Extreme Instinct jc-6

by Robert W. Walker

  "Give me the details, J. T.!" She was shouting in excitement now. "What've you got?"

  "The bus tour Chris Lorentian booked, she booked as Chris Dunlap, and it was on the VisionQuest bus line. The tour number is thirteen fourteen and the number of the bus is sixty-seven." He added the Utah plate numbers. "Got that?"

  She jotted down the information on the hotel stationery beside the bed. "Excellent work, J. T. And you say Bishop's here in the city?"

  "Yeah, he left here by helicopter some time ago."

  "He must not be here yet, else he would have contacted me here through the field office."

  "I don't know why he hasn't, Jess, but he's a good man. Who knows, a take-charge guy like him? Maybe he wants to handle it himself. I saw him dress down Karl Repasi for you while he was here, gave him an earful. Thought you'd like to know."

  "Thanks. I've got to get over to the Hilton. See what's happening or what has happened in my absence there."

  "Go lightly, Jess. Promise me you'll be careful."

  "My middle name is careful. Talk to you later, J. T. I'm at this number." She gave him the number and name of the hotel she was staying at. "Now I've got to get a cab and get to the Hilton. Good-bye, J. T."

  "Jess!"

  "What?"

  "I should be there with you."

  "J. T., you've pinpointed the exact location of the killer. Something no one else has been able to do. You did great."

  "Jess, be careful out there!" But she hung up on J. T.'s cautionary words.

  Jessica quickly dressed, snatching on her undergarments, a pair of slacks, a pullover shirt and sneakers, and she tied her hair back with a ribbon. She grabbed up the receiver again and asked the desk to get her a cab. She found her purse, valise, and keys when the phone rang, likely the desk to let her know that a cab waited for her.

  But when she lifted the receiver, she heard the faint, choking, gagging sound, followed by more evidence of someone in distress. Then he came on the line, saying, "I've found you, Dr. Coran. And I've found number five."

  Jesus, her mind raced, how could he know she was here? How had he gotten her number? As if to answer her thoughts, he said, "You aren't hard to figure, Doctor. I knew you'd follow, and all I had to do was page you at the desk. They wouldn't give me your room number, but they put me through to you."

  He must have randomly selected hotels around the city and taken his chances, she surmised. He wasn't supernatural. "Your time is running out, Charon or Nessus or whatever you choose to call yourself today," she informed him, summoning her strongest voice.

  "Really? I thought it the other way around. Listen to this!"

  "Wait! I've been reading Dante's Inferno."

  This silenced the killer for a moment. "So, now you know where you're headed? I know where you belong, Doctor Coran."

  "Everyone knows where you are now, Nessus," she threatened. Bishop and the others did know his approximate whereabouts. They knew he was somewhere in the Hilton. They were converging on his room, however, and not the room belonging to the unfortunate number five. Even so, she wondered where precisely Bishop and the others were now in relation to the killer. At any rate, she must keep the monster on the line for as long as possible. "I know where you're at right now," she coldly informed him.

  "Impossible," he replied.

  "You're here, in Salt Lake."

  "Of course, but that comes as no surprise to either of us, does it?" He began a snorting laugh.

  "You're in the Hilton here in Salt Lake, and everyone knows it."

  This fact coming from her silenced his laughter.

  "The FBI have you surrounded," she informed him as casually as the most jaded telephone operator.

  "Lies become you, bitch! Listen to this, your answer."

  "Wait!"

  But he didn't wait any longer. He put his fifth victim to the torch, the superheated whoosh of the flames now as familiar as a backyard barbecue to her, while the screams of the unseen, unknown victim set a sickening snake loose to wiggle down her spine. She dropped the receiver on his maniac's laughter and left it dangling off the hook. She grabbed up her black valise and tore from the room to find a cab to race to the scene of the murder and the Phantom killer.

  Jessica fumbled with the cellular phone she kept in her valise, calling 911, announcing her identity and the fact that there was a fire at the Hilton; the operator wanted more detailed information, information she didn't have. "Just get the fire trucks there, now!"

  She hung up and dialed Neil Gallagher, the field agent in charge in Salt Lake City. After a series of voices and blips, she was patched through to Gallagher in the field.

  "Why didn't you contact me before you zeroed in on the Hilton?"

  "What are you talking about?" he asked, confused.

  "Haven't you heard from Bishop?"

  "Warren Bishop? Vegas? No, we haven't."

  "My God. Get over to the Hilton. There's been another fire killing there. I've got fire trucks on the way."

  "I've got two men posted at the Hilton, and I'm within spitting distance. I'm there!"

  "On my way, too." Jessica hung up and rushed for her destination, hailing a cab and calling out as she boarded, "The Hilton, downtown Salt Lake City location."

  On the short ride through the downtown district, the cab weaving to avoid jackhammers and construction blockades, Jessica wondered again why Bishop hadn't contacted her or Gallagher, according to the other man. But why wouldn't Warren be in touch with the local FBI offices, even from the air? Why would he work around Gallagher? How many or how few people in the city knew of the killer's whereabouts while she had sat in the dark? she wondered. Warren had no doubt organized an attack force of some sort to converge on the hotel as soon as he'd arrived in the city. Had he bypassed Gallagher, knowing it was the only way to keep her in the dark about his movements? Did he really think he was sparing Jessica an ordeal? "Bastard," she muttered.

  The questions continued, piling upon one another in avalanche fashion. When would Warren's strike force strike? Why hadn't they done so earlier? What had held them back if they knew the man's room number by this time? By this time they must, she reasoned. But then why had they waited until yet another victim was sacrificed to this madman's unholy altar?

  FBI operatives from the Salt Lake City field office, which shared jurisdiction with the Flagstaff, Arizona, field office, had encircled the downtown area, awaiting more specific information about the operation, but it was information that did not come.

  Instead, three men entered the Hilton, and one among them, Chief Warren Bishop, rushed to the desk to learn what room was booked to a Chris Dunlap, a passenger on one of the bus tours. He flashed his badge and ordered up the information.

  "Package like that, we just rent a block of rooms to the tour group company; they make the selections who goes into which room."

  "Who do I talk to, then?"

  "We can get Guy, Doris, and Maureen down here," said a second clerk. "They're the tour guides currently in town. They'll each have a list."

  "Then get 'em down here."

  Only Maureen and Doris could be found, Guy having already gone out for the nightlife. Maureen's list revealed no Chris Dunlap. Doris's list, however, did. "What do you know about this guy Dunlap?" Bishop asked the guide.

  "Next to nothing. He's a cold fish, a real loner. Keeps to himself, rides the back of the bus. Wouldn't join in at all the first days of the trip, but he's thawed some lately. Getting on and off the bus, he'll help someone, you know with a hand. Everybody on the bus has tried to be civil to him, but no one's gotten to know much about him. Word is he's retired, on disability, sued someone and made a bundle, so now he just takes trips all over, spending his money. Least that's what the ladies on the bus think…"

  "Have you seen him tonight?"

  "At dinner in the hotel restaurant."

  "Is he still there?"

  "No, that was over an hour or so ago."

  "What's his room number?"
r />   ''Five-twenty-two.''

  "I saw him leave with a woman from Guy's group," added the one named Maureen. "We sometimes talk about our passengers, especially the weird ones."

  "Do you know what room she's in? The woman who left with Dunlap?" Bishop asked her.

  "Couldn't tell you. Only Guy would know that. And Guy's not going to be found until daybreak. I don't know how that man does it, but he can even find a poker game in Salt Lake, and he plays to all hours, then-''

  "Damn it." Bishop turned to the hotel clerk. "Give me the block of rooms this guy Guy has for the night, now!"

  The clerk's fingers speedily called up this information on her computer. "Rooms six-twelve through six-fifty."

  "Back me up!" he called to the other agents with him, big men who had not bothered to display their badges.

  "Sixth floor! Block off all the exits. Stop anyone with a case in his hand, anyone looking the least bit suspicious! Go, now!"

  As he rode the elevator up with two other men, Bishop told them to go door-to-door, knocking on every single door in the grouping. "You take the right, you take the left," he told them.

  "And where will you be, Bishop?" asked one of the stone-faced men.

  "Yeah," agreed the other man.

  "I'll go straight to six-fifty and work my way back to you. And be careful of getting into any crossfire situation."

  "You forget you're dealing with professionals, G-man."

  Bishop gritted his teeth, hating every moment of this, hating Frank Lorentian, hating himself in the bargain. He looked into the eyes of the two professional hit men he'd contacted and waited for. Repasi had kept him appraised up to this point of Jessica's whereabouts, well-being, the dispensation of the autopsies, the geography of the crimes. Now it was time to erase all debts.

  After this, he'd never again have any dealings with Frank Lorentian, and all Frank wanted was to see his daughter's murderer dead-no FBI involvement, no arrests, no coutroom dramatics, no loony bins or life sentences, just dead.

  "You smell something?" asked one of Lorentian's thugs.

  "Smoke," said the other.

  "Damn it, we're too late," conceded Bishop. "But the bastard's still in the building. You two, usher everyone off this floor and sound the fire alarms. I'm going down to five-twenty-two. Send backup when you can. Got that?''

  "No way," disagreed one of the hit men. "We stick together, Bishop."

  As soon as the elevator doors opened, it became clear there was indeed a fire on the floor. The two gunmen looked from the smoking door just ahead to one another. ''We got the bastard right here," said the taller of the two.

  "Careful, he's armed and dangerous," cautioned Bishop as the two thugs moved on the door, the hallway now becoming choked with smoke and people peeping from their rooms, some now shouting and racing for the stairwells.

  The hit men continued toward the door where the hot spot existed, seeing smoke rising from the bottom and sifting through each side. Suddenly the door burst open, flames bursting out at the phony agents, burning their eyes, faces, hands they'd thrown up for protection with their guns extended when suddenly they were each engulfed in a shooting flame.

  People had begun to pour from the rooms, racing past Bishop and into the elevator, taking it. Others screamed and ran for other exits. Through the commotion, the flame and smoke, Bishop saw the two hit men had caught hell, their eyes fried, each man flailing like a spiked tarpon, each going to the hallway floor, scurrying to place some distance between themselves and the shadowy figure that suddenly burst from the room, wearing a gas mask, holding a butane torch with the wand out, a dark bag tucked below his arm.

  Bishop raised his gun to fire but one of the hit men suddenly found his feet and stood between him and the fleeing figure on the other side of the flames. Bishop steadied his weapon and dropped to one knee, choking on the smoke. He aimed and wanted to fire but the other two men remained in his way as they fought their own frenzied battle before him. Their clothing aflame now, smoke masking the killer, the dark figure in gas mask disappeared through a door marked stairwell.

  Bishop smashed his gun into a glass containing a water hose. He pulled the alarm and turned the water on as furiously as he could, the hose getting away from him, spraying ceiling and floor until he got control of it and aimed the spray on Lorentian's two men, dousing them and the fire in the hallway.

  Each man was hurt badly with serious burns to the face, arms, and body. Others had come up behind Bishop now, however, and they were helping their supposed comrades with words of encouragement.

  "Ambulance is on its way!" Bishop assured the men he knew only as Steve and Rollo. He couldn't help but feel great pity for the two. Their faces were seared red, their eyes scorched, hair and skin falling away with the smoke that curled from them. "Hang in there, you guys," he said to their suffering screams.

  Bishop dialed 911 for assistance on his cellular phone, but paramedics came rushing onto the floor even before he could get out his request. "Over here," he called out to them.

  Firemen with hoses rushed past Bishop and the injured men, into the flames, beginning their battle with the room fire. Bishop knew what they would discover inside. He also knew the room number for Chris Dunlap's room in the building. Was the killer foolish enough to return there?

  Bishop grabbed the elevator when it opened, carrying more FBI and police. He took the car down two flights where he glimpsed a killer, no longer wearing a gas mask but the distinct odor of smoke-choked clothes seemed to be rising off him, although the entire building now seemed permeated with smoke. The same stench had filled the carpeting and Bishop's own soggy clothes, so he could not be sure. The other man was about to dart into the room supposedly being used by Chris Dunlap this night, when Bishop leveled his gun at him.

  "Hold it, right there, Mister Dunlap!"

  "What?" The man jumped. "My name's not Dunlap. It's Sorensen, Thomas Sorensen."

  "FBI," Bishop shouted, his gun extended at the harmless-looking little man before him. ''Put your hands where I can see them."

  "Me? FBI? What's this all about? Is this a stick-up?"

  "Drop the case, you fire freak, and put your hands against the back of your head, or I blow your freaking head off where you stand."

  "All right, all right… Jesus, what's Martha going to say when I tell her about this?"

  The man was unremarkable, plain, without any single outstanding characteristic. He wore a dark business suit and didn't look to be a touring tourist. He stood perhaps 5'6" or 7", weighing in around 170, the size of their suspect, small in stature, like a Lee Harvey Oswald, Bishop was thinking when suddenly the black case dropped with a bang to the floor, thundering out its weight in a clear code.

  ''Hands behind your fucking head, now!''

  The little man gulped while lifting his hands behind his head, then he turned full around to face Bishop straight on.

  "That's more like it."

  "I wish you would tell me what in God's name this is all about."

  "I just witnessed your coming out of a murder scene two flights up, Mr. Phantom. Charon, is it? I've been chasing you since Vegas."

  "Vegas? Charon? But I've never been to Vegas, not yet. Our bus won't arrive there for another two, three days."

  ''Then you are on the bus tour? So, what's in the case?"

  "I sell life insurance-First Continental Casualty; have since '87. One of the couples on the bus wanted to buy some security after the near accident we had today coming down the highway into Salt Lake." The man's mild manner was off-putting, and he had a ready answer for everything, and for a split second, Bishop wondered if he hadn't gotten the wrong man, and Bishop worried that if he had the wrong guy here at gunpoint, that the killer could be escaping the hotel through the underground parking lot or someplace else in the hotel. Yet this guy stood outside the door marked 522, and so it followed… so, he knew this must be the man posing as Chris Dunlap. Unless the desk or the stupid tour guides had gotten some number tr
ansposed.

  "You're posing as Chris Dunlap, aren't you?"

  "Posing? An impostor? Me? Dunlap… Dunlap… Why isn't that the unmarried, eerie fellow who sits in the back of the bus and talks to himself and no one else? Martha gets angry with me 'cause I talk too much to everyone. I'm Thomas G. Sorensen." He brought one hand down as if to offer it in a handshake, but Bishop gestured with his gun for the man to keep his hands up, and he did.

  "Open the door and let's talk to Martha then," suggested Bishop who wondered now if the tour guide had gotten the room number wrong. This fellow had no red hair, and he saw no red rash along his neck as reported by the clerk in Vegas.

  "Martha's not going to like this."

  "Fuck Martha! Fish out your keys and do as told. Open the fucking door."

  "All right, all right." The man fished into his pocket for the electronic key the size of a credit card. Unlocking the door, he was saying through it, "Martha, it's me and we have company. Are you decent, dear?''

  Bishop took a step closer and when he did, the suspect raised his keys and sprayed Bishop's eyes with mace, causing Bishop to backpedal and scream. Bishop heard the gunshot, thinking his own weapon had gone off, when suddenly he felt the blood dripping down from his chest. He'd been shot by the suspect; and his head went in a dizzying spiral, and he realized only now that he was lying flat on his back, paralyzed, his life's blood draining from him.

  He heard the footsteps of the Phantom as he raced away. Bishop sent up a hue and cry for help. "He's here! Somebody stop him! The murdering bastard's getting away! Damn me! Damn me to hell if I didn't let him get away!"

  What few people who hadn't evacuated their rooms began to reluctantly peek from behind their doors, and the sound of a man in obvious distress convinced some to step out of their rooms while others telephoned the desk to ask for medical assistance, and still others dialed 911.

  SIXTEEN

  The thing we run from is the thing we ran to.

  — Robert Anthony