Unnatural Instinct

FOUR

My goddamn hands are tied to the lifeless hands of some dead guy, lashed to them by-she could not think- rawhide strips; my legs and body're lashed similarly to the corpse. My face has been forced into the decaying face of death, right cheek to his left. A sick mockery of the dance posture, this horrid nightmare; a nightmare from which she had awakened only to find herself once again here, lashed to the dead man. His decaying process was slowly, torturously breaking down the bonding tissues of her own flesh.

Her mind had shut down on itself more than once since coming to the realization that her predicament was not a nightmare, but a nightmare reality. She had not-could not-awaken from the nightmare, because it proved to be no dream at all.

Someone had drugged her-no, stunned or traumatized her in some manner as to render her helpless; stunned first, drugged afterward. That had been the sequence. Maureen could not recall the particulars, but she had a vague notion of the small man behind this mad revenge on her.

All because she had excused herself from any further dealings in the old man's problem, his son, James Lee Purdy, who she had put on death row after his first trial. With his appeal filed, all the time that had passed, almost ten years, she had become an appeals court judge, and Jimmy Lee Purdy's appeal should never have come before her. She'd had to recuse herself and step away from the case; it only made sense. The judge who presided over the original trial, the judge who had condemned Jimmy Lee to death in the first place, could not be the same judge to hear his appeal.

Anyone who knew anything about the law understood the enormity of such prejudice and conflict of interest, but for some strange reason, Jimmy Lee and his father both had wanted her on the case. The old man had come to her office and pleaded, saying, “It'll be Jimmy Lee's last wish for you to stand in judgment on him a second time. And since he's what they call at the prison 'a dead man walking,' then you gotta give him his last wish. We'd do it in Iowa. What kind of people are you Texans?”

She had flatly refused, and then the wizened old man placed two clenched fists on her desk and sternly said, “It's not just Jimmy's wish. God told him it had to be you, Judge DeCampe. God, do ya' understand that? God's wish.”

“ God does not dictate here, Mr. Purdy. The court system does. I can't break the law to enforce the law. Now, please, I have no more to say on the subject.”

“ I have lived in perdition all these years Jimmy's been on death row. I won't apologize for taking up a half hour of your life, Your Honorable Judgess.” He'd stood, rail thin, bony, emaciated, haggard, and sickly. He'd come like a visit from Death himself to her chambers there in the Sam Houston Central Courthouse. That had been almost a year ago, long before she'd taken the position in Washington.

“ He'll get a fair appeal, Mr. Purdy, before Judge Raymond Parker,” she had assured the scarecrow before her.

That had been the last she'd seen of the old man, but this Jed Clampett parody continued to wander the courtroom halls like a ghost, sitting in every day of his son's doomed appeal, just as he had for three months during the original trial. She had caught glimpses of him, and she also caught moments when his eyes staked her with their mix of frustration, sadness, and a kind of fire that spoke an angry and sullen language all their own.

Even though she had no choice but to recuse herself from the case in Houston, Texas, she'd secretly blessed the fact she did not have to hear Jimmy Lee Purdy's bullshit ever again. Further, she never wanted to see his ugly face again. She'd begun to feel exactly the same toward the old man.

The state by and large had to bury death row inmates using large sums of taxpayer dollars, and they were interred in a sad potter's field. Judge Parker, with whom she'd remained in contact primarily through E-mail, had confided to her that on sentencing day, Mr. Isaiah James Purdy had asked for only one thing from the court before he'd ended his plea for leniency for his son. He had asked that the boy's body be returned to him, to be shipped back to Iowa, where Mr. Purdy meant to inter his son on the family farm.

That had all been a lie.

The wizened little old man wanted the body for a far more grim and sinister reason; he wanted it to wreak its slow revenge on Judge Maureen DeCampe; he wanted to watch his son's decaying flesh eat away at her, to eventually murder her in a slow and agonizing fashion not heard of in modem times. Something he'd muttered about Romans… and something about the biblical injunction of an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, but she hadn't gotten it all. Flesh for flesh, she imagined now. She failed to dredge up some words he'd read to her from his Bible. She was unable to recapture every word, far too busy as she was with the horror of the moment, lashed to Jimmy Lee Purdy's decaying, shrinking corpse, the odor of it certain to drive her insane long before her body would turn to rotting mush. Die, let me now… now let me die, she mentally pleaded.

The duct tape around her mouth worked twofold: to silence any screams and to hold her head into the deadly, flesh-eating decay. It was all too horrid and heart-sinkingly terrifying to contemplate. Mercifully, her mind sent her into a spiral of unconsciousness, her only means of escape.

They began the tedious process, requiring a small army of agents, of re interviewing everyone, starting with the parking lot attendant. But Jessica soon learned that the man could not be located, and that it appeared Arthur Collins had packed his belongings and had vacated his apartment. He might be on a plane, a train, or a bus bound for anywhere. His suddenly fleeing the area told Jessica that her instincts about the creep had been perfectly right all along, and now she cursed herself for allowing Collins the time to vanish. She immediately ordered an all points bulletin for his apprehension and return.

In the meantime, they spoke to the judge's youngest offspring, her adopted son, Michael. Michael, a law clerk, tearfully told them that he meant to follow in his mother's footsteps. At twenty-five, Michael blamed himself, saying he'd wanted to stay late in the building and go out with her that night for dinner and drinks, but that she had insisted he go on his way when it became extremely late. He'd met his fiancee at a restaurant, and he'd wanted the two women to get along, so he had the date set for weeks, but his mother hadn't really wanted to meet with them. She'd begged off, using her usual excuse: work.

“ She is a workaholic, you know,” Michael had said during the course of the interview. “She'd been happy for me,” he said. “I didn't know anything was wrong until the following morning, when my sister called.”

The daughters had been the ones to initially cry foul. Further discussion with them amassed no new information. The family was at a total loss as to how anyone could possibly want to harm their mother.

Hours passed like days on this case, a case that had nerves frayed from the lowest civilian to the governor of the state. Information of any useful sort simply failed to materialize; every person questioned seemed unable to supply a single helpful clue. Jessica's anger at herself for not cornering the parking attendant when she had had the chance threatened to explode. Richard Sharpe's detailing of the suspect from his unique perspective, from what few givens he'd had to work with, while not adding anything startlingly new, did corroborate Jessica's own worst fears for Judge DeCampe, that her abductor was in it for revenge, that his motive must be to inflict pain and suffering on the woman. Such evil revenge might come in any number of cruel ways. The revenge motive, in the experience of the people running the investigation, proved the worst possible scenario for the victim. The only crime that rivaled it was lust-torture and lust-murder done by a psychotic killer who had created some fantastical notions of right and wrong in his head in order to come to sexual release. A typical rape- if there were such a thing-was by contrast all about power and domination, while a lust-rape-murder had also to do with the mental state of the killer who must take life to feel alive or to fulfill some demented commands made on him by Satan or some hound of Satan's, or some other “outside” force he could not fully control.

Still, murder for revenge could be as savage as any. It certainly predated most reasons for murder.

Richard had agreed. He had cast aside all other possibilities, just as Jessica had on reading Richard's profile of the abductor.

“ A media stalker is usually an amateur, who is a great deal sloppier,” Richard had assured her, once again corroborating her own feelings. She knew her abductor. Jessica and Richard decided to drive back to the scene of the crime, where they hoped to speak to anyone who had come into contact with her on the night of her abduction. Now, as they made their way to their waiting car, they talked. “I've contacted Eriq Santiva,” she informed him, “and he's convinced that bringing you on board, Richard, lends a certain air of respectability to the investigation.” She laughed lightly at this.

“ And why does this make you laugh?”

“ Don't you see? He can tell the governor and the mayor that he's got a bona fide Scotland Yard investigator on the case alongside his best profiling team.”

“ I'm here merely as a consultant on the case.”

“ You're Richard Sharpe of Scotland Yard. Your record speaks for itself.”

“ And the Yard has handled countless abduction cases, and I've certainly had my share.”

“ You know a great deal about the psychology of abductors, as well as being an expert on stalkers.”

“ I'm sure the official thinking is that you Yanks can use all the help you can get, Jess.”

“ Some people are going to say it was the only way I could get you over here, Richard.”

“ Really?” Now he laughed.

“ That it took a fee to entice you to me. That you are a kept man.”

He laughed louder, his tone rich and resonating. Then he said, “Fuck anyone who says so.”

“ Thanks. I needed that.”

“ You hungry?”

“ I could eat.”

He turned right. “Do you know of a nearby useful place?”

“ Funny…” she muttered as they turned down the side street that took them out of the madcap traffic of downtown D.C.

“ What's funny T

“ I feel guilty doing things like eating, sleeping, breathing… knowing that Judge DeCampe is likely being deprived of basic needs and possibly being tortured.”

“ Nonsense. We don't know anything of the kind. You're just… What is it young people over here say? 'Laying a trip on yourself,' Jess. Besides, you gotta-hafta keep your strength up.”

“ I know you're right, but… Hey, turn in here!”

He quickly pulled into a parking lot fronting a sign that announced the place as St. George's Potato Patch. “I have a feeling we're going to be pulling an all-nighter. What is this place, by the way?” He jerked the car to a halt and shut down the motor.

“ St. George's Potato, a pub and grill. We're still pretty near the agency building and Police Precinct One. Police and others working in the area of the courthouse frequent the place. Everyone at the bureau and nearby precincts hangs out here.”

“ Let's give it a go then.” They exited the car for the restaurant. Everyone in law enforcement in the area had gotten comfortable with the idea that the FBI and not the WPD would be running the show in the DeCampe case, and most in the WPD were glad the FBI had taken the leadership role in the Missing Persons case. So walking into this lion's den would be no threat, Jessica assumed.

“ You sure you want to be in this place?” he asked her.

“ When in Rome… all that.”

Inside, once seated, Jessica stared across at Richard. He had been a stalwart and honest friend since their first meeting in London, where they'd worked the case of the Crucifier. It seemed so long ago; they had shared so much since then. She often thought about how she could have used such a friend when she was chief medical examiner for the city of Washington, D.C., before joining the FBI, when her life had unraveled before her eyes in a matter of days. Her father's health had suddenly declined, when a series of strokes first left him paralyzed, then comatose, and finally she had had to decide on life support or death. She had chosen as her father would have wanted: no heroic efforts to save him in his vegetative state. She had had few friends then, having devoted herself entirely to the job. Dr. Asa Holcraft, her mentor all through the final stages of her education as an M.E., was the only one at her father's funeral for whom she felt any affection.

As if losing her father were not enough, Jessica lost a series of politically motivated battles with the city commissioner and assistant to the mayor, and despite her spotless record and determination to keep the Office of the Medical Examiner above and beyond political rancor and the influence of politicos, she failed. The writing was on the wall, and when FBI Division Head Otto Boutine, recognizing the fine work she'd done as M.E. and noting the work she'd done during a horrendous airplane disaster at Dulles International, offered her a job with his FBI Behavioral Science Division, she readily accepted.

Otto had explained that they needed someone with great talent to create psychological profiles of both killers and victims. Serial killer profiles proved difficult, but doing profiles of victims tore at the heart of anyone with feelings. Still, she leaped at the chance to do more forensic psychology.

Now her standing with the department, her badge, her insurance package, it all meant a great deal to her.

“ Where's Kim Desinor? Isn't she still on this case?” asked J. T., who suddenly appeared at the table beside them. It appeared J. T. had already eaten, and out of the corner of her eye, Jessica saw others on the task force exiting the place.

“ Keep this between us, J. T., but I think she's somewhat burned out, at least on this case. Something she saw or felt. I think it was too much for her.”

“ Hence your fear for DeCampe.”

“ Frankly, I felt that fear long before I knew Kim held similar feelings. I've been trying to reach Kim, but she hasn't answered her messages, either at her office or at home. Getting a little worried about her.”

“ I see. But earlier, you did discuss your feelings with her, about DeCampe's fate, I mean?”

“ Yes, we discussed it somewhat.” He saw that she didn't want to go any deeper into it, so he switched to her favorite subject instead. “So, I understand Richard Sharpe wrote the book on stalkers and what goes on in the mind of a stalker.”

“ That is my forte, yes,” replied Richard, a smile creasing his features as he lifted the salt cellar on the table and idly twirled it about in his hand. The thing was a winking pirate with a similar grin. Richard had long since determined that while J. T. and Jessica had enjoyed a long professional and personal relationship, J. T. was a good man and to be trusted.

Still, J. T. had remained a bit unsure of Sharpe, and he now took notice of Sharpe's interest in the salt cellar. This prompted Richard to comment, “Sorry, I'm one of those chaps who must keep hands busy at all times.”

“ Since taking on this case, I don't blame you.” J. T. slid into the booth alongside Jessica, informing her that everyone on the team had determined that her and Richard's talk of that morning had fired them up. They then sat for a moment in silence, the piped-in music wafting over them, the mild tones of the oldies playing softly, reminding Jessica how fleeting time actually was.

J. T. broke into her thoughts with a question. “You two are absolutely convinced that we are working under the correct assumptions about the incident, right, Jess?”

“ That she was taken by someone who had carefully planned her abduction?”

J. T. asked, “Perhaps that he stalked DeCampe for some time before acting?”

“ I think that's quite possible, J. T.”

“ And that she knew her abductor?”

“ Knowing DeCampe, I'd say that anyone else she drew a weapon on would most definitely be in the morgue with a. 45 slug through him, and we'd be busy with autopsying him, rather than searching desperately for her.”

J. T.'s laugh was light but genuine.

“ Hear! Hear!” commented Richard.

J. T. agreed, adding, “Yeah. You've got that right. We'd be working to keep her out of prison for murder, and you know Santiva would be up our asses to find evidence to save her, no doubt.”

“ We're following every lead, J. T. Every possible suspect.”

“ And you've got Lew Clemmens reviewing every thread in every case DeCampe ever worked. What else can Santiva ask of you? Miracles?”

“ Every thread and every threat,” Sharpe replied.

But Jessica said, “Santiva? Why're we discussing Eriq Santiva every other breath, John?”

John Thorpe looked from Richard to Jessica, his eyes like those of an animal's just caught in the headlights. “Just think he and the top brass expect miracles from us, Jess, is all.” She sighed heavily and put her head in her hands for a moment, trying to fend off a headache. “Unfortunately, there've been hundreds of death threats made against DeCampe over her long career both as a prosecutor and a judge.”

“ Right, her career goes way back-”

“ All the way to Texas.”

“ And whoever snatched her here,” interjected Richard, “may have been a recent acquaintance, but he may well have been an old acquaintance from Texas who-”

“ Houston,” added J. T. “Am I right?”

“ He may have seen her in the newspapers here, one of her high-profile cases like that child murder case last fall,” Jessica said.

“ Bad business that one, I remember.”

“ Lew's still pulling off information.” Jessica sipped at her lemon tea and thumped the plaid tablecloth. “Maybe we'll get lucky.”

Richard swilled down his iced tea as if it were beer. The Washington humidity had shot to eighty percent. Jessica thought she could water her flowers at home by simply wringing out her blouse.

J. T. stood and excused himself, saying he'd see them later back at headquarters. After this, the waitress came with their hot sandwiches and refreshed their drinks. They had just begun their meal when someone's shadow fell across their table. Jessica at first assumed J. T. had returned, something on his mind that he'd perhaps forgotten.

“ What can you tell me about the disappearance of the judge, Dr. Coran?” It was Tim O'Brien of the Washington Post, the police beat reporter with whom both J. T. and Jessica had maintained a fairly good working relationship. He had on more than one occasion contacted them at Quantico either by phone or in person in pursuit of a story. The pursuit seemed all the man lived for.

“ Not a damn thing.” Jessica did not make eye contact with the reporter.

“ C'mon, Doc! My readers're going to want to know something by the evening edition. You gotta give me something.”

“ You're so wrong, Tim. You're interrupting our meal, and no, we don't owe you a damn living, thank you,” replied Jessica.

“ Hey, it's just an expression. Still, you gotta give me something, or my dildo of an editor is going to make my life hell.” His body language said that he wanted to sit down, but neither Richard, whom he glanced at-wanting an introduction but not getting one-nor Jessica responded to the silent request, neither budging over to allow him room to sit as Jessica had with John Thorpe.

“ That's your editor's problem, not ours,” Jessica replied. “Do you two have any clue, any idea? Do you understand the freaking enormity of this story? The feeding frenzy that's going on right now over Judge DeCampe's disappearance?” He paused for a breath. “I mean this goddamn business is big news-front-page stuff. Sidebar, every beat cop in the city who's ever been embarrassed by the woman in court is suspect.”

“ That's taking things a bit far, even for you, O'Brien,” she calmly but firmly replied.

“ What about you?” O'Brien turned to Richard Sharpe. “Obviously, you're working the case with Dr. Genius here, so what's the word? Guy's obviously a nutcase, but is he, you know, a sex pervert, or what?”

“ Yeah, yeah, that's it, Tim,” countered Jessica. “Our guy is definitely a pervert.”

“ So the judge was snatched by a pervert!”

“ That's all we know.”

“ Any leads?”

Richard finally exploded with, “Yes indeed, we're canvassing all the perverts in the city at the moment, beginning with your relatives. Do you think you can concoct a story around that?”

Jessica laughed, but O'Brien, picking up on Richard's English accent, only frowned, turned, and left, defeat written into his step.

Some four hours had passed since she and Richard had eaten at St. George's Potato, and since then, they had again walked the scene for anyone or anything that might shed some light. Jessica now paced the ready room where all pertinent information for the task force flowed, and she didn't like the fact that the river of communication had log- jammed.

She dropped into a chair, exhausted, others watching her, reading a certain defeat into her body language, when Chief Eriq Santiva briskly walked in and came directly to her. He stared down at her, shook his head, frowned, and then slapped down an evening edition of the Washington Post with a front-page story by Tim O'Brien. “Who wrote this? You or O'Brien?”

Jessica only had time to glance at the headline: “FBI Pursues Sex Pervert in DeCampe Disappearance.”

“ Where do you get off, Agent Coran, in doling out information like this to the press before I get it? I have to read about the case in the papers?”

“ Chief, it didn't happen that way,” began Richard, coming nearer Jessica, attempting to defend her.

“ Then enlighten me!” he shouted.

Everyone's eyes now riveted on Jessica for an answer. More than one on the task force sided with Santiva. But Eriq continued rampaging, not allowing her a word. “Jess, it says here you are hot on the trail of a sexual pervert who has Judge Maureen DeCampe at his mercy. You know what this will do to the family?”

“ I had nothing to do with O'Brien's fictional concoction.”

Santiva didn't hear her or chose not to. “Says here you are following leads to every sex pervert in the city. Is that true? No one's shared this with me. I thought this was an abduction for revenge motive case, so tell me, just what the fuck's going on down here?”

“ What can I say, Eriq? O'Brien's misrepresented what I said.”

Jessica gave Richard a stem look to tell him to keep out of it.

“ What precisely did you say to the press?” Eriq pursued.

“ Nothing, I tell you.”

“ All the same, now Sex Crimes at WPD wants in. Captain Halstrom in Sex Crimes is all over my head about this and-”

“ I told O'Brien nothing. Two words to shut him up.”

“ Oh, I see, and let me guess what those two words were.”

“ Man, this sucks,” Jessica roared while scanning the story. “He's managed to blow everything I said out of all proportion. Tim must've been on 'ludes when he wrote this shit.”

“ Any truth in it? This has got to sting the family, Jess. This is just thoughtless and insensitive.”

“ You can't blame me for O'Brien's actions.”

“ Are you and your team chasing a sex-lust-murderer here or not?”

“ Who knows? Maybe, maybe not. Frankly, I think not. We're of the same opinion as Richard. This creep is out for revenge-murder not lust-murder.”

“ Gene Halstrom is sending over a shrink-cop from his Sex Crimes Division at the WPD. Is that what I tell her?”

'Turn the whole damn case over to them, Chief. They're a special unit. You can wash your hands of it quite easily, if that's what you want.”

“ Don't test me, Jessica, or I just might do that.”

“ It's not about sex,” shouted Sharpe, who came to stand beside Jessica, defending her. “We all know it.”

J. T. joined in, standing behind Jessica. Others in the task force now did the same. It was a silent show of unity and conviction.

Santiva replied, “So you are all of one mind now?”

“ We are,” said Sharpe.

“ That's good… good.”

“ And it's not all over the press,” Jessica replied firmly.

“ Thank your lucky stars, Jessica. Someone always runs interference for you. But this time, all our heads are on the block if we don't deliver and deliver quickly. So how do we know for certain that it's not a sexually motivated abduction?”

“ You tell him, Richard,” suggested Jessica. The others remained silent “Well? Give it to me straight.” Santiva stared into Sharpe's eyes. We believe there's… there was some history between Judge DeCampe and her abductor. It doesn't on the surface warrant the label of a sex crime. We are leaning toward a revenge or hate motive, and that the perpetrator carefully premeditated the abduction. We believe she's been targeted for some time out of revenge, hate.”

“ Hate… revenge… but no perversions of a sexual nature?”

“ We don't know enough yet, Chief,” J. T. confessed.

Jessica offered an apology of sorts, lifting her shoulders. “I'm sorry for whatever I may have said that set O'Brien off, but at least our true investigation isn't being laid out in today's headlines.”

“ But they may well be in tomorrow's,” countered Santiva.

“ I have a full profile on the abductor,” Sharpe told him. “Sent a copy to you via interoffice a half hour ago. It has taken into account all we have, and the profile attempts to make sense of it.”

“ Look, Eriq,” said Jessica, her hands in the air, “I'm sorry if I screwed up, but my words were taken out of context, as usual.”

Richard's stare at Jessica told her in no uncertain terms that he did not like it that she had assumed the brunt of Santiva's accusation when in fact it had been Richard who had chosen to throw the reporter a bone in order to get rid of the pesky fellow. Still, it was a rarity to hear her apologize for anything, and now she'd gotten herself in this deep, he held back.

“ I hope it doesn't hurt the family,” Jessica added.

“ Hers or ours?” he asked, referring to the FBI's reputation.

“ Theirs, of course. Please, tell them it's just to get a dig in at the abductor, maybe stir him to some foolish action, like perhaps contacting us or the newspaper.”

“ It already has hurt the family, Jessica,” replied Santiva. “It already has.” Santiva stared about the room, did a bit of pacing and rampaging, mostly muttering to himself. “So now you're all dug in here?” He didn't wait for a reply. “I just got heat from the police commissioner who just got the mayor off his back. Everyone upstairs wants results yesterday, people.” He lifted the newspaper and slapped it down again with a rifle shot result. “And this kind of crap can only worsen our public appearance, unless we're all in agreement on content that goes out of here. Is that clear? Say not a word to the press that isn't cleared through channels. Repeat it back, both of you.” His eyes settled on Sharpe and Jessica, even as murmured yes sirs wandered the room like so many blind birds.

Jessica remained silent; Richard almost broke the silence, but Jessica jabbed him in the ribs. Santiva stormed off, a section of newspaper taking wing in his wake. Sharpe exchanged a long stare with Jessica before J. T. got between them, saying, “Gee willikers, you handled that well, Jess.” J. T. lifted the newspaper and began scanning the story for himself.

Jessica laughed lightly, but it was a hollow laugh at best. Sharpe put an arm around her, bolstering her and saying, “All in a day's work, sweetheart.” She tilted her head upward and they kissed while J. T. gave them a firm frown. “Are we absolutely sure it isn't some sex pervert with sexual intentions on his mind?” asked one of the other agents. “Maybe we locked down on the notion of revenge motive too soon.”

“ Yeah? How do we know?” she replied. “Maybe that asshole O'Brien-the Newly Established Irish Anti-Sexual Perversion League-can define sexual perversion for us.”

“ What kind of game are you playing, here, Jess?”

“ Is that the best you can do, J. T.?”

Now it was Sharpe's turn to frown at Jessica.

J. T. asked, “What's-at supposed to mean?”

“ Hey, what if our guy reads the Post, or the Enquirer for that matter? What'll be his reaction to the news that he's being called a sex pervert?” Jessica asked her longtime friend and Richard. “You tricky devil, Jess,” replied J. T., squeezing her hand. “Smart move.” A big laugh escaped him. “You meant for O'Brien to plant this in the newspaper, didn't you?”

“ You were there, Richard; you heard what I gave O'Brien: nothing. I gave him zip. The fact he ran with it, well, he ran to my goal post is all.”

Going along with things now, Richard added, “A newspaperman is easily guided when he's given to think an idea originated with him.”

“ Gotta handle him like you would Chief Santiva is all,” Jessica put in.

“ So if our abductor sees or hears the news that he's some kind of aberrant sex offender, you think it might shake something from the proverbial tree,” J. T. surmised aloud as if it would be clearer if he could vocalize it. “Not bad.”

“ I have a gut feeling that we don't have a lot of time for niceties or anything else where this guy is concerned, my friend,” Jessica replied. “We certainly don't have time for petty concerns and petty politics. Understood?”