Extreme Instinct jc-6

by Robert W. Walker

  She recalled something Fronval had said to her on the subject once. He'd often been quoted as saying the same in articles she'd seen in National Parks, the magazine mouthpiece for the NPCA: "Unfortunately, when people visit the national parks, they don't always leave their suicidal, masochistic, or sadistic tendencies at the park borders."

  The quote certainly fit in with the manhunt she was about to propose to Fronval.

  Jessica thought the argument, even the fact there was an argument of this kind, a commentary on where society was heading, that so much of society hadn't the least idea of what the wild outdoors meant, that somehow wild buffalo, bears, and cougars had been confused with movie-friendly beasts seen in Disney versions of the great outdoors. This led visitors to Yellowstone to believe they could not only feed the bears but also pet them, and that a snapshot of Junior on the back of an elk or a mountain goat was as natural an idea as a snapshot of Junior on the back of a statue. People ascribed cartoonlike, friendly characteristics to the wildest of beasts that roamed free here, but this in effect negated the very meaning of free.

  She had given thought to when the outdoors was natural and when indoors in the American wilderness was unnatural. History, time, and the march of progress had turned reality inside out, and people with it.

  While she and her friend Melissa Gilmore had been staying at the lodge during her first and only other visit to Yellowstone, they'd heard of an incident in which a young man, in an attempt to rescue his dog from a hot spring, had lost his life to the searing, boiling cauldron he'd dove into. Dogs in Yellowstone caused great concern to the rangers. There was good reason for the signs posted everywhere that read: do not take your dog on trails in Yellowstone. Dogs were never allowed off-leash in the park, and never to be taken on trails, especially trails through thermal areas. Hot springs amounted to only one reason for the ban on dogs here. Other reasons involved the fact that dogs were predatory on small animals; they chased and harassed larger animals such as moose and elk and buffalo. Dogs also attracted bears-indeed these two animal breeds hated one another. Finally, dog excrement introduced exotic plants into an ecosystem.

  Disregarding all of this, the young man allowed his dog to escape his car, and the dog, panting from the heat, leaped into a hot spring of 192 degrees Fahrenheit. The young man dove in to save the yelping, helpless animal, somehow thinking himself less vulnerable to the scalding than his pet. Both man and dog died of their injuries and massive dehydration.

  Another like story involved a little boy who thought the spring inviting when he purportedly shouted, "I wonder just how warm the water is'' and promptly stepped off the wooden-planked path to tumble in. The boy's skeletal remains were recovered days afterward when the hot spring spat them back up, finished with the child.

  Devastated, the parents sued the park in a wrongful-death action.

  Jessica could see little of the majesty of Yellowstone below her now, shrouded as it was in darkness. She and Rideout had remained silent for some time as their approach brought them nearer Old Faithful Lodge and the ranger station there. Then without warning, Rideout erupted with words that seemed to burst forth like water from a busted dike. "In your line of work, Dr. Coran, you've probably seen it all, but you ever see a man killed by a grizzly?"

  "No, no… I can't say I have."

  "I did, once. When I was rangerin'. Went out with a search party for a hiker who disappeared. I'm telling you, it looked like a chainsaw had been taken to the man. He was cut clean in two at the belt. Blood everywhere, all over the snow."

  "Sounds awful."

  "It was high snow season, late November, most roads into the park closed by then. Guy's name was Teller, a real smartass who wouldn't listen to any words of caution, and him wanting to be a ranger someday. Who knows? Maybe he mighta made a good ranger if he'd lived. Hiked out alone one day, like a fool."

  "How old was he?"

  "Oh, nineteen, maybe twenty. His entire neck was missing. Head we found later, and the torso'd been left behind, but the kid's neck was clean chewed away. Sam figured he was running when the bear caught him on the fly at the neck and just ripped away with those massive teeth."

  Jessica gulped at the image while the whirring and dipping of the helicopter vibrated through her ears and down to her stomach.

  "Teller's other parts were scattered and buried in so many places, we never did come back with all of him. But we found his head under a hefty mound the bear had churned up."

  "Put away for later feeding," she said with a knowing nod.

  "They hunted that bear down. Rangers all knew him as Number 63, tagged the year before, but after the killing, we all began calling him 01' Claw."

  "They put him down as a man-killer," she said matter-of-factly.

  "Yeah, like it's going to teach a lesson to all the other bears-Hanna-Barbera, Jellystone Park thinking, you know. We always had to deal with that kind of mentality, sanitizers… but to appease the public, you know…"

  "Yeah, 'fraid I do in my business, too."

  He shrugged. "Sam says, 'We do what we gotta do,' but hell if I ever could understand the thinking. I mean, I just don't get it. Never did. Probably what made me a bad ranger. Whole thing was Teller's own stupid fault. The bear was only doing what come natural to bears."

  "Maybe I'll get lucky," she said. "Maybe my man will run up on a grizzly or get gored by an angry bison."

  "You can always hope…"

  As the chopper neared Yellowstone's fantastic cauldera filled with lodge pole pine, Jessica imagined the thousands of tourists below, settling in for the night after long treks in the park of geysers and free-roaming bison.

  Despite full disclosure in the newspapers about the killer, there still remained, she could be absolutely sure, an enclave of people here in the vast wilderness of Yellowstone who had been wholly untouched by the story. Few if any down at Old Faithful Lodge would show the least alarm, she imagined.

  She learned that she was right, that there would be no general alarm sounded-nor did she want one-as she explained over the radio to Samuel Marc Fronval, a descendant of French-Canadian Native Americans and the head guy among the rangers here. She knew Fronval from years past, and he'd taken her warnings in such calm stride that she wondered if he'd gone feeble, but then maybe it was the place.

  It was as if this place could not be touched by such gross evil, but Fronval had to know better. Still, it was a vacation destination for hundreds of thousands annually. People came here to view the fantastic geological wonders of the infinitely varied hydrothermal features of this region, from the obsidian sand at Black Sand Geyser Basin to the vivid blue, giant eye of Morning Glory Pool in Upper Geyser Basin. People came here to marvel at the extraordinary silica that dissolved in hot water precipitates as the minerals brought from the depths of the planet cooled to create grottoes and fountains and caverns turned inside out. Algae did the rest, painting the geyserite in all the hues of the rainbow. Rainbows captured in rock, strewn about the earth.

  Jessica recalled in particular the spectacular Minerva Terrace at Mammoth hot springs as an outstanding example of the variegated patterns that travertine formed as it was deposited on the surface of the cooling waters of the hot spring. The place looked like a limestone cave turned inside out. The place made the clumsiest of amateur photographers suddenly gifted.

  People were indeed here to play, to party, to have fun, and not to be concerned about what went on in the world at large. The fact that there was a serial killer at work, and that he was winding his way from vacation spot to vacation spot here in the West, and that he was bent on taking people's lives by burning them to death for some hideous purpose no one would ever fully understand except for the killer himself, remained of no consequence to the typical tourist or merchant preying upon the tourist. And God forbid that Jessica's manhunt should interfere with business as usual here.

  Oddly, however, Jessica's radio call to Fronval below seemed to ''devil'' the helicopter pilot more than anyone
on the ground. Fronval had promised to put extra men on alert in and around Old Faithful Lodge, the grand hotel of the park, within shouting distance to Old Faithful, where every thirty to thirty-five minutes, the magnificent, most famous geyser of them all spouted its hot whale spray to an adoring American public.

  Still, Fronval promised Jessica a full green light when she arrived by having her way cleared, pleased to be hearing from her after all these years. Fronval had kept up with her career, and she his. He remained one of Yellowstone's best loved and most respected rangers.

  Coming back to Yellowstone would, under normal circumstances, have been a balm to her, a reunion for her heart and soul. The place held a spectacular appeal that no words could capture; rather, it silenced men-and even women, she jokingly thought. It was a spiritual place, a place to renew body and soul. Perhaps this was its appeal to one Feydor Dorphmann as well.

  Off the left side of the helicopter now, she could see the billowing clouds rising from hot water pools, searing hot springs that welled up out of the earth's crust at temperatures of more than 180 degrees, 205 degrees in other places here. Enough boiling water to scald the entire human race, she thought.

  A handful of the pools were swimmable, but every hot spring in the park remained outlawed, off-limits to everyone, since only a trained park ranger could tell the difference between a safe and a deadly pool, and even some of these so-called experts had, on occasion, become victims of the pools and their own bad or impaired judgment, ignorance, or possible suicidal thoughts.

  Jessica was immediately shocked back to the present when Corey Rideout shouted, "There's a fire down there at the lodge!" Rideout pointed down toward the lodge.

  Jessica stared down at the scene, certain there lay a body in the flames below, a body that the killer, in his obsession, knew only as number seven. ''Damn him… He is here. He is here!"

  TWENTY

  Act nothing in furious passion. It's putting to sea in storm.

  — Thomas Fuller

  Feydor knew that time was of the essence, that it was only a matter of time before they caught up to him and put an end to his-their-plans. He was angry with his demon god for not allowing him to count at least the two men in Salt Lake that he'd torched, the two that had died in the hospital. But there was no arguing with the supernatural being, the source of evil. That meant he must kill two more here at Yellowstone before Jessica Coran arrived.

  He knew she would come. Satan had assured him that she must, and he was right. Feydor had seen the approaching helicopter. She must be aboard.

  He needed one more victim. The Tolliver woman was easy. He'd flattered her in her little gift shop downstairs, bought her a box of chocolates, and had shown up at her room. He'd used the syringe on her, and while she battled, bruising him in the bargain, he'd managed to subdue her and let the drugs do the rest. Then he did her as he'd done the others.

  Time was fleeting now, however, and he had no victim in mind, nothing prepared. Still, he had his tools in hand. He just needed to be smart about this thing.

  He wandered the hallways, going from floor to floor, looking at room numbers, trying doors to see if anyone had foolishly left one unlocked, keeping his eyes and ears alert, watching anyone who happened in or out of a room, up or down a stairwell or corridor. He began stalking for his next victim, number eight is number two, the lustful.

  He needed a soul to send to that special rung of Hades reserved for those whose minds and hearts were filled with only lust. But it was late, everyone in their beds asleep, silent. Whom might he find to fill in?

  ''Return to the fire,'' Satan said inside his head.

  "Coran is here. It's not time yet to face her. You said so."

  "There, staring into the fire, you will find those who lust."

  It appeared the only way. "Of course, the fire."

  Feydor expected to hear Dr. Stuart Wetherbine next, objecting to this final step, but Wetherbine kept silent. Wetherbine had remained silent for a long time now. Perhaps he'd been silenced by Satan.

  Dorphmann knew now he must return to the seventh fire, where people would be milling about, gawking. Somewhere in the crowd, he'd find the one whose eyes shimmered with a lustful glow, the sinner he looked for. He'd have to be careful, however. Coran and others there would be searching all the faces, too, searching for him.

  Jessica had instantly gotten on the radio to inform Sam Fronval of the danger overtaking his lodge. Fronval shouted back, "We know we've got a fire! We've got help on the way."

  "It's got to be him, Sam! The coincidence is too much."

  "We found no one at the fire but the woman who died in it, Jessica, but he did leave a message for you."

  "Let me guess: Number seven is number three-gluttonous."

  "Jesus, Joseph, and Jessica! How'd you know that? Never mind, I don't want to know," said Fronval. "Victim was Lorraine Tolliver, big woman who worked in the gift shop and lived at the lodge, room four twenty-two."

  "If he's true to form, Sam, he's seeking out another victim as we speak."

  "Why didn't you bring more men with you, Jessica? We can't cover the entire lodge. There are more than six hundred rooms in use here. And each wing of the lodge goes off in another direction, like the spokes of a wheel. There's the original lodge and the add-ons."

  "If he doesn't kill again tonight, he'll kill again tomorrow night." Jessica then told Rideout, "Get me down there."

  "Gonna scare the shit out of Henry if we set down too close to the lodge," complained Rideout, the chopper pilot.

  Jessica frowned and asked, "Henry? Who's Henry?"

  "An old buffalo who doesn't roam with the herd anymore, but hangs about the lodge. He's been there for years, but he's unpredictable. I don't want him charging my bird."

  "Get me in as close as you can, then, without setting us down on a hot spring."

  Rideout did so, and Jessica said, "Get back up in the air, and radio us if you see any other fire than the one we already know about."

  "Will do, and good luck, Dr. Coran, or should I call you The Sanitizer?'' he joked.

  "Thanks," she called back over the noise of the rotors. "Now get back up in the air."

  Jessica was guided to the location of the fire by a ranger sent to the helicopter in order to take her directly to Samuel Fronval. Fronval stood in the hallway, smoke haloing him, as he tried in vain to disperse the crowd of curious onlookers who were in the way. Jessica pushed through the crowd, looking all about for any sign of Feydor Dorphmann, knowing full well that he'd been in similar crowds earlier, watching her every movement.

  She saw a small man somewhat resembling Dorphmann, and she pointed the man out to Fronval, who immediately had his rangers grab the man in pajamas, whose shock soon translated into swear words.

  Others in the crowd, seeing the detention of one of their own, and being asked by rangers in hats and carrying guns if they'd seen or heard anything unusual, began to disperse. Questioning a crowd, Jessica knew from experience, was the quickest way to break one up.

  Jessica looked in on the fire room, saw the ugly message left by Dorphmann, saw the ugly remains on the bed. Firefighters were still squelching small eruptions in the room. She backed out, her face blackened from smoke. Exhausted, she leaned against the log wall, Fronval telling her he was sorry to have to see her under such conditions but welcoming her to Yellowstone just the same.

  She looked into his clear, blue-ice eyes, and saw the same man in there, but outwardly he'd aged a great deal, his hair now a snowy white, his face a road map of wrinkles, every one of them no doubt earned.

  "Yeah, it's good to see you again, too, Sam."

  "I'm due to retire in a few months," he told her. "Damned ugly thing that's happened here on my watch."

  "I'm sorry, Sam, truly I am."

  "Read about what happened in Salt Lake."

  She glanced down the long, narrow corridor to see a thin, emaciated man carrying a black case. The man seemed bent on following someone, his step i
n tune with a woman ahead of him.

  "My God, it's him. It's Dorphmann, there," she said, pointing.

  "Where?" asked Fronval, staring past the little man she pointed at.

  "There!" She raised her gun and shouted for people to drop to the floor, and anyone remaining in the hall did so. But Dorphmann was gone. She raced, stepping over people as she did so, for the spot where he'd been.

  "Are you sure of what you saw?" asked Fronval, catching up to her.

  They stood at a juncture in the hallway where four separate wings spread out in four directions, any one of which Dorphmann could have stepped down. "Any doors, maids' closets along these corridors?" Jessica stared down each section of the maze.

  "This way," Fronval suggested, going to a maids' closet, but it was locked.

  "No way he could've ducked in here."

  Out of the side of her left eye, Jessica saw a flitting shadow appear and disappear in the opposite corridor wing. "There he goes!" she shouted and gave chase, her gun raised.

  Fronval stayed close behind. He knew the complicated labyrinth of the many-sided, many-added-on hotel, which had stood here since the early 1900s, a place where President Theodore Roosevelt had slept. "All the corridors eventually will lead back to the main hall," Fronval assured her from behind. "He's got to be making for an exit somewhere."

  ''The only other exits are where?''

  "At the ends of each corridor, but there is one door midway."

  "For all we know he's booked a room himself under an assumed name. He may simply have ducked into his room."

  "We'll do a door-to-door search of this corridor on this floor," suggested Fronval. "It'll have to do."

  A door between two sections of the hotel ahead of them creaked closed. "There!" Jessica shouted, racing after, leaving Fronval catching his breath.

  Jessica, out ahead, spied a shadow racing off down the hallway on the other side of the door, still hustling with a black case in his grip. It had to be Feydor Dorphmann. She was so close that she might get a shot off if she gambled, but stopping to aim could cost her. She could again lose sight of him.