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.
