Extreme Instinct jc-6

by Robert W. Walker

  "I see."

  "Besides, there're some thirty or so other passengers on that bus."

  "Of course. And if we didn't know before how dangerous it is to approach this lunatic, we certainly know now, don't we?"

  "Yes, of course. Any attempt at an assault on the bus would have cost more lives."

  "All the same, this morning, when the bus pulls from the curb, it will do so only after a thorough check by my people. By the way, the victim of the fire was a tourist to our city, a passenger on another tour bus. Her name was Evelyn Grey."

  "We know he's crazy, but he's also cunning. It's highly unlikely he'll rejoin the tour group or follow the now known path of tour thirteen fourteen on bus sixty-seven of the VisionQuest lines. Still, he has a plan that involves killing four more people at the very least. Whether he shows up in Jackson Hole or not is anyone's guess. And as for staking out the bus, he now knows we're on to him, close on his trail. He's hardly likely to show up tomorrow morning to board that bus.''

  "All the same, Quantico has asked for my full support, and as far as I'm concerned, Doctor, you people need all the help you can get. From here on out, I call the shots. Two of my men are guarding Bishop and those two questionable fellows whose faces were rearranged by your killer, possibly dying, certainly maimed for life, due to the ineptness of the investigation thus far. Now, tomorrow morning, my men will be there when tour number thirteen fourteen readies to leave the Hilton. We've interviewed the driver and the tour guide, and they know of our interest in

  Mr. Dunlap, should they ever lay eyes on him again."

  "He's not a fool."

  "We'll take him down, one way or another. The bus driver is being replaced by an agent, and we already have the other end covered, too."

  ''What do you mean?''

  "At Jackson Hole. There we'll greet the bus as the owner-operators of this place he would have been staying at tonight, a place called the Wagon Wheel Motel."

  "If you knew where his next destination was, why'd you bother asking me?"

  "Call it a test."

  "I see."

  "After Bishop's performance… rather hard to know whom to trust."

  "Sure… I can understand that." Jessica inwardly fumed, but she kept careful control of herself. "Refreshing to find a man with a plan," she told him, thinking his plan foolhardy and full of holes.

  Still, she kept silent. "Do it." She knew that Gallagher's plans would net him nothing, that the killer wanted to be caught up with by one person alone: her. That his bread crumbs and leavings thus far had all pointed to one thing: that she be his ninth, his last victim. He was no fool. He would not return to the company of tourists on a bus with a known itinerary, not now, now that they'd come so close to catching him. If nothing else, Warren had thrown a scare into the fiend.

  "Then you will join us in Wyoming, Dr. Coran?"

  "Go ahead without me. I'm here until Warren regains consciousness."

  Still awaiting news at Salt Lake Memorial Hospital, Jessica finally learned that Warren Bishop remained in an hours-long intensive surgery and that he wasn't expected to regain consciousness anytime soon after the operation, nor would he soon have use of his left side even if he should survive the surgery. The killer's bullet had been a spreader, a single bullet exploding from a cut jacket, creating a series of winding, twisting, tearing pellets coursing through Warren's body. He'd been wearing a Spectra vest, a technically superior vest to the Kevlar line most FBI men were still wearing, but the bullet entered at close proximity, the powder burns on his clothes telling the story, and the bullet entered just above the sternum, where the vest hadn't been completely secured by Bishop. From there, the bullet took its winding courses-up, down, around, back and forth, cutting small but deadly paths through vital organs, arteries, and veins.

  While she waited, Jessica was deserted by Neil Gallagher, who'd conferred with Dr. Karl Repasi and had invited Repasi to join him in the helicopter to Jackson Hole, Wyoming. With this team away and awaiting the next strike of the cobra at the next stop on the killer's itinerary-an itinerary that may well have changed by now-Jessica at least felt some breathing space.

  She remained uncertain of the killer's path now, whether he would indeed show himself in Jackson Hole, but just the same, she and Gallagher had little else to go on. An hour after Gallagher and Repasi had left her, Jessica was joined by J. T., who swept her up in his arms. They held one another for a long time, J. T. asking all in one breathless fell swoop, "How's-Bishop-doing, how're-you-Jess, ' n-what-happened?''

  "Bishop's torn up on the inside like a garden soaker. If he survives, his prognosis for a full recovery isn't good." Tears filled Jessica's eyes. "Worst of it is, John, he used us, used both of us."

  "Used?"

  Jessica confided what little she understood and suspected of Bishop's botched attempt at ridding the world of the Phantom via Frank Lorentian's hired thugs.

  "He must've been in to Lorentian big time from the get-go," said J. T. "And to think, we never suspected him of a thing."

  "We may never know exactly what kind of debt he owed to Frank Lorentian, if he doesn't survive."

  "What about the other two, Lorentian's goons?"

  "Second-degree burns to the face; neither man may ever see again. One of them was that guy we met at Lorentian's, his bodyguard Rollo."

  "I knew we'd be dogged by Frank Lorentian. I just knew it. But I thought it was Repasi."

  "Karl Repasi, too, was keeping tabs on us-for Warren, near as I can tell. Warren was paying Karl to keep him informed of our movements."

  "That explains a lot." J. T. again comforted her and said, "I'm sorry about all this, Jess. Really I am. I know you and Bishop go back a long way."

  "I thought I knew him."

  "Don't be too hard on yourself, Jess. I didn't suspect the man of a thing, either, certainly nothing like this."

  "Meanwhile, a killer goes free. We could've had him, John! Damn Warren for that, damn him."

  Again J. T. held her, trying to absorb her pain. In a moment she pulled away, dabbing tears from her eyes with a handkerchief that appeared to have seen a great deal of use this night. It was nearing 3:00 a.m.

  She stepped away from him, bent, and lifted a notepad she'd been working on before he'd arrived. "Oh, by the way, J. T., look at this and give me your appraisal. I've had a lot of time on my hands here, and I've been reading Dante's Inferno, and the killer's list, all the missing pieces, you know?''

  He reached out for the proffered notebook, nodding. "Yeah, what about the missing pieces?"

  "I think I know what they are, what they'll be when they come."

  J. T. gaped at her, the notepad half in his hands, half in hers. She wanted to push it fully into his hands like a hot potato.

  The notepad was filled with the information she wished to share with Thorpe, information no one else had. "Working this out is the only thing that's kept me sane in this place, waiting word on Warren," she told him. "Go ahead, check my work. What do you think? You think the killer's final list will look like this?" She tore off a sheet from the notepad she held in her hand.

  J. T. stared at the long list Jessica had completed. He sat down, holding the list before him, simply whistling aloud. The notepad read:

  #1 is #9-Traitors

  #2 is #8-Malicious Frauds

  #3 is #7-Violents

  #4 is #6-Heretics

  #5 is #5-Wrathful amp; Sullen

  #6 is #4-Avaricious amp; Prodigal

  #7 is #3-Gluttonous

  #8 is #2-Lustful

  #9 is #1-(the last victim?) sent into

  Limbo… through the Vestibule and over the River Acheron "Avaricious and Prodigal, Gluttonous and Lustful, you know the labels now from your research." J. T. scrunched up his eyes and asked, "The Vestibule? Vestibule? To where? And the River Acheron?"

  "Entryway to Hell," she explained. "Hellsmouth, like Mammoth, maybe. Something he said over the phone to me once. I need to get to an atlas."

&nb
sp; "Do you mean to tell me that this… all this has been some elaborate scheme simply to find a way to tell Jessica Coran to.. to go to Hell?"

  "Very funny, my friend, but I think he has more in mind than that; I believe he wants to personally send me to Hell. Here." She tore off a second sheet from her notepad. "Take a look at this, too."

  J. T. now stared at a set of concentric circles, each circle representing a level in Hades, or in the mind of the killer… or both. The notepaper read:

  The Rungs of Hell

  SEVENTEEN

  Lord grant me patience, and I want it right now.

  — Anonymous

  A solemn, overweight doctor in sneakers and green scrubs entered the waiting room, and Jessica leaped to her feet. The doctor explained that his portion of the operation- the intestinal tract-was finished, but that there were other complications, and that their vigil could go on for another two or three hours. "Sorry," finished the doctor, "but he was badly chewed up, internally."

  "Any improvement on his prognosis, Doctor?" asked Jessica.

  "I'm afraid not."

  "Then it'll be hours before he's out of intensive care."

  "Yes, it will. Again, I'm sorry I can't have better news for you."

  Jessica knew she didn't have that kind of time, not if she wished to catch a killer, yet her heart tugged at her to be here with Warren should he recover. Should he… She banned her final thought.

  A male nurse entered and asked if there was a Doctor Jessica Coran in the waiting room. "Telephone call at the desk for you,'' he announced.

  Jessica looked from the nurse to J. T., a birdlike fear flitting before her mind's eye, a thought fully formed: Who knows I'm here?

  J. T., reading her thoughts, supplied an answer: "Santiva's got to have had word by now on what's happened here. He'll want a full report."

  Jessica nodded and asked the nurse to lead the way. She followed the young man to the nurses' station; he pointed to a small, enclosed office, saying, "You can take it in there."

  Being alone in the room with the phone was like standing in a pit with a snake. She stared at the waiting phone where it blinked and winked up at her. Finally, she took the receiver in hand and pounced on the hold button. "Hello."

  Santiva barked, "Jessica, what in hell's going on there? I thought you said this Bishop fellow was top drawer, and now I learn he's compromised an entire operation?"

  "Eriq, I don't know what was going down with Warren," she lied, not wishing to discuss it now, and certainly not over the phone. ''All we know for certain is that he may not make it through the night, and even if he does, he'll be paralyzed, possibly for life." She choked on the facts.

  "I'm sorry to hear that. Damn it, and just when we've gotten a line on what the list is getting at, too, Jessica."

  "Oh, really?"

  ''A Professor William Milton Jarvis, Medieval Studies Department at Georgetown University, tracked it to-"

  "Really, my old alma mater? Don't tell me," she replied, spoiling his moment, "Dante's Inferno, right?"

  "How did you know? Damn it, you're always a step ahead."

  "It finally dawned on me," she half-lied, no time for detailed long-distance explanations. "And I've been reading the book since. We'll fax you our latest suspicions and an updated list as soon as possible."

  "I'm coming out there to be with you," he countered.

  "It's not necessary, Eriq."

  "I think it is, at this juncture, absolutely necessary. I'm flying out to Salt Lake."

  "Well, if you must come, make it Wyoming."

  "Wyoming?"

  "Jackson Hole."

  "Where the president vacations?"

  "One and the same. Ever been there?"

  "A splendid, beautiful area, and yes, I've been there and I know how to get there from here, yes."

  "There are nine rungs of Hell, Eriq, and this guy appears to be populating each with each of his victims. He's going to kill at least three, possibly four more times before he ends it, if we allow him to. Is it too damn much to hope we end it?"

  "I want to be on hand, help any way I can, Jess. I'll meet you in Jackson Hole. Meanwhile, fax any new developments to the BSU; I can't sit idly by any longer, Jess. And Jess-"

  "Yes?"

  "I am one step ahead of you on one lead we got on this guy."

  "What kind of a lead?" She remained skeptical.

  "How about a name?"

  "A name?"

  "Feydor Dorphmann, spelled…" He slowed to spell the name accurately for her.

  At her end, Jessica took time to write it down.

  "How did you get the man's name? How accurate is this information?"

  "Right on, Jess. We sent his ugly little cryptograms to all major mental health facilities in the country, as you suggested, and bingo, up comes one in San Francisco called the Lombardh Institute for the Mentally Insane, where this Dorphmann character lived for a time."

  "For a time?"

  "Eight years without harming a soul. Then he's released-"

  "Released when?"

  "Seven months ago, and not three months passed when one of his doctors, a guy named Wetherbine, Dr. Stuart Wetherbine, is stabbed repeatedly with a knife and set aflame in an alleyway. Coincidence?"

  "No one in San Francisco put those two facts together?"

  "Dorphmann disappeared. He's been wanted ever since, but no one's seen him."

  Jessica thought about the time line. "He murders his doctor three months after release, then four months pass before he goes on his kill spree? Not your usual serial killer, Eriq. Tell me, what was he in for?''

  "Self-inflicted wounds-burning himself. Seems he's something of a masochist. Also delusional, something about seeing aliens behind his eyelids, that sort of thing."

  "Aliens?"

  "Aliens, elves, creatures from Hell, you name it."

  "So his family committed him to the institution?"

  "No, I spoke directly to the parents, both aged, in their seventies, and both didn't want anything to do with Feydor and didn't know he'd been released. I'm told they were frightened of him all their lives, something about his having burned living things-cats, dogs, you know-when he was a kid."

  "Didn't the institution notify the parents when they released the man?''

  "Said they couldn't locate them. Strangely enough, they weren't under any legal obligation to notify the next of kin since this Feydor guy had actually committed himself and was of age."

  "He committed himself to eight years in a mental facility. That'll help him at trial," she half-joked, knowing a defense lawyer could make hay with this fact. Maybe Frank Lorentian's solution wasn't so far off the wall.

  "Yeah," continued Santiva, "claiming he feared he'd hurt someone if he wasn't under constant watch."

  "Damn it, this will help him at trial then. He commits himself for fear he'll harm someone, they release him, he does exactly as he feared and worse, and the defense has a hole large enough to drive a full-grown elephant through. Maybe that was Warren's concern, too, Eriq."

  "Be that as it may, we still have to catch the fiend before any defense lawyers and activists praise him."

  She smiled at this. "Still, what do we have that ties Dorphmann irrevocably to our case? How can you be sure he's the same man who's behind these fire crimes?"

  "The greaseprints…"

  "From the mirrors?"

  "Mirror instinct, you might say. When you figured that out, Jess, you nailed the bastard. The mental facility kept his prints on file."

  "Terrific."

  "How did you know? About the prints in the mirror grease? Who else would've given it a thought?"

  "I knew instinctively because I knew this guy intentionally leaves me his crumbs. He's been testing my mettle from the beginning."

  "The important thing is the prints found a match with this guy. They match Dorphmann's medical records."

  "Bingo," she added. "What about a photo of the son-of-a-''

  "It's eight ye
ars old, and it's not too good. His entrance file at Lombardh, but it's being faxed to Gallagher's office, Vegas, Bozeman, Casper as we speak. It should catch up to you in a few."

  "Excellent. Now we can put a face with this pervert."

  ''Too bad your eyewitness, Bishop, is under. Could give us valuable insight into what the creep looks like today."

  "Did you do a computer-aged enhancement of the photo?"

  "Faxed alongside the original."

  "Dorphmann, Feydor Dorphmann," she repeated the name. It somehow helped tremendously to know the name of the maniac she'd been pursuing, and to know that soon she'd be able to look into his photographic eyes. It gave her a sense that he was human after all, and not at all the Antichrist, the all-powerful being he had become in the minds of his victims before their horrible deaths, and in her mind at each moment she had heard the final cries of his victims.

  "Finally, we're seeing a turn in the case," Santiva said, interrupting her thoughts.

  "What other good news are you hoarding, Eriq?"

  "Shoeprint is this guy Dorphmann's size as well, and you were right about the photographic paper you found. From a Polaroid Instamatic. The creep is keeping an album."

  Such a practice among serial killers wasn't unusual. She recalled how the vicious killer Kowona, in Hawaii, had kept such a photo album of his victims.

  "We're putting the picture on the wires with a full alert, all points, concentrating heavily on your area and the area you're tracking, Jess."

  "Excellent. Maybe we can now throw some fear back his way."

  "I'll look for you in Jackson Hole, Jessica."

  "Yes, see you there."

  With the line cut, standing now with the receiver in her hand, Jessica wondered how much more she could endure. She thought of Warren Bishop, lying on the operating table, fighting for his life; she thought of the two thugs, Rollo and John Doe, agents of Lorentian, men who'd never be capable of resuming their lives as usual or their duties for Lorentian or anyone else, ever again, should they live past this night. Then it hit her, an idea that might save lives.