Fatal Instinct

by Robert W. Walker

  “There's been no time. Something to do with your Claw case and that you might be a target for some guy named Archer you've been trying to nail. Rychman made it sound real urgent.”

  “Jesus, it takes Archer's coming to assassinate me for everyone to believe me. How long've you been watching me?”

  “Just since seven this evening.” Frakley saw Robertson beside her on the floor. He rushed to have a look. “I heard the shot, came straight up.”

  “Get to a phone, Frakley; get help.”

  “Where're you going?”

  “Back to my lab.”

  “But where's this guy Archer?”

  “I don't know, but he's wounded.”

  “I can't leave you like this.”

  “If Robertson doesn't get medical attention now, he'll die. You see to that and I'll secure the floor.”

  Frakley reluctantly went in search of a telephone.

  In the movies, Rychman would have come racing to her side, instead of sending a Frakley, she thought, moving cautiously through the glass maze of the laboratories here, in search of any sign of the madman. Archer had perhaps found the stairwell and was holed up there somewhere. She only thought that she had seen him duck in here. She relaxed a bit; the place was empty. She had to get the building sealed off, and where the hell was security? She went into her office and dialed. As she did so, she stared out at the lab table where J.T. had been studying a replica that had been made of the claw, something to be used, he said, as a teaching tool for next semester's newcomers. It was in the vise when she had gone out, but now it was gone.

  Out of the shadows, as if materializing from air, the claw came crashing down at her, swiping out at her throat and latching onto the telephone receiver instead as she leapt away. Her gun flew off the desk where she had laid it down. The phone went through a glass partition, making enough noise to wake the dead, and certainly to cause Frakley to race in from wherever he was, she thought. But he did not come and she was knocked down and now, standing over her was the Claw, Archer's eyes like those of a raging, mad stallion as he raised the deadly instrument above his head and was about to strike.

  “God damn you, Archer, you've screwed up everything,” said Frakley as he entered, his weapon holstered.

  Archer's voice had taken on the croaking sounds of a man in pain. “The bitch shot me. My blood is all over the place.”

  “We can't do her here.”

  Archer moved closer to Frakley, the claw dangling at his side like that of a giant crab, his form hideous in the darkened room where the lamp had been overturned. Somewhere on the floor lay her gun. If she could only find it. Her mind raced to piece things together. Somehow Archer had found another weak, easily dominated dupe for him. Somehow the man had hypnotic power over others of a certain personality type.

  “After all, Frakley, you killed her here, not me. I tried to stop you and was wounded in the ensuing struggle,” Archer was saying as he turned Frakley's gun on him and twisted and fired. Frakley fell in a heap on the floor, dead.

  Jessica took the opportunity to grab up her cane and she brought it around just at the precise moment that Archer's jaw turned into it, knocking him, claw and all, across her desk, sending what remained there onto the floor with his weight. She scrambled about for a few moments for the gun she had lost. On hand and knee, she wildly pursued the missing gun but could not find it before Archer began clawing his way back up, holding onto the desk, stunned but far from incapacitated.

  Jessica tore from the office through a door that led deeper into the labyrinth of the labs. She made her way to another door that opened onto an autopsy room, where she left a spinning stainless-steel table in her wake. She went from room B to C and to D before she remembered the service elevator on the other side of the hall. She struggled on without using her cane, acutely aware that Archer and his deadly claw were right behind her.

  When she stepped into the hallway, she saw him at the other end, his dark form like an alien from another planet, the deadly claw clacking as if in anticipation of her blood. He'd kill her and set up the bodies, hers and Frakley's, to make it look as if they'd killed one another, to both prove her right about the dual nature of the Claw and to end any further speculation about him.

  There was little telling what the maniac had in mind other than her death. After she was splayed open like a tarpon, he'd feed on her, stuff portions of her into Frakley's mouth for good measure.

  She streaked for the service elevator, praying the car was on this floor. It was used for bringing bodies to and from the morgue in the basement. She had a fifty-fifty chance that it would be there. She fairly fell against the big red button that opened the sluggish doors, and the moment they opened, she hurled herself against the far wall. Turning, she saw that Archer was racing at top speed toward her, the claw extended at eye level, and as he came crashing into the closing doors, the claw dove through, as if it had a life of its own, snatching at her.

  She was too afraid to scream and instead seized the moment to tear out at the coverlet about the claw, trying desperately to rip it from his hand. He fought back, jabbing her, causing a bloody tear in her cheek, another to her forehead. Her hands were bloodied, but she continued to fight for control of the weapon when he finally snatched it back, allowing the elevator doors to close. She jammed at the controls to take it down as quickly as possible, but there was no hurrying the machinery.

  She tried desperately to catch her breath. She had to get to a phone. There was one in the morgue. But he knew she'd be there, and he'd be taking the stairs two and three at a time; he'd be there waiting for her when the doors opened.

  She jammed the emergency stop button and found herself between two floors. From the floor level below, the awful claw was scratching to get at her, tearing at her ankles, causing her to feel weak and terrified with the memory of how Matisak had immobilized her by cutting both her Achilles tendons. She jumped for the upper floor, pulling herself up. Archer climbed halfway into the cab after her. She quickly pulled herself to the floor above, reached up and slammed home the control button, sending the car down, but the mechanism was too slow for any chance of cutting Archer in two. However, the action did send him to the floor below.

  She raced for the stairwell but she heard him coming toward her. Glancing around, she saw a storage closet, and praying it was not locked, raced for this hiding place. She pulled the door wide and gasped at what it revealed. There in the dark, amid the clutter of broken glass from a smashed light, mops, brooms and fallen debris, lay the body of a security guard, a large black man she knew as Amos Croombs. The dead man's uniform matched the one Archer was wearing. Behind her she heard Archer's approach. She hadn't any choice. She pulled the door closed behind her and sought refuge here with the dead man.

  She could hear Archer nearing; she could feel him on the other side of the door. She'd been a fool to come into this dead end, she now told herself. He'd whip the door open any moment and kill her here. She didn't stand a chance.

  If she could see, she might arm herself with something, a bottle of bleach to throw into his eyes—anything—the moment he opened the door.

  But it was too late to dare make a sound. He was turning the doorknob.

  When Archer looked into the dark interior of the closet where he had dragged Croombs' body, he saw only what he had left there before, the dead security guard. He scanned the deep shadows for any sign of Jessica Coran, but found none. In a moment, he quietly closed the door and moved on in pursuit of his prey.

  Below the deadweight of the security guard, Jessica could hardly breathe and she felt the steady drip of blood as it oozed from the corpse's mouth, soiling her. She must wait patiently until Archer was out of earshot before she dared free herself of the position she was in. Once she was sure, she toppled the body, making more noise than she had wished to, and in the bargain feeling something heavy and metallic, like a hefty tool, cold and icy against her thigh. She reached down and found Amos Croombs' firearm. It was li
ke a godsend. Archer had no doubt killed both security men on duty, but he'd foolishly left Croombs' .38 behind.

  She checked the cylinder and learned by touch that every chamber had a round. She now held the weapon to her breast, hoping Archer had heard the noise she'd made, hoping he would return, throw open the door again. She'd blow his brains out.

  She waited, kicked out at some metal shelving to make more noise, and shouted for him by name, but he didn't return. He was on another floor, gone in search of her, hunting her as if she were an animal. But now it was time for her to hunt, to make him sweat.

  Cautiously she made her way from the closet. She knew she was close to the lobby, that it was just down the corridor. Was he lying in wait for her there? Expecting her to try to escape the building through the obvious route? She rounded a corner and saw the big glass doors and the darkness beyond. Was he outside, waiting for her? She had her chance now at escape, but should she take it?

  Where was the bastard? She didn't want to escape him now. Now she wanted to hunt him down and place a bullet in his brain.

  She surmised that he had done one of two things. He had panicked and run with the claw in hand, or he had remained calm and had returned to Frakley's body to plant the claw on him. It would still be his word against hers in a court of law, no matter what. There were no witnesses to his attack and he had Frakley to explain away everything. The bastard was shrewd, and even if his plan had gone awry, he would remain calm. She knew where he could be found, if she moved quickly. She rushed to the elevators, seeing that another car had come to a standstill on the floor where Frakley's body lay dead in her office.

  She got into the other car and went hunting. If she killed him, there would be justice. She could prove forensically that he had attacked both Frakley and her, that he had been shot by her when he attacked Dr. Robertson with the hypodermic needle; that he had killed the security guards. She had proven the guilt of Matthew Matisak ten times over, but what justice had come of it? She wanted to blow this bastard away as she had so often dreamed of blowing Matisak away.

  This was her chance.

  He would see now how it felt to be hunted.

  How it felt to be helpless.

  To plead for life, to beg, to know you're going to die.

  To be like his many victims in their last moments on earth.

  She stopped at the floor below and located an office, into which she stepped and turned on the building intercom. She said carefully into the mic, “Archer... Dr. Simon Archer, now I'm coming for you; I intend to kill you for all that you've done. I'm coming for you, Doctor . . . coming...”

  Archer got the message loud and clear where he stood over Frakley's body, securing the claw to the dead man's hand. He looked up and around, fearful that she was watching him this moment. She had somehow armed herself, or otherwise she would have fled into the night. Her voice sounded full of venom and fury.

  Knowing the danger to himself now, he made his way back toward the service elevator she had introduced him to. He rushed past some of the same objects he'd seen the first time around, coming to a standstill suddenly in a refrigeration room, where one of the vaults was standing open. Sitting up, its eyeless face staring back at him, was the Emmons cadaver. The ghoulish sight did not frighten him. It was the idea that Coran was watching him so closely. He dove for the floor at the instant a shot rang out, a shot that would have taken off his head.

  He crawled along the floor on his belly, making his way toward the service elevator. Where was she? How could he get free? Questions came in a tumult as he crawled animallike to get away. At the elevator a bullet ripped past his ear and into the metal door. He was still bleeding from his earlier shoulder wound.

  He ran for the stairwell and disappeared ahead of the gunwoman, who seemed to be toying with him. In the stairwell he hesitated a moment, unsure which way he should run, up or down. He felt like a rat in a maze, and she was making him run in the direction she wanted. She'd like to get him on the roof, force him over the side, watch him catapult to the concrete below. By the same token, she could be waiting for him if he rushed to the bottom. Which way? he asked himself. Then he heard her coming. Heard her cane going tap, tap, tap behind him.

  Twenty-Eight

  Jessica thought of how many people had been on this floor only a half hour before, how she had sent J.T. and the others away for much deserved rest while she reviewed each expert finding. Most every area of the lab had shut down and was now in darkness. She stretched out along the floor, dragging herself military fashion along by her elbows, certain that the madman was somewhere nearby, hiding like a frightened animal now, feeling the fear she had long wanted to instill in him.

  Leon Helfer would not die in a gas chamber or at the end of a rope, but now she had Archer in Virginia, where the death penalty was in full effect for capital crimes. He had murdered Frakley before her eyes. He had murdered the guard she had found and Robertson could well die. He was still alive, still breathing. She could see his chest swell with his gasps.

  She wanted to do what she could for Robertson, but she dare not allow one moment's concentration to be taken off her prey. Archer could turn and strike at any moment.

  She kept going, cornering from one cubicle to the next in the labyrinth, wondering from moment to moment when he would strike again, and how.

  She tried to calm her own breathing, thinking it so loud that he could monitor her movements by her breaths. When she made it to the next cubicle, she came face-to-face with another pair of eyes in the dark, and books and files suddenly were raining down over her. She lifted the gun, prepared to fire, when she realized the screaming person staring wide-eyed at her was Audrey Robel, a lab assistant she had thought had gone with the others. “Audrey!”

  “Dr. Coran, it's you!”

  “Thank God, you're here. Did you see anyone pass this way?”

  “Heard, but I didn't see. I kept myself out of sight. What's happening, Dr. Coran? Who-who-who's trying to kill us?”

  “You mean, you've been here the whole time and you haven't phoned for help?”

  “I was frozen stiff. When I heard the struggle, saw what was happening.”

  She grabbed the younger woman roughly by the arm and pushed her out into the hallway, forcing her to look down at Dr. Robertson. “He may die, Audrey. Get to a phone. Now! Call 911. Get medical help and backup.”

  She started away. “Where are you going, Doctor?”

  She said nothing, disappearing down the blackened corridor, pursuing Archer. She stopped before the stairwell door where she believed he had gone, taking a deep breath, maintaining her composure as best she could. The hefty weapon in her hand had gone a long way to restore her courage.

  She no longer felt helpless. In fact, with her training and expertise, she knew that it was correct for Archer to be afraid now. Somehow she knew that he was aware of just how dangerous she had become. Then she heard the clatter of metal steps inside the stairwell. He was desperate to put as much distance between them as possible.

  Still, she must control her hands, stop the trembling. But her every nerve had been struck as if by flint, her entire nervous system hot-wired.

  She straightened and arched her backbone, took a deep breath and drew on her FBI training.

  She pushed the door wide, sending it thundering against the wall, echoing up and down the stairwell. Archer, wherever he was, went silent. She searched the upward spiral of the stairs and then the down, her cane tapping a metallic warning to him. She could see no sign of him.

  “I hope, you bastard... I hope you went in the direction I wanted you to go,” she shouted, taking the stairs up.

  From below, Archer dared stick his head over the rail to look upward; seeing her shadow along one wall, he was mildly struck by the fact that she had regained her cane and seemed perfectly capable of quick forward movement. Acting on adrenaline, he thought. He hesitated in making a decision to follow the shadow or go ahead as planned. He knew time was running from h
im like a river now, and that he must save himself, survive to catch her another day when her defenses were lowered.

  Quietly, quickly, he continued with his original plan.

  Alan Rychman shouted at the Quantico authorities in the front of the six-passenger helicopter. “Can't you radio ahead? Can't you get us there any faster?”

  “No one's responding at security in the building where she works, and she's not responding to calls at her home,” replied Agent Stan Corvella, who had picked Rychman up at the airport.

  A second agent then turned and said, “Don't want to alarm you any more than you already are, Captain Rychman, but there's been an emergency 911 call out of the same location as Dr. Coran's laboratory.”

  “Jesus, oh, God,” he moaned. “We're too late.”

  “Hold on,” said the pilot through their headphones. “I'm bringing this bird in.”

  Below, on the runway at the military base at Quantico, strobe lights were flashing in a myriad of colors, indicating state, local and federal authorities had been alerted to the danger. Thanks to Alan Rychman's repeated attempts to get help, everyone was aware by now that Dr. Jessica Coran's life was in danger.

  He hadn't time to call from New York, as he had raced out to the airport in an attempt to catch Archer before he got off the ground, but he learned at La Guardia that there were no flight lists with Archer's name on it; however, he did come across a Dr. Casadessus on a flight far earlier in the day go-ing to D.C. Rychman then got on the first available flight, which was held for his boarding. Flashing his badge and credentials, he was allowed to retain his .38 for the flight.

  It was en route and from the plane that he telephoned the FBI in Quantico. With a bad connection, he finally got someone to understand that Jessica was in imminent danger. He gave a full description of Simon Archer and was assured that Dr. Coran would be safe. He then sat down and waited for what seemed an endless flight—actually only fifty minutes—at the end of which he located the FBI chopper waiting for him on the tarmac.