Killer Instinct

by Robert W. Walker

  But the shot did not come. Matisak stumbled, losing his balance once more, weakened by the shock of the gunshot to his side, staring at his own blood and trembling to see it running from himself.

  Matisak passed out.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Using her teeth, Jessica tore at the rope holding her in bondage, knowing she hadn't fatally shot Matisak, and that her time was limited. She struggled with her bonds, animal fear motivating her. Unable to get her hands free, she curled toward her ankles where the feeling had gone dead in her feet. She tried to get her weight off the rope, remembering that so long as there was a dead weight on the knot he used, there was no way to free it.

  Once she managed to lessen the pull of her body against the rope, it was not hard to remove the noose about her ankles. She was holding tight to the beam where her hands fit through the same groove as had been used to loop the rope. She carefully lowered herself so as not to jar Matisak.

  The moment she was on her feet, she crumpled to the floor. She realized only now that she was unable to stand or to walk, that Matisak had severed her Archilles tendons. She knew that unless an operation was performed tonight, she'd lose the use of her legs permanently. Even if she did receive the necessary medical attention, she was certain no one would give her any guarantees she wouldn't need a cane for the rest of her life.

  She lay now alongside Gamble's lifeless body, his blood matting her hair. She heard Matisak moan, disturbed from his blackout, coming around slowly.

  At her throat bobbed the now heavy, disturbing object that had been the instrument of death used on all of Matisak's previous victims. She had instinctively reached up to it, wanting to tear it away, the same as she might a disgusting leech, but to do so would cause her a further loss of blood, weakness and dizziness.

  The bastard so nearby, trying now desperately to come to, had crippled her, possibly for life, but he had also scarred her throat. He had also reached down into her sacred soul deep within her, and he scarred this, too, with the acid of his aberration.

  She found the tattered remains of the blouse that Gamble had slit from her with his knife. She clung to it as if it might bring some measure of strength, and then she draped herself with it.

  Panting, her fear rose in her like a tangible new organ that somehow took on life and welled up from the pit of her stomach; her fear had balled up within her, creating an enormous lump of palpitating tissue pushing up from her gut, trying to escape through her throat.

  “Get hold of it. Get hold of yourself “ she pleaded with herself, her knuckles going white where she had grabbed onto a coverlet on the couch and squeezed.

  The living fear that threatened to overwhelm was fought down, and now she searched for a weapon, anything she might use to defend herself while in her vulnerable state. She looked everywhere for the gun but it had disappeared. Was it somewhere below Matisak's bulk? She feared going near him to investigate. One wrong move and she was certainly dead.

  She debated with herself about the relative merits of using a chair, a poker, one of the bastard's power tools— anything that would end the madman's life and the nightmare she found herself in. But all of these choices necessitated dragging herself halfway across the room and back, and she wasn't sure she had the strength, or the time.

  Frantic, knowing her time was running out, Jessica's eyes lit on a large, shining portion of broken glass; slick with blood—her blood—it was part of the jar that she'd shattered with a bullet. As if from far away, or looking through the wrong end of a telescope, her brain in a whirr, she watched her hand reach out for the razor's edge of the broken glass. It was hefty, a large portion of a mason jar where the bottom met the side. With this in her hands, she had the wherewithal to kill the killer before he stirred. She need only slash his goddamned jugular.

  She put all her effort into crawling toward Matisak now holding firm to the deadly glass. She reached his moaning form and inched along it toward his throat, trying not to disturb him further. As she got into position, within striking distance of his throat, she carefully reached around to lift his head back by the hair in order to expose the throat. It would be a fitting end, she thought, and only what the bastard deserved. She would then watch him bleed to death as he had planned to watch her.

  She was about to dig into his jugular as she would a dangerous animal's with the only weapon at her disposal when he suddenly grabbed her wrist, squeezing, trying to make her drop the glass.

  She screamed and tore away from him, crawling away from him, feeling like a slug, unable to walk or so much as stand without toppling over; behind her, she heard his laughter as he watched her slithering movements. An overwhelming sense of despair and helplessness pervaded her mind, threatening to weaken her resolve and sap her physical reserves, depleting her completely. She now cringed in a corner, the poor excuse for a weapon now hidden deep in the folds of a coverlet she'd found as she dragged herself as far from Matisak as she possibly could.

  She wanted to scream, but that most likely would raise him sooner than it would alarm anyone outside. She could not believe that no one in the neighborhood had called the police at the sounds of shots and screaming. She thought she had faintly heard the sound of sirens earlier, but they had died away, as if racing away to another location.

  But then, she was in Chicago.

  Matisak came closer... closer... closer.

  # # #

  As they screeched into view of the house where Gamble lived, Brewer's car slid in beside Boutine's. Brewer hopped out and grabbed Boutine who was prepared to rush the house. Joe repeated his earlier call for calmness and rational thought. The FBI men had come to a halt at the end of the block, their car motors idling hot. Brewer held both hands against Otto's massive chest, making him hold on, but Boutine shoved his friend aside. Brewer, like a hound on a scent, was right back at him, standing in his face, calling for an intelligent approach to the situation.

  “Otto, we don't know anything. We can only presume that Gamble and Jess are inside there. We have no evidence whatever that Matisak is in that apartment house.”

  “Gamble works at Balue-Stork; he knows Matisak,” countered Otto, about to strike Brewer if necessary.

  Again Brewer placed a restraining hand on him. “Going in wild eyed and shooting isn't going to cut it, Cowboy.”

  The old nickname Brewer used for his friend seemed to slow him even if just a little. Boutine's steely eyes bore into Brewer like a pair of super-heated, twisting corkscrews. “If anything's happened to Jess...”

  “She may not even be here, Otto. Now come on.”

  Otto finally relented. “Whataya' have in mind?”

  “The alleyway. We make our way toward the house from the rear. Then, if it's warranted, we'll get backup.”

  Otto bit his lip and nodded. “All right, we do it your way, for now. But this bastard's been yanking my chain for too long, Joe, and I want two things to come out of this night. We see Jess safely away and we take this creep out. And if she is in there alone with this devil, I won't allow it a moment longer. Come on!”

  Boutine began down the alleyway at a trot.

  “But we got no warrant. Otto, no juice here, no probable-fucking-cause anymore than we had at Matisak's house.” They both knew that everything found at Matisak's would be ruled inadmissible in a court of law. “If you charge in here—” But Boutine wasn't listening; instead, he was pointing at a silver-gray, Balue-Stork van nearly invisible in the metallic shadows behind Gamble's place.

  When Brewer caught up. Otto whispered in his ear, “There's your goddamned probable cause, Joe.”

  Joe went closer to the van, inspecting it, looking into the little square of glass at the rear, seeing only darkness inside. “It'd still be better if we drew Matisak out,” he whispered back to Otto who was studying the house.

  When Otto made no reply, Brewer, fidgeting with the van door and finding it unlocked, suggested they check the interior. He also said, “We maybe oughta call the fire department to
the house across the street, cause a little diversion for Matisak and his friend Gamble. Then we go in like you say, if they don't step outside.”

  Boutine just kept thinking of Jessica alone inside with a madman. If she weren't already dead, she was suffering. “I'm going in now, Joe.”

  “That's crazy, Otto.”

  “Damn it, Joe! Jess is in there. I feel it.”

  Suddenly the van door came flying open and both men whipped out their guns, almost firing at Captain Kaseem's stiff body. “Jesus Christ!” said Brewer, shaken.

  “Oh, God, it's Kaseem,” said Otto, stepping around the van for a better look. ' 'Think this is probable cause enough for the court, Joe?”

  “We've got to get inside there. Now.”

  “Now you're talking.”

  “But we need to call for backup, Otto.”

  “Go ahead. I'll make my way around front and enter from there. You come in from behind.”

  Brewer raced back to the car and the radio, all the while praying that Otto would not do anything heroic or foolish on his own, that he'd wait a decent interval for Joe to be in place. Brewer's mind was rocketing with images and questions. Was Jessica inside that house, alone with Matisak? Was she just as dead as Kaseem? What would it do to Otto?

  Brewer tore open his car door and radioed for assistance from any and all in the area, giving Gamble's address, using the Chicago Police code for “officer down.” This code would send an army down on Gamble's place.

  He then raced back down the alleyway for the rear of the apartment house. When he and Otto had been in the academy together, Boutine always did things the dangerous way, getting the highest marks on obstacle courses and range shooting, but also getting shot and killed more times than anyone else in the class. That propensity, along with the western flare and drawl, had earned him the moniker of Cowboy among his friends in the agency. Otto had been orphaned at an early age, had witnessed the disintegration of his family, and the loss of a small horse ranch outside Bozeman, Montana. He had come up the hard way, and for this Brewer had always admired the determination, grit, and back-bone of the man. Even in his wild youth, even while being shot dead with red dye or an electronic beam on the proving grounds at Quantico, Otto was always focused, controlled. He had now spent the better part of his life tracking the most insane of criminal minds with a sense of purpose that bordered on religious zeal.

  It was what separated the Joe Brewers of the Bureau from the Otto Boutines.

  So, here he was, the Cowboy still, tracking down the sinister bad guys, just as reckless and careless as the much younger man Joe had first met at the academy so many years ago.

  Would he wait for backup? Would he give it the few minutes necessary? Would Otto even wait for Joe to get into place before he did a swan dive through the bay window out front? So far this night, Boutine had gone against all his training, allowing his own to take control of him.

  It was up to Joe to back him up any way he could. If Boutine would allow him that privilege.

  # # #

  Mad, crazed Matisak was again enjoying himself; his bloody wound seemed numb now. His facial features were contorted more with hatred for Jessica Coran than with pain.

  “You've been a naughty girl, haven't you, Jessica? It will take more time now. I'll have to sedate you again, tie you by your heels again, tie your hands again... just as you want... to keep me here longer. You would die to catch me... give your life for the cause of stopping me. I am flattered, and I respect you... I do. So much character. I've never killed anyone with so much fight in her. But you leave me little choice but to do it now and be damned with how it looks.”

  His hand shot out for her from where he kneeled over her. With the gun in his right hand, he tore at her hair with a bloody left hand, viciously yanking her head forward, into the barrel of the gun, blackening her eye, making her screech.

  “I should blow your fucking brains out now, bitch! Like I did Gamble's.”

  Pain was shooting through her. “But you won't.” Her words were breathless.

  “You think you know me?”

  “Enough... enough to know that you want to make me suffer more, and to do that—” She tore out the trach tube at her throat and hurled it across the room. They both heard it shatter into multiple pieces.

  He pistol-whipped her across the chin, knocking her back. “I have others.” His assured eyes smiled wickedly at her. He put the gun into his belt and reached for her with more rope, readying to tie her up once again.

  With all the strength she could put behind it, she brought up the jagged piece of glass, sinking it deep into his throat, making him scream and pull back. At the same instant the living room window burst into a thousand pieces as Otto Boutine came crashing through.

  “Jess! Jess!” he was shouting as he rolled into a dark corner of the room.

  “He's got a gun!” she shouted in return.

  At the same instant both men opened fire, returning several shots apiece, and then silence reigned.

  From the comer where she had huddled, she cried out, “Otto! Otto, are you all right?”

  There was no answer and the police lights from outside sent a chilling silhouette against the window sash.

  “You friend's dead,” croaked Matisak. “And now it's your turn.” He aimed, said, “Checkmate,” and fired point-blank at her head. She heard the pathetic metal click of an empty chamber.

  “Drop it! Drop it, you bastard, or you're mincemeat!” shouted Joe Brewer, who had slipped into the house from the rear. “I ought to blow you away.”

  Other cops swarmed in from all sides now, two in uniform taking Matisak and shoving him hard against a wall, frisking him. His side wound was still pumping blood, and the bullet had likely passed through him without hitting any vital organs. There was a cut to the throat where she had almost gotten at his jugular.

  Brewer bent over Jessica, asking if she was all right. “Get me to Otto. Otto!” Her voice was choked with blood seeping into her windpipe.

  Brewer helped her to where Otto was sitting upright against a wall as if simply at rest. His eyes shone only dimly in the darkness. He was bleeding from two wounds to the abdomen. He was conscious but weak.

  ' 'Get her out of here, Joe. Get her to a hospital!'' Boutine began coughing and the hack made him spit up blood. It discolored his lips and his ashen-white skin. His white shirt was soaked slick with his blood.

  “Get an ambulance!” she shouted, snatching at Brewer even as the men with the stretchers were spilling into Gamble's small rat hole. “Hurry! Hurry!”

  Brewer began telling the medics what to do. “Take these two. Forget the other two. One is dead and the other one is our prisoner. Now, go! Go!”

  Jessica clung to Otto. She was draped in an old blanket that'd belonged to Gamble, but she, like Otto, was losing blood. The tear to her jugular and the cuts at her heels continued to bleed. She felt dizzy, light-headed, and now that she knew that Matisak was in custody, she could finally let down, and the moment she did, she went into a traumatic shock.

  The medics rushed to her aid, and Boutine became agitated, yelling for them to do something for her. Brewer told Boutine to shut up and stay calm, that he was losing enough blood to kill two men. More paramedics arrived on the scene, two others taking charge of Otto while the first two worked on stabilizing Jessica.

  Otto said several times as if it were a litany, “Take care of Jess... take care of Jess...”

  Otto was dead before they laid him onto the stretcher.

  Brewer, seeing this, became enraged. He turned to face Matisak. “You butcher! You goddamned butcher! Now you've taken—” He leapt onto Matisak, pummeling him with his fists until several other agents tore him away.

  “Joe, Joe!”

  “Christ's sake!”

  “Cocksucking maniac kills good people, and whataya reckon'11 happen to him? Fed pen for the criminally insane? Bastard oughta fry, but he won't. Oughta die here and now!”

  One of the other
agents grabbed for Brewer's gun in his shoulder holster just as Brewer's hand wrapped around it.

  “He ain't worth your life now, Brewer... Brewer!”

  Brewer eased his grip on the gun, and the other man took it. “Until you cool down.”

  “All right... all right,” he said, pulling away. “I'm all right.”

  “Just the same, I'll hold on to this. You go with the woman. She'll need you when she comes out of it.”

  “Yeah... yeah... I suppose you're right.” He stared evilly across the room at Matisak. “You better hope they fry your ass, Matisak. If they don't, I will.”

  Matisak looked pathetic in both size and demeanor now; he didn't look at all special, or even extraordinary in the negative sense, as of a freak in a sideshow. In fact, he looked so extremely ordinary, so close to normal and typical, that normalcy and typical and ordinary took on bizarre new meanings for the men standing in a circle around him. This was the vampire killer that had rocked Chicago and half a dozen midwestem states? He was neither tall nor short, neither fat nor thin, and his facial features might put him behind a desk in a bank or below a hood in a car shop. The only thing that marked him as at all different was a slight hump at the shoulders, almost like a buffalo hump, a thickness about the jowls, some scales and pockmark discolorations over the skin. His hair was thinning and wispy, the receding hairline cutting a jagged edge in his profile. The eyes alone might seem unusual as they glowed a dark blue against the lights that were turned up on the bloody scene that Matisak had created.

  In the midst of it lay Gamble's body, a bullet through the temple.

  Brewer gathered himself up and shouted to his next in command. “Leonard, three things, okay?”

  “You name it, boss.”