. Walker

  That left one of the boys tagging along in Judy’s foot­steps toward the boats. He introduced himself as Todd Simon, said his father ran the local True Value hardware, said he went to nearby Sea Breeze High School, said he was graduating come June, enrolling at Florida State in Tal­lahassee in the fall, and said he thought she was “about” the prettiest girl he’d ever met.

  But Judy only half listened, searching as she was for the boat that Tammy had gotten aboard. She scanned left and right, and when she finally zeroed in on it, she found that it had already been expertly maneuvered beyond the docks, and that it was now far out into the river—so far, in fact, that she couldn’t make out the name at the stern or the numbers below the bow.

  A wicked thought flitted through her brain now: how she might disrupt Tammy’s romantic evening so easily by re­porting the boat to the harbor patrol or even the Coast Guard, telling them she thought Patric was drunk when he pulled out of port and that maybe they should just have a look. If she had the name and numbers off the boat, it would be a simple enough joke to pull off, but she would have a tough time describing the boat without the details. Still, it was a stunning sailing vessel; not too many like her in the harbor, and if Judy worked fast...

  As she stared out at the boat, lit now with lights that made it appear enchanted, she felt another wave of distrust of the man who’d whisked Tammy off, and she felt an uncomfortable, indescribable and grim sense of concern for Tammy’s well-being. She even thought about a line in a poem Mrs. Hargrave had kept shoving down their throats in high school, something by Coleridge or Keats or somebody like that which said: A savage place! as holy- arid enchanted/As e er beneath a waning moon was haunted/ By woman wailing for her demon-lover!

  Maybe she was just jealous of Tammy; maybe she felt more vindictive about how the evening had gone than she wanted to admit. Maybe she was worse off than Cynthia in that way.“Bullshit,” she said aloud, alerting her “date” to her disquiet. Her fears were unfounded, she told herself. They didn’t compute. Tammy, like herself, had gone off with strang­ers met at bars before, so what was the big deal? Was it something her mother always said? That if it looks or sounds too good to be true, then it is too good to be true?

  Judy continued to stare out at the boat as it slipped fur­ther into the distance. There was something about the boat which triggered her concern, but she wasn’t sure what it was. Earlier, when Tammy, Cynthia and she were idly playing with the swizzle sticks in their drinks, they’d seen the boat approach, and the sun’s final, shimmering rays had made it appear something out of a fairy tale. None of them had expected the man who got off that boat to come near them, but he had. He’d honed right in on them, on Tammy in particular, catching her up with his eyes, asking if he could buy them all a drink. But soon he had somehow maneuvered Tammy away from the other two.

  Judy had watched the boat approach, had seen the name of the boat and had wondered about it, but she couldn’t recall it now. It had seemed odd to her, but then people named boats with words that spoke of very personal mo­ments in their lives all the time, so the names of boats were often colorful, filled with innuendo or double entendre, like Money Pit or Reckless Nerve. Still, this one was just strange.

  And there was something else nagging at Judy as she stood staring out at the boat in the twilight of the harbor lamps. Those thick black nylon ropes hanging over the bowsprit and at the stern seemed out of place, unnecessary bindings. Everyone nowadays used thick nylon ropes, but there was something odd about these lines.

  “How damned many lines do you need to secure a boat?” she asked herself aloud now while the boy beside her scrunched up his nose and raised his shoulders.

  Todd Simon finally replied with a question, reminding her of his presence beside her. “What’re you talking about?’’ He continued to stand there, staring out at the dis­tant lights of the boat with her, not knowing why.

  It did seem odd to her. She knew a little about sailing, had taken a class years before, and these lines were in excess of what was normally used on a sailing vessel, al­though there were always innumerable lines. There was something else strange about the boat, too, something odd. Still, it was the several catch lines or ropes, thick nylon things dangling in the water, that stayed with Judy. Each line curled over the edge like a waiting serpent.

  They couldn’t be anchor lines—not that many—and yet the ropes didn’t float or waft atop the water as one might expect rope to do if it’d simply been forgotten and left to dangle overboard. Even now, in the dark and in the dis­tance, she could see the reflection of light off three dis­tinctly different slick nylon ropes. Maybe it’s just where he stashes his beer, she thought; but he s got an entire galley below for that, she reminded herself, careful now not to ask Todd anything more. Each of the three lines she focused in on had some weight at the other end. Her curiosity remained unsatisfied. Foolish, she thought, being something of a sailor herself since she’d taken it up in college. Why intentionally create drag at the back of the boat that way?

  Also below the reflecting light out over the bay, she could just make out Tammy’s silhouette pressed up against his. They were kissing, dancing, making out on the boat—so far just harmless petting. And since the boat was sitting still now out in the middle of the harbor, it didn’t appear that Patric was going to take Tammy too far off.

  Tammy’s a big girl, she finally told herself. She can take care of herself.

  “I sure would like to dance,” said Todd Simon in her ear. “But a walk around the pier’s nice, too... I guess.”

  “You wanna dance?” she asked loudly, almost fright­ening her young suitor. “Then come on, we’ll dance.” She had to get her mind off Tammy and Patric, one way or another; her little fixation was only hurting herself. She hated Tammy more than just a little for having stolen her place beside Patric without the K. Forget it... forget her... forget him, she firmly admonished herself.

  Still, the entire time she danced with the heir to the True Value in South Miami Beach, Judy thought about Tammy’s turn of luck with the accented Patric, who had deftly moved his huge sailing vessel from port within minutes. It was so beautiful, the kind of sailing vessel you dreamed of owning. It was trimmed with durable East Indian teakwood, that lovely golden-brown sheen all around, always looking as if just varnished.

  And Patric’s eyes were so beautiful and alluring, and his voice so scrumptiously foreign, Australian perhaps, but more likely British, with a little cockney turn to it...

  God, Tammy, she thought as she twirled about the pier to the sounds of Bob Marley’s inept imitators, you’re so freaking lucky, girl...

  “She actually saw the guy?” asked Quincey, amazed. “She and her friend both saw him and the boat he used?”

  “And spoke to him!” said Santiva.

  Jessica was just reentering the room when Mark Samer­now griped, “Why didn’t the dumb bitch report this infor­mation when it happened?”

  “She did,” said Jessica.

  “What? When?”

  “Why haven’t we heard about it sooner?”

  The two detectives were clearly upset.

  “She filed a missing persons report,” Santiva informed them. “In Miami?”

  “Precinct 15 took her report over two weeks ago, but it somehow, through human error, did not get into the com­puter.” Jessica paced the room, adding, “She came back to check on progress about Tammy Sue’s disappearance. When Missing Persons realized what they had, they sent her over to us.”

  Eriq exasperatedly added, “So even our attempt to com­pile and network with all existing information on the Night Crawler hasn’t been a hundred percent, gentlemen. Can we get some corroboration, on what Judy Templar says, out of this Cynthia? And how do we find her? And who’s this other eyewitness you spoke of?”

  “I’ve got all the notes on her, an Aeriel Monroe. I’m still putting a lot of my notes on-line myself,” confessed Samernow. “Siie may also go under the name of Lov- ette.”
/>   “Goddamn you, Mark!” shouted Quincey, losing con­trol, kicking over his chair and smashing both his massive fists onto the table, causing the remote to hop twice. “You’ve fucked up once too often on this case.”

  “I’ll get the information to you, Agent Santiva. You’ll have it within the hour, on-line,” Samernow promised.

  “Meanwhile, see what you can do to relocate the girl who gave it to you.”

  Quincey assured him that they would find her, then left the room ahead of his partner, the steam of rage still rising from his head. Before the door closed on the partners, Jes­sica heard Quincey say to Samernow, “You drop the ball on this one more time and we’re through, Mark. I find myself a new partner.”

  Santiva heaved a sigh and frowned. “Let’s go down to see how Judy Templar’s doing with the sketch artist. What about this Cynthia, the girlfriend of the girl­friend? You think LeMonte might shake something addi­tional from her?”

  “From what Judy tells me, no. Cynthia’s in worse shape over this thing than Judy, and she’s been unable even to speak to Judy about it.”

  “Sounds like her level of intoxication that night may’ve been way over the limit. Just the same...”

  “If Quince and Samernow can come up with the other witness—and near victim as he tells it—she could be a much more reliable source. If their stories match, then they’re both credible. Let’s give it time.”

  Santiva nodded and made for the door while Jessica re­trieved the taped session which had come to mean so much to them all. On the way downstairs in the elevator, Eriq asked Jessica, “How much store do you think we can put in Templar’s testimony?”

  “My gut reaction?”

  He nodded.

  “A great deal. I think she’s sincere and very observant.”

  “What she said about the ropes hanging over the bow...” he mused, letting the words linger in the air be­tween them. “If those damned reporters had been kept back, no- body’d have learned about the black nylon rope we took off the bodies today. As it is... well, she told me that what got her to return to us—to authorities—in the first place was the report of the black nylon ropes used in the murders. It’s not as if she’s trying to put one over. I think the news about the ropes triggered a lot of pent-up guilt in her.”

  “And Dr. LeMonte? She believes the girl is telling the truth?”

  “She says she hasn’t a doubt.”

  They stepped off the elevator and located the Police Sketch Artist sector of the MPD, where Judy Templar sat before a man who kept asking her question after question about noses, eyes, ears, chins, cheeks, temples, foreheads, facial hair, hairlines and hair in general. Donna LeMonte stood nearby, offering encouragement.

  Jessica took Donna’s hand in hers; they’d become the closest of friends over the years, Jessica respecting the hard- edged, tough-talking Dr. LeMonte not only for her profes­sional acumen but for her personal triumphs. She had herself weathered many horrid hardships to overcome prob­lems in life, the most awful being the loss of her child to leukemia and the subsequent divorce from her husband, stemming from the dissolution of her family due to the dreadful disease. She started over late in life, returned to college, finished and went on to graduate study in medicine and psychiatry to become the best head doctor Jessica had ever known.

  They exchanged warm regards now, Santiva noticing the warmth and closeness in the firm hand-holding they shared. Jessica next introduced Eriq to Dr. LeMonte, whom he had heard of but whom he had never met. Dr. LeMonte didn’t work for the FBI, but she had counseled many of its agents over the years. She appeared ten, maybe twelve years Jessica’s senior, but she was a strik­ingly handsome woman.

  “You may’ve worked a minor miracle here, Doctor,” Eriq confided. “It may be the first break we’ve had in this case.”

  “And hopefully, it will lead us to this demon,” agreed Jessica.

  “I’m happy that it has worked out so well, happy to’ve done what I can,” she whispered back, “but I don’t think I’m finished just yet. Judy here”—she intentionally raised her voice so that Judy could hear—”she’s not doing so well on the specifics, but I think she’s agreed to another round of hypnosis, with an eye to details, facial and oth­erwise, of our mysterious Patric without the K. Haven’t you, dear?”

  Judy bit her lip and reached out to take Jessica’s hand now, saying, “I’m trying my best, but it’s just no good.”

  “Do you feel up to another hypnosis session with Dr. LeMonte, Judy?”

  “I’m tired, but... okay, I guess.”

  “Good... then we’ll set it up.”

  “We’ll do it right here, right now,” countered Donna LeMonte, “while we’ve got this young man here to draw from your words, Judy.” Judy and the young officer with the sketch pad ex­changed a long, meaningful look that ended in smiles. Jes­sica realized that a flirtation was in full swing. Maybe something good could come of this nightmare Judy was reliving time and again.

  Donna had Judy under in a matter of seconds. She asked her to revisit the night of Tammy’s disappearance, to go back to the wharf where she stood beside Todd Simon (who had already been interrogated, found lacking in information and released) and to stare out across the water at the boat and the man holding Tammy in his arms. She next asked her to return to her table when Patric was sitting across from her and whispering in Tammy’s ear.

  “Tell me now, Judy,” began Donna. “What does his hair look like?”

  “Raven-black, near blue; he may’ve used a gel. It was slicked back, wavy.”

  The artist began sketching on a new pad, listening in­tently now.

  “His forehead, it was like... like...,” Donna encour­aged.

  ‘ ‘Covered with a shock of hair on the right, but large on the left.”

  “Clear-skinned or blemished?”

  “Blemished a bit, like a large freckle or maybe a birth­mark where the hair lay over the forehead. It was the only imperfect thing about him.”

  “Anything special about his eyes?”

  “Oh, was there! They were so blue, I wondered if they were real or contacts.”

  “Eyebrows?”

  “Thick but not bushy, perfectly arched.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Set deep in, below the brow.”

  “And his ears?”

  “His hair lay over them, but what I could see of them... well, they were well-proportioned, not too large, but not small either.”

  The sketch artist worked furiously now to keep up with Judy and Dr. LeMonte, working next on cheeks, nose and lips, in that order, Dr. LeMonte asking if he smiled a lot or remained aloof. Whether he spoke often or only when spoken to.

  “He spoke mostly to Tammy, in whispers, licking at her ear, the bastard.”

  “How tall was he, Judy? Judy?”

  “Not terribly, maybe five-eleven, six foot.”

  “Weight?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Estimate it; your best guess, Judy.”

  “One seventy or seventy-five, maybe.” Soon the team had a sketch, which held Jessica’s rapt attention as she stared into deepening, glinting eyes that seemed to be alive on the paper. After a moment, the sketch was placed on the table and turned away until Judy was brought from her trance and asked if she was ready to look at what Brent Conway, the artist, had created.

  “I... I think so,” she confided, steeling herself as Of­ficer Conway reached out to lift up the picture.

  The effect made her nearly jump from her seat. “Ahhh, God, it’s—it’s him,” she swore. “My God, it’s him.”

  “Excellent,” said Eriq, raising a fist in a show of victory. “Excellent work.”

  “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes,” confessed Conway.

  “Me neither,” said Samernow from behind them. He’d obviously stepped into the room earlier. His hands were full with a file folder, some loose envelopes and a cigarette.

  “I
’ve got the information on the other possible witness. She said in her interview the guy had an accent, possibly Brit­ish, and that he used the name Patric Allain. Says his boat had a name on it with a T figuring prominently, but she wasn’t sure of the complete name.”

  “Startling cross-references, Detective,” said Jessica, tak­ing the paperwork from him.

  “Was Quincey able to locate the girl?” asked Eriq.

  “We’ve got relatives we’re checking. We’ll locate her. Meanwhile, you’ve got everything we have on her.” He indicated the file now in Jessica’s possession.

  “I’ll see to it the information gets keyed into the com­puter; see what other kinds of matchups and cross- references we get, if any,” Jessica replied to this. She then turned to Judy Templar and asked, “Does that name, Al­lain, ring any bells with you, Judy?”

  Judy shook her head. “All that Tammy told us was that his name was Patric, spelled without the K,” she repeated, dropping her eyes. “What about the boat name having a T in it?” Jessica pursued.

  “No, I told you, we didn’t pay any attention to the name, and I couldn’t make it out when I decided maybe I should, you know, pay attention.”

  Jessica squeezed her hand. “You’ve got to stop blaming yourself for this awful thing he did, Judy... Judy...”Donna LeMonte stared intently upon the scene, and when Jessica looked up into her clear green eyes Donna realized that the pupil—Jessica—had now become the teacher, the healer. Her words were exactly those spoken by Donna to her many years ago, when Jessica had first come to Donna seeking absolution in the death of Otto Boutine, a wonder­ful man who’d died because Jessica had made a fatal mis­take in judgment while tracking down Mad Matthew Matisak. Boutine, Jessica’s first true love, had given his life to preserve hers.

  “It’s not my fault, huh?” asked Judy, pulling away and going for the door. “Tell that to Tammy’s parents, her sis­ter and brother. And while you’re at it, tell them it wasn’t Cynthia’s fault, either. Go ahead! Tell them!”

  “Judy... Judy!” Jessica started to go after the young woman, but Donna stopped her. “Give her time, Jess.”