Grave Instinct

FIFTEEN

Downriver Later that night

Jervis Swantor awoke to the sound of a boat whistle, someone hailing his ship, he feared. It was far too soon to be caught and stopped.

He looked out the porthole above his bed and could see absolutely nothing. Just as predicted by the weatherman, the Mississippi was awash in a thick, gray fog, a soup that blotted out sight.

He grabbed his night-vision binoculars and saw that it was a southbound barge, pushed by a tugboat, and it came within feet of his yacht. Barges were plied up and down the river like silent dinosaurs, but he could not believe these fools were still running under such conditions. If they saw his lights at all, they must think the same of him. He feared anyone seeing him out in this would report his position, thinking him in danger.

The swells from the barge also indicated just how close they'd come to swamping Swantor's yacht, as they caused it to bob like a giant cork, stirring his two guests to shouts and pleadings.

He picked up the tool kit belonging to Kenyon, and went to the woman's room to look in. She pleaded with him to save her from a madman. “I've got your madman next door, opposite you.” He pulled forth the brain saw and held it up to the camera, which could only catch his upraised hand and the saw. “I've got his tool kit. For now, you needn't worry, my dear.” He had turned the audio off for now to lessen his need to edit out his voice and any references to himself.

He straddled the two rooms and pushed open the door, which allowed him to see both Kenyon and the woman at the same time.

“ You stinking, lousy bastard, Swantor!” shouted Kenyon, getting up from his bed and rushing Swantor, but the chain stopped him a few feet from Swantor, like a collared dog.

“ Well now, everyone's awake. Likely hungry, aren't you?”

“ I'll kill you, Swantor.”

“ Make nice, Mr. Kenyon. I intend on feeding you.” He held the saw out to Kenyon. “Take it.”

“ What's going on?” pleaded the woman.

Kenyon took firm hold of the bone cutter. His eyes locked with Swantor's. “What're you planning?”

“ I'm going down to the galley to fix you a bite, my dear! No one should die on an empty stomach,” Swantor said to the woman. “Be right back.”

Swantor smiled as he closed each door and left. He'd gotten it all on film. His next installment. Before his last installment for this episodic adventure, he would first prepare a hearty meal for the lady.

Swantor glanced at the monitor screens for each room. The woman looked weak, vulnerable in her chained position. By comparison, Kenyon was enervated by the bone cutter, huddling over it, rocking, and once or twice he placed it to his temple, but he didn't turn it on. Instead he held it at arm's distance and studied it in his fist. He looked as if he were revisiting each of his kills, savoring each moment, his jaw hanging open, his eyes fixed.

He then applied the bone cutter to his ankle chain, creating sparks. Swantor turned off the tape and turned on the intercom, warning Kenyon that he would not eat if he broke the blade. “The chain is made of titanium steel. You're wasting your time and the blade on it.”

“ If I get my hands on you, Swantor, I'll kill you.”

“ They're going to say you were crazy, Dr. Kenyon, and I must agree. I've heard some of your conversation with your friend, what's his name? Phillip. Yes, they're going to call you crazy, but they're going to say I was even crazier.”

Kenyon stopped the horrid scream of the bone cutter, and as its whirring ended, he heard the woman's screams. “Music to all our ears, Dr. Kenyon, Phillip,” Swantor said and turned toward the galley. “Must now fatten the calf, as they say.”

Information about Swantor at the marina proved scarce. According to everyone they spoke to, the man was a loner. He had come off a bitter divorce battle and had been living on his boat for several months. It hardly sounded like the know-it-all, nosy Swantor of Florida, and here he was known as Jacob Swift. Except for these few details, their time canvassing the marina had proved useless. Besant had joined them there, filled with questions. Sorrento asked the frustrated Besant to place his men on a boat-to-boat search for the Montoya woman. This done, they drove off for a small nearby airport where Sorrento chartered a small helicopter. The pilot agreed to get them to a Coast Guard cutter but that was all. “Bad weather and poor visibility'11 make any river search for a single craft impossible until conditions improve. Weather report says that could be twenty-four hours.”

They accepted the ride to the cutter.

Jessica and Sorrento soon stood on the deck of Triumph, the Coast Guard cutter, plying through the water at a good clip, considering the weather, in search of Swantor's yacht. Sorrento had called for the cutter to pick them up at a designated rendezvous point thirty miles south of where the van had been found. They assumed Mexico to be Swantor's destination. Still, to be certain to cover any escape, they also sent a cutter north along the river.

Jessica felt good being on the ship, felt good at being in pursuit.

Every port city and town along both banks of the Mississippi River was alerted to the description, call numbers and the name of the yacht, and asked to report any sighting.

Using her laptop, Jessica found a countertop where she could work on the cutter. Since Swantor was not responding to the Coast Guard via the radio, she wanted to try reaching him using what she suspected was his Squeals Loud E-mail address, which she had gotten from J.T. She taunted him, saying she knew that he was both Swift and Sweet as well as Swantor. She sent him a warning that he was being pursued, and that he should give himself up to authorities. She said if he cooperated, they would go lightly on him. That they wanted Selese Montoya released unharmed, and that they wanted Kenyon. She also wrote in their coordinates and added:

We're right behind you on the river. So far, you've just impeded our investigation. Don't make it any worse, Mr.

Swantor. The only response was a series of moving digital images. She and Sorrento watched this series of images displayed, images of a helpless woman chained to a bed by hand and foot, followed by a shot of a handheld bone cutter, the sort used in autopsies. It was held to the camera in a man's hand, the woman now in the background. There was only a muted audio, but the woman's screams were raised in volume.

This was followed by a new scene of Kenyon, one which displayed him shouting and racing toward someone-presumably Swantor-stopped only by the ankle chain. The prisoner was then shown the same bone saw as had been displayed to the woman. Again, the audio was silent save for Kenyon's shouts and screams, carefully edited, screening out any reference to Swantor, and not once did she hear the man's own voice.

Jessica replayed the tape, studying every detail, and her eyes went to the anguished eyes of the victim. It disturbed Jessica to know that this image was beaming across the globe, and to know that some people would copy it and replay it over and over, even enjoy it with popcorn.

Usually, Jessica dealt with the dead, but here lay the near dead, the soon-to-be dead, the soon-to-be-separated-from-her-brain dead. The anguish she felt, the helplessness of it all, ripped at Jessica's heart. “This… this is awful. He intends something awful for her.”

This was followed by a text message from SquealsLoud that read:

A brain is a terrible thing to waste… If he consumes six, then I consume him, I have the reward of seven, but if he consumes ten and I him, then I am rewarded by eleven.

Following this came reams of information on the brain, the brain's functions, and the relationship between mind and body, soul and brain. The history and evolution of the brain.

Jessica again imagined how many people were receiving these words and images throughout cyberspace at that moment. Swantor meant to take both Kenyon's and Cahil's places in a big way.

She then saw that she had an incoming message from John Thorpe at Quantico. J.T. had arranged for a private chat room for himself and Jessica on the website. J.T.'s message from Quantico was brief:

Open up to the Web page. Cahil's site is getting more images of the hostage and Kenyon. We've got another true Cahil disciple here, I think. And I fear this new message is all too horrifying to contemplate.

Jessica wrote back that they had just seen what Swantor had forwarded, telling J.T. of the latest developments in the case and how they were now on a chase to locate Dr. Swantor. She added:

Remember the shaky camera? It wasn't the camera shaking, it was the guy's yacht. From what I gather, watching the graphics, he intends on throwing the female hostage and the bone cutter to Kenyon. Then he plans to film the entire event. After that, I don't know what he may or may not do. He may attempt to bring Kenyon more people to feed on, so he can go on filming the cannibalism.

Jessica logged off. “We've got to locate that fucking yacht,” Jessica told Sorrento.

“ They've got every available boat in the Guard looking for it, along with the NOPD water police by now, I'm sure,” he replied. “Doctor, if it's out there, we'll find it.”

“ Why aren't we getting any aerial help from Coast Guard choppers, Captain?” she asked Captain Jon Quarels. “They're used to such conditions.”

“ Bad weather-related problems south in the Gulf. Everything's been diverted there for rescue operations. Looks like a hurricane on the way.”

She stepped away from Quarels and huddled with Sorrento. “Something doesn't feel right. Swantor's too smart for this,” she said. “He's got to be planning some sort of getaway that involves another vehicle. He's got to know how hot that boat is right now.”

“ Yeah, I've thought about that possibility myself,” re-plied Mike Sorrento. “But I don't think he'll abandon ship until he's finished his sick little game.”

“ Unless,” she replied.

He saw that her eyes had grown large. “Unless what?”

“ Unless he intends to go down with the ship.”

“ A double-murder and suicide. Not until after his last installment…” Sorrento softly said.

“ Can't we get any more speed out of this thing?” she asked the captain. “A woman's life is at stake.”

“ We're surveying the shore and every rock and island in the river, Dr. Coran. We don't want to miss anything,” replied the captain. “Nor do we want to run aground.”

“ What about that helicopter?”

“ They're trying to find us one, but I can make no promises.”

“ What kind of an outfit is this?” Jessica shouted. “Should I request one from the Army, the Navy?”

“ Take it easy, Jess,” cautioned Sorrento. “Let's go below, have a cup of coffee to settle our nerves,” he suggested, guiding her outside and on deck.

Jessica relented, knowing she needed settling. “Damn it, he's going to feed her to that mad dog if we don't locate him and stop him.” Why… What's Swantor getting out of all this?” he asked as they went down a flight of stairs.

“ I'd be guessing but… it seems like he's gone into competition with Kenyon, to outdo Kenyon's horror with his own.”

“ And to die at the top of his form?”

“ All this spawned from the mind of Daryl Thomas Cahil and his Internet lunacy.”

Jervis Swantor had pushed his craft to its limit and had burrowed in at the swamps that would eventually spill out near Grand Isle. To evade capture, he had used one of the old canals cut during the Civil War by black regiments for U. S. Grant. Few people knew of the canal and even fewer knew how to maneuver in the swamps. He had fed the woman and spent the rest of the evening racing from authorities and hiding. There were a thousand directions and waterways and islands in the swamp, but one place in particular where he could find refuge-his former home at Grand Isle, the boathouse there-and then he could introduce Kenyon to his ex-wife, Lara.

But for now it was time to feed Kenyon.

Darkness had descended over the swamp, along with another beautiful blue fog saying a long hello to Swantor where he stood on deck. He opened a small hatchway and looked down at Kenyon, who lay on his bed, his fists pounding at his sides. The camera never left Kenyon, and he had to know that by now.

Swantor opened a second small hatch and stared down at the woman named Selese. She had tried to work on his sympathies, giving him her name, where she lived, names of relatives, even her dog's name, Ronnie, but he had only listened dispassionately, never stepping before the cameras. His face and presence would only be felt after the great event was filmed. This was mere rehearsal, he kept telling Selese. Lara would be the real show.

Swantor went below and shut down the filming in Kenyon's room. He then entered with a key to Kenyon's shackle, tossing it to Kenyon. All the while, he held the gun on the other man, telling him, “Pick up your bone cutter and tool kit and go into the other room for your mind meal, Grant.”

“ You don't have to keep me chained up,” Kenyon pleaded. “We ought to be able to trust one another.”

“ You'd kill me at the first opportunity. I have no illusions about that, Grant.”

“ But I wouldn't.”

“ Shut up and do as I say!” Swantor indicated the gun in his hand. “You must be starved. Aren't you hungry?”

“ I am… that I am.”

“ Go then, feed.”

Swantor locked Kenyon and Selese Montoya in the cabin together. As he made his way toward the living area, Swantor heard the woman's uncontrolled screams. Selese continued to scream hysterically as Swantor watched the viewing screen and set up the computer to send to Cahil's website. A part of him grew fascinated, and he slowed to watch it all unfold as he filmed it. He keyed in the necessary strokes and beamed it directly to the world. He added a special message to the screen for the FBI woman who had contacted him:

You and the rest of the world are going to enjoy this.

He imagined all the people who would see the film, duplicate it and forward it on to others. It represented a kind of immortality for Swantor.

Swantor had given Kenyon no Demoral to work with, but Phillip didn't care. In order to make her hold still, he knocked her unconscious. Then the Digger had gone immediately to work, shaving the woman's head, marking her fore scalp with bold red lines and lifting his scalpel over her closed eyes. With his left hand, Kenyon worked deftly, cutting down to bone. With the first bloody incision, Selese awoke and immediately screamed, and realized what Kenyon was telling her: “I only want your brain.” Knowing now what he was doing to her, she pleaded for help from anyone on the other side of the camera lens.

From his seat at the controls, watching, Swantor smiled and said, “I beseech thee! I beseech thee!”

He then watched Selese swoon before fainting altogether from blood loss.

Swantor could not have been happier with the results. His camera had caught every blood spatter, every deft movement of the doctor's hands. And Swantor, now the Webmaster, zoomed in to display a close-up of the disfigured forehead. Now the camera recorded as Kenyon's bone saw came to life. Its mechanical whirr created a terrifying sound in this context, and an even more horrifying noise as it made its screaming, grinding path through the skull-shattered shards of glass ground in a mixer.

“ I give you the Skull-digger,” said Swantor, recording his master of ceremonies voice. “Finally, the star of his own show…”

“ I hope you're enjoying this, Swantor!” Kenyon shouted as he placed the bone cutter to Selese's forehead again, making the final, methodical cut in his medically delicate manner. The computer had been told to blip any mention of Jervis's name. His own fifteen minutes of fame would come at his own choosing, in time.

The computer camera next captured Kenyon plucking the cut window of flesh and bone from the forehead and discarding it. The camera then showed him lifting his surgical tongs, opening them, plunging them into the window he'd created, and plucking forth the brain. He held it up to the camera eye. Like sweetmeats prised from a crustacean.

“ Is this what you want, you bastard? Is it?” He bit into the brain matter, tearing away a portion, devouring it half chewed. He repeated this again and again, his hands slick with blood and brain fluid.

Swantor reveled in what he filmed, clicking off the audio and saying through the intercom, “Perfect… perfectly executed, Dr. Kenyon. This will make us both great men!”

Kenyon as Phillip devoured the last of Selese's brain. As he did so, Swantor said over the intercom, “I'll have another for you soon.”

The camera left the bloody mouth of the killer and focused on the body of Selese Montoya, slowly making its way from her toes, along her legs, to torso, neck, lower face and then to the black rectangle created in the empty skull.

“ This is going out live, Kenyon, to the world. Take a bow.”

Grant cried out, his mouth still bloody, raging at the camera. “Let me out of here now, Swantor! Let me out!”

“ Audio's off, Dr. Kenyon. No one can hear you.”

The captain of the cutter, on which Jessica and Sorrento traveled, stood looking out over the broad expanse of the river. A cruise ship made up to look like an old-time paddle-wheeling riverboat passed them by, tourists waving from every deck and chair, a gleaming diamond-colored chandelier winking at them from the windowed restaurant aboard. The gaiety of the riverboat stood in stark contrast to the work at hand aboard the Coast Guard cutter. “Imagine the guy's insurance premium if that damn floating restaurant should go down out here in this fog,” he said to Joseph Konrath, his first mate.

Jessica and Sorrento returned to the bridge, and the captain greeted them and then said, “I've checked in again and again with boats downriver and no one's seen him. But I have an idea.”

“ What's that, Captain?” asked Sorrento.

“ Reports from here to Pilottown-end of the river-say that no one has spotted this yacht. That's just too unbelievable, unless he's taken another tack.”

“ What tack? North, you mean?” asked Jessica.

“ Well, he may have used one of the old canals to cut from the river to a bay area.”

“ The canals? What canals?” asked Jessica.

Quarels took them to a nautical map on the wall. “We are about here, the canal I have in mind is right here,” he said, pointing just ahead. “Leads west into the bay and some swamplands.”

“ Isn't that the fastest way to get to the Grand Isle area?” asked Sorrento. This guy has some real estate there and most animals do run back to their lairs when chased.”

“ Show me where Grand Isle is, Captain,” asked Jessica.

Quarels pointed it out, a small dot on the map to the southwest of their position. “It's just a hunch, but when Sorrento asked about Grand Isle before, I recalled the canal up ahead. Just a hunch, but I think it may be the reason why no one's seen our man.”

Jessica turned to Sorrento and said, “Grand Isle, of course. He's got to be heading there, Mike.” She then said to Quarels, “We had a local lawman check there yesterday, and he found no sign of Swantor in the area, but all that's changed now.”

“ Follow the course of the canal, Captain,” said Sorrento.

“ All right. We'll do just that, but the storm's going to pound us in there, and we have a skeleton crew.”

“ Back in Florida, Swantor made some passing remark that his wife got the house, and he got the boat. Perhaps the house in question is on this Grand Isle,” said Jessica.

“ Mansions, high living,” said the captain. “That's Grand Isle.”

“ Combs's background check on Swantor had the house in contention.”

Sorrento rubbed his chin. “Swantor's ex-wife, maybe she still resides there on the island.”

“ His ex.” They all fell silent.

“ You thinking what I'm thinking?” Sorrento asked.

“ That he intends on feeding his ex to Kenyon?”

“ If so, what's he need Selese for?”

“ I don't know, maybe to… to keep Kenyon in line?”

“ My God.”

Jessica wondered at the curious irony, if her long, circuitous chase after the Skull-digger should end on an island.

“ Under normal circumstances, I'd radio for assistance, bring up another cutter to go around the boot at Pilot town, surround the island,” suggested Captain Quarels. “But reports are bad all along the coast at the Gulf, and I can't get any help, not at the moment.”

“ We'll keep trying,” said Konrath. “But reports of flooding problems south of us are keeping all crews busy.”

“ Rains preceding Hurricane Alice,” said Quarels.

“ What about helicopters?” asked Jessica.

“ Sorry, they tell me that all our helicopters in this sector've been diverted to the coast until they know what's going to happen there. It's a category four, with several waterspouts. Already had a ship in the Gulf swamped by this thing, so they're expecting additional rescue efforts will be necessary.” It was getting stormy here, as well. When Jessica and Sorrento had made their way back up to the pilothouse, the wind had whistled down the length of the boat, swirling and eddying about them, threatening to send them overboard. The western horizon had been ablaze with beautiful colors at dusk, but now it'd become late, and darkness had suddenly come on with the storm front, clouds blotting out moon and stars.

Jessica drew an imaginary line on Quarels's Mississippi River map with her index finger the distance to Grand Isle. “How many hours?” she asked Quarels.

“ Three perhaps in good weather. Can't say in this.” He nodded to the black windows ahead of them.

They drank coffee under the light of the pilothouse and watched as a deluge of rain began pouring over them. The powerful winds made the ship shiver.

Jessica said, “He's facing worse weather if he is south of us. We have to make better time, and hope he's had to slow down.”

“ When we get into the center of the canal, we'll open her up,” Quarels promised. Then he invited them to look on at the sonar and radar screens. According to the equipment aboard, the cutter began a wide turn into a sharply cut canal, its banks like walls sketched in thin green lines. Jessica tried to imagine them by day.

Now they headed into deep backwater swamp. “I wonder how much your fugitive is relying on the weather,” Quarels said to them. “Normally, in a dry season, some of these canals might not be deep enough in sections. Lot of boaters get hung up on sandbars in them. But if he's been monitoring the weather… well, he's planned this thing out, that's certain.”

The canal took them west first through a back bay area that Captain Quarels had pinpointed on the map. He showed them how it would sharply turn again south. Jessica and Sorrento were studying the nautical map of the area when Jessica's phone rang.

She stepped away, taking the call. “Jess, it's me, John.”

“ What's is it, J.T.? Any good news? I could use some good news.”

“ Unfortunately, SquealsLoud has gone through with it, Jess. The Montoya woman was handed over to Kenyon, and the other madman filmed the entire thing. It's a horror movie beyond anything I've ever seen.”

“ And it's playing on Cahil's website?”

“ As we speak, and God knows where else. You can access it if you want to, but I'd leave it alone, Jess.”

She looked across at Sorrento and the captain. “He's already killed his captive. We're too late to help her.”

Sorrento wrapped his arms about himself and rocked. The captain took in a deep breath of air and bit his lower lip, shaking his head.

“ It's on the computer as a graphic film. The entire event, according to my partner in Quantico.”

“ Are you going to open it? Take a look at it?” asked Sorrento.

“ I hate giving the bastard the satisfaction, but we might draw some clues from it,” she replied angrily. She went to her laptop, opened it and logged on to the Internet. She found his E-mail waiting.

Sorrento stood beside her, placed an arm on her shoulder and said, “Steady yourself.”

“ I'd like to see what kind of a maniac we're chasing as well,” added Quarels.

Jessica opened the media E-mail, and the three of them watched the scene unfold in stark dread. From the wheel, First Mate Joe Konrath watched his controls but intermittently looked over his shoulder at the computer screen as well. When the bone cutting began, Jessica looked away. The men remained fixed on the sight, disbelieving it at the same time that they witnessed it.

“ My God in Heaven,” said Quarels.

“ Poor woman,” added Sorrento. “We've got to nail these two bastards.”

In all her years with the FBI, Jessica had never seen anyone actually executed before her eyes. She had never even gone to a federal or state prison to watch an execution. This murder brought about by Swantor was meant to shock, and it did.

“ If he reaches Grand Isle and finds his wife, he'll do the same to her,” Jessica projected. “We need to contact police there. Have someone get the ex-Mrs. Swantor out of there if she's on the island.”

She shut down Swantor's horror show. She then asked Sorrento to contact this man Potter at Grand Isle and attempt to get word that Swantor was on his way there, ending with, “And warn Mrs. Swantor to leave at once.”

Sorrento explained that the island was police free, but that it was serviced by a Sheriff Danby Potter, a one-man police force from a small town on the mainland, Lewistown. “Station house is the size of a phone booth. The isle gets mail service from Lewistown, too.”

“ Just summerhouses, recently developed land,” said Quarels.

Jessica said, “We've got to get the wife's phone number. Warn her he's coming for her.”

Sorrento got on his phone and contacted Lewistown police, reminding Sheriff Danby Potter of who he was and asking, “Is Mrs. Swantor on the island?”

“ She is… or was when I went out there yesterday, yes.”

“ We're chasing the Skull-digger, Sheriff.”

“ My Lord…” “And we fear Mr. Swantor is involved. I need the phone number to the house on Grand Isle.”

“ I always said that Jervis Swantor was some kind of puddinghead. I'll get that number for you.”

Sorrento heard Potter ferreting through paper for the number. “I got the number!” He read it off to Sorrento and quickly added, “I'm damn confused by you people. I checked out the place early this morning, a second time. Mrs. Swantor was there, so far as I could tell alone, no sign of that Dr. Swantor or his yacht. You asked me to ascertain his whereabouts, but the missus, she claims not to know or care so long as her check's on time.”

“ We believe he is on his way there now, Sheriff, and to say that she may be in danger is an understatement.”

“ So you fellas suspect Swantor's the Skull-digger now. I can't believe it, but you know, I can at the same time.”

“ Please, listen, Sheriff. It's a little more complicated than-”

“ I know what he looks like. Used to come into town for groceries and the hardware. Maybe I should go back out there to the island and sit with Mrs. Swantor till you-”

“ No, don't go out there alone, Potter. We think she has time to get out, and we're going to call her to warn her from here. We're on a Coast Guard cutter only a few hours away.”

After he hung up, Sorrento telephoned the number Potter had provided for the Swantor summer home, but only an answering machine responded. He left his name and number for Mrs. Lara Swantor to get back to him as soon as possible-a matter of life and death.

Jessica took Sorrento aside, saying, “Perhaps we ought to ask the sheriff to organize a few deputies and go out there to the house, cover Mrs. Swantor until we can get there.”

“ She's not answering her phone,” he replied. “Let me give it another shot.” Still no answer. “She must not be there.” “Or she may be unable to answer her phone.”

He nodded. “OK, I'll call the sheriff back.” He did so, only to get a recording stating that Potter was out and would return within an hour. The tape gave them another number in case of emergency.

“ Damn, I hope that old fool hasn't gone out there alone. He doesn't know what he's dealing with.”

“ Try the other number,” Jessica suggested.

Sorrento dialed this number, getting the sheriff on his cell phone, the sound of rain splattering a hard surface like static in Sorrento's ear. “Sheriff Potter, it's Agent Sorrento again. You're not to go out to the house alone. If you must go, do so with a team of men.”

“ Ahhh, yeah, I'm getting a posse together right now.”

“ Good… good. There's more danger than you realize. Let me set the stage for you.”

Real static obliterated anything Sorrento might have said. He turned to Jessica. “He's on his way out there. Claims to have gotten help.”

“ Claims or did?”

“ I'm not sure.”

The cutter made its way deeper into the black shaft of the canal. 7.00 P.M.

Inside the expansive house on Grand Isle, Mrs. Lara Swantor and her newfound lover, James Harris, drank wine and played with massive bubbles in the large, oval bath. They played with one another as well, fondling and kissing, when the phone rang. “Now, who knows I'm here? Who could be calling?” she slurred her words while glancing at a clock that read 7 P.M. Outside the storm shook the house, and its intensity frightened Lara, but James, a psychiatrist, said the best way to overcome such a fear was to enjoy oneself in the midst of adversity. It sounded good, but what he really meant was that he wanted to bathe with her.

Besides, the latest newscasts had the brunt of the hurricane heading toward Mobile now. All the same, each lightning strike shook her to the bones. Only James's attentions took her mind off the storm.

When the phone rang, James had said, “Let the machine get it,” as he held on to her, caressing her in the way she could not resist.

“ All right… good thinking,” she replied. “Hmmm… baby.”

She heard the sound of someone she didn't recognize leaving a message she could not make out. “What did the man say?” she asked James who, being younger, must surely have better hearing, she thought.

“ Didn't catch it. Likely a neighbor worried about the storm.”

“ Old Mrs. Philbin, I suppose.”

They continued with their bathing of one another. A second time the phone rang, and James got up and walked naked and bubbly to the phone, but it quit ringing-no message this time. He lifted it off the hook and put an end to it.

“ Get back in here, you!” she called out to him.

“ On my way!” he called back. “Just going to get us another bottle of wine from the pantry. Are you hungry?”