Extreme Instinct

by Robert W. Walker

  “I want a closer look,” she announced and stepped back into the charred ruins of the room.

  FOUR

  Swift as fear. —Thomas Parnell

  Fire Detective Charles Fairfax described the condition of the room when firemen first arrived, relating what others had told him. The body was already burned to a crisp, and smoke plumed out the door. The door was left ajar by the killer. He wanted her found just as she lay as quickly as possible after writing out his message. But if he used her body creosote and his hand to write his message, then he must exist on carbon monoxide, unless—”

  “Unless he wore a gas mask of some sort.”

  “An oxygen mask, like a firefighter,” Jessica guessed.

  “Even so, with all the smoke he created, he'd have to get out extremely fast before becoming disoriented and unable to see.”

  “Another minute or so,” explained Fairfax, “and a flashover would've occurred here. Everything in the room, including the mirror, would've melted. But this guy some­how controlled the fire he set.”

  “Looks like murder, pure and ugly,” Karl now said, stepping in a bit closer to the god-awful remains. “Some creep, for whatever perverted reason, douses her with gas­oline, ignites her with a butane torch, if Fairfax is right, reaches out and touches you, Jessica, and he leaves his nasty little message on the mirror for us to ponder before simply walking out amid the confusion of a fire alarm while the victim is turned into so much toast on the bed.”

  “She went up like a marshmallow,” Fairfax indelicately added. “Room is adjacent to a stairwell. My guess is he used it to escape unseen.”

  “Are you sure, Jessica, that you do not know the vic­tim?” asked Repasi.

  “I'm sure. Besides, even if I had known her at some time in the past, she's certainly unrecognizable now.”

  “All right, then you didn't know her, and perhaps she didn't know you.... Then...”

  “What, Karl?”

  “This isn't Chris Lorentian, this Chris person wants us to believe it is she, so she can make a clean escape from whatever or whomever she's running from. So she ar­ranges for a stand-in, and voila—one crispy-fried body.”

  “That's some leap,” protested J.T.

  “If not, then there is only one other conclusion.”

  All eyes turned to Repasi, and he liked the attention he was getting. Finally J.T. asked, “And what might that be, Karl?”

  “The killer knows you, Jessica.”

  “We don't know that,” defended J.T. “I mean, he may know of her, but there's little chance he actually knows Dr. Coran.” Repasi's impish eyes threw out sparks. “Maybe it's Matisak, back from the grave. Just kidding, of course....”

  J.T. instantly shouted, “That's not fiinny, Karl!”

  “I told you, Karl,” Jessica differed. “She was alive when he did her. I spoke to her, goddamn it!”

  “You don't know for sure, not one hundred percent, Jessica,” Repasi countered.

  “I know what I heard.”

  “The ears can deceive. Whoever set up this elaborate game may've wanted you to believe exactly as you do. Let's say this Chris Lorentian person was trying to hide from, from whatever. What better way than to fake her own death? Another possibility is that the sounds you heard were prerecorded.”

  She swallowed hard. “I hope you're right, but I rather doubt your theory will pan out, Karl.”

  “For all we know, this person here may've been dead when she was put to the torch,” Repasi added. “The killer or killers could've taped the screams earlier, played her screams into the receiver for your benefit, and—''

  “I held a conversation with her.”

  “The kind of technology that's available these days, that, too, can be explained away.”

  “No, it was a conversation. She responded to my words. That couldn't have been arranged for my benefit. God,” she said with a moan. “For my benefit. You hear what that implies?”

  Repasi put up a consoling hand to her and said, “He or they might've fired up the bed, maybe... but just to burn her alive? We best not assume anything, Jess. He or they could've put her out with an injection, a ball peen hammer, any number of—”

  “You've no way of knowing that until an autopsy is performed, not in the condition she's in,” countered J.T.

  “Not a mark on her other than the catastrophic results of... the flames?” Repasi theatrically asked. “Impossible to say here and now, correct.”

  “Are you taking charge here, Karl?” asked J.T.

  “Not likely. I hear Lester's someplace in the hotel, probably at the gambling tables.” Lester Osborne had been the Las Vegas City coroner for the past ten years, and he'd been most instrumental in getting them all here to Las Vegas, or so Jessica understood. Osborne was on the steer­ing committee that had chosen the Flamingo Hilton as their rendezvous point.

  “Come on, Jess,” suggested J.T. “Let's leave this mess for Karl and Lester, then.”

  “I want photos of the mirror, the message, the body all sent to... to Quantico, to Eriq Santiva, Karl. You under­ stand?” she asked, finding the steel she needed for a grace­ful exit.

  Repasi nodded reassuringly, saying, “Consider it done. I think Thorpe's right. You're too personally involved in this one, and you look like a ghost, Jess. Better get out of here, now.”

  “Let me know what you and Osborne learn at autopsy,” she countered, getting in the last word.

  Jessica, feeling emotionally overcome, now willingly al­lowed J.T. to guide her from the death room and down the hallway, where she removed the plastic coverings from her feet. There, suddenly the elevator doors opened and a grinning Dr. Lester Osborne, his round head speckled with freckles, appeared like a hefty ostrich in a plumed baby blue tuxedo that screamed eccentricity and bad taste, a le­thal fashion dose.

  A small, potbellied man in bow tie and ruffles, Lester stepped high and energetically off the elevator with his black bag in hand, and now he stood before them, his eyes instantly going to Jessica's bare feet. “Cute,” he muttered, “but I would've imagined you did your nails in red or black.”

  “Dr. Lester,” replied J.T., “you've got a handful down the hall.”

  “So I hear. Well, Doctors, hello and welcome to Las Vegas just the same, and how was your flight out from

  D.C.?”

  “They've got a badly burned murder victim inside, Les­ter,” replied J.T. “I think you're needed by the fire mar­shal. Repasi's in there with the fire team now.”

  While Lester balked mentally at learning about Repasi's interest, he kept silent about it and nonchalantly replied, “No one's going anywhere, besides... what with all of you here and Repasi on the inside, who needs an old fart like me in the way?” He looked down the hallway to where Karl Repasi stood shaking his head, a curl of smoke issuing from the death room crowning the man, creating an aura about him, making him look more devilish than usual. “Look at that bastard,” Osborne finally noted, send­ing Jessica's eyes back toward Repasi. “I guess I can't let Karl beat me in my own hometown, now can I?”

  “I want you to know, Lester,” began Jessica, “that the victim was alive when the killer put the torch to her. I heard the sudden rush of fire, obviously, when he ignited the body with the torch.”

  “She? The victim? Torched? And you heard it all?”

  “Burned alive, Lester.”

  “And you can tell that at a single glance, can you, Jes­sica? What a miraculous pair of eyes you've developed over the past few years. Have you become psychic as well, Jessica? Your old man would be proud, but I think he would also be cautioning you—''

  Jessica didn't want to give Repasi the pleasure of re­peating her story to Lester Osborne. If he must hear it, he'd hear it from her.

  J.T. tried to usher her onto the elevator, but she pulled free from his grasp and continued. “The victim was speak­ing to me on the phone when he killed her, Lester. He obviously planned it that way. He arranged to murder her for me to... to—'' “Fo
r you?”

  “For my benefit. For some twisted purpose I can't begin to—”

  “Then he—whoever this vile person is—intended for you to be involved in the autopsy, no doubt,” J.T. sud­denly realized. “He killed her because...” He brought himself up short.

  “To test me,” she replied. “To test my abilities against his, to test my reputation? To make a reputation for him­self?”

  “Dear God,” added Osborne. “How utterly—”

  “Insane,” supplied J.T.

  “Ruthless,” finished Osborne.

  Repasi had joined them, and overhearing, he added, “Your reputation always did precede you, Jessica.”

  J.T. instantly reacted. “Not funny, Karl.”

  Jessica muttered in soft response, “He has killed some­one simply to... God forbid... to test me. It's too much... too damned much to deal with.”

  “Come on, Jessica,” urged J.T. “I'm taking you to your room.”

  “Yes, okay... I've got to find my shoes and change.”

  “What you've got to do is lie down, Jess.”

  “No, we have an autopsy to perform, J.T.”

  “Let Repasi and Osborne handle it.”

  “You think so?” She looked at the other two M.E.s— Osborne, the Las Vegas M.E., and Repasi, whose home base these days was Phoenix, Arizona.

  “If you get involved in the autopsy, you'll be playing right into this madman's hands, Jess,” suggested Lester Osborne.

  J.T. instantly agreed, adding, “You want another Matisak in your life?”

  Repasi and Osborne stared at her, sizing her up, in their own way testing her mettle, all of them familiar with her history of dealing with madmen. She felt so horribly and irrevocably awful about what had happened to Chris Lor­entian. Finally Repasi said, “I think Osborne and Thorpe are right, Coran.” Between the lines he had clearly chal­lenged her. “Go... go.” He indicated the elevator with a little shrug. “Do as your friends advise. No one will think any less of you. Osborne and I have everything well in hand. We'll take care of the remains.”

  She hesitated only long enough to consider J.T.'s ad­monition. “I'll want a full accounting,” she replied when suddenly the fire investigator came storming toward them.

  “Lorentian... I just remembered. She's... that is, she could be related to Frank Lorentian.”

  “Owner of one of the largest casinos in Vegas,” fin­ished Lester Osborne with a whistle.

  Repasi stared a hole through Osborne's chest. “Lester, you think it could be Mob-related? You know, a profes­sional job, a contract killing?” Osborne hesitated answering, went to the door and peeked inside, turned, and replied, “Too messy to be Mob- related.”

  “Besides, if that were the case, why'd the killer dial Jessica's number?” added J.T. Repasi defended his notion, saying, “Lot of those guys are eccentric types. Maybe he likes fire, likes to watch and wanted to, as she says, taunt her, test her, see if she's as good as the papers say. After all, she has a reputation as the best the FBI has to offer, and guys who travel in Frank Lorentian's circles, well...”

  “Then you know who Lorentian is?” asked Osborne.

  “I've heard of him, sure.”

  Jessica stared hard into Karl Repasi's eyes, angry at the suggestion and all the assumptions that went with his ear­lier remarks. He'd said nothing of this earlier when he had heard the name Lorentian. But she kept her counsel.

  Osborne said with a moan, “Damn . .. damn... Frank Lorentian.”

  “Can't be sure till we contact him,” cautioned Fairfax. “Ask him if he's got a Chris in the family and if she's missing. We need some estimate on her age, height, weight, all that....”

  Scratching his near-bald head, Osborne asked, “You found no ID, purse, anything with her?”

  “Nada, zip, and the room was registered to a Chris Dun­lap.”

  “We'll get her vital stats just as soon as you can release the body to the ambulance guys and get it down to my morgue,” assured Osborne, his nose twitching from the stench.

  Jessica tried taking deep breaths, but the fire odors were harsh and not to be deeply swallowed. She found the hold button on the elevator, released it, and with J.T. at her side, they floated up three flights to return to the relative safety of her room, but she now wondered at its false se­curity. Once back at her room, she fumbled with the key, her hand shaking, until J.T. grabbed it and steadied her. The god-awful dialogue she'd had with Chris Lorentian moments before the girl was put to the torch kept replaying like a macabre script in her head, and she feared it would ever be there to haunt her, no matter what else came of the crime committed in 1713 tonight.

  Inside the room, J.T. solicitously asked if she'd be okay, adding, “Can I get you a glass of water, twist of lemon?”

  “Yes, thanks, and I'll be fine,” she said, trying to sound brave.

  “Vodka might be better for me,” he suggested, know­ing that Jessica had fought and won a battle with alcohol during the long manhunt for Matthew Matisak.

  Misunderstanding him, she quickly replied, “Not for me, but help yourself to the bar, if you like. Key's on top.”

  J.T. found some ice, orange juice, and a dwarf bottle of vodka. He quickly made himself a drink and downed it, and made another. Jessica had already fallen into a chair beside the window, where neon lights reflected up at them.

  “Can't see any stars even from way up here,” she mused, staring out at the gray-black sky.

  “This lunatic could call you again,” suggested J.T.

  “They say.... well, Warren Bishop says you've got to go out to the desert to get the full effect of the blanket of stars in the western sky. I spoke to Warren on the phone before we flew out.”

  “Maybe you should check out of here, or at least get another room,” J.T. suggested, his thin hand tightly wrapped about the vodka glass.

  “He's miles from here by now,” she replied, realizing that moments before she'd been wondering if he might not be in the crowd milling about 1713. “Besides, I'm ex­hausted and I'm going to bed, so I want you out.”

  J.T. found a seat opposite hers. “Sure you don't want to go downstairs for a while, be among friends, Jess? The reception's just getting under way, by my calculation.”

  “I believe I have to agree with Karl Repasi on that one.”

  “Say again?”

  “I've already had my macabre reception.”

  He groaned in response.

  “Go on, enjoy! You can tell me how you made out at the gaming tables tomorrow.”

  J.T. smiled, downed his drink, and stood up. “Yeah, sure. You're probably right about this creep. They're usu­ally cowards in the end, aren't they?”

  “They—how can they keep coming and coming?” she asked.

  J.T. had no answer for her. He placed a brotherly hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “I'll look for you in the morning.”

  “Meantime, I have this,” she replied, lifting her hefty Browning automatic, the gun that she'd used against Mad Matthew Matisak.

  Feydor was pleased with himself, pleased with the work he'd accomplished, pleased that Satan, too, was pleased. Killing number one is nine had given him a great sense of closure. It had also given him a great sense of power, and so had making fools of the authorities.

  It had also reduced the redness and swelling of his red rash. Satan appeared to be a being of his word, despite Wetherbine's continued warnings. “He'll take you down with him. He's the consummate liar.”

  While they searched the usual escape routes out of the city, he had slept comfortably in a bed on the fourth floor, one he'd registered for under his own name, paying cash. While Feydor had waited for Jessica Coran's arrival at the hotel, he'd rifled through Chris Lorentian's bags and purse, and he'd found her wallet stuffed with large bills, as well as a ticket made out to a Chris Dunlap out of Vegas. Just as he had told Feydor what materials and instru­ments would be needed for the work, Satan had said he would provide for Feydor's safety, and he had. Dr.
Weth­erbine had been wrong about everything. A man could align himself with Satan, strike a bargain, and walk away free of any lesions or permanent scars and pain.

  Feydor had merely to bide his time. At dawn, he found himself waiting about the lobby and the casino, no red hair now, for the tour bus that would slip from the city begin­ning at 6:00 a.m. He had a ticket to ride....

  Feydor felt comforted now that he had taken the first step in his long journey, a journey laid out before him by the most supreme supernatural being of them all, the crea­ture of pure evil, Satan. And happily, Feydor's first contact with Dr. Coran had been precisely as Satan had planned; it had gone so flawlessly well.

  He knew, for he had stood in the crowd who watched outside room 1713. He'd seen the FBI woman's distress. He'd been questioned among others about what he might have seen or heard. He'd remained calm, assured, strong in the faith.

  Seven more such victims, and Coran would make the true ninth and final victim.

  Then Feydor's obligations, his pact with the Devil, would have been performed, finalized... .

  He would make a wish at the well, and all would, in the end, be well. Feydor would be well and whole again.

  Feydor handed the ticket over to the tour guide, who smiled widely and with a quick glance, said, “Welcome aboard, Chris. Why don't you check those bags with your driver, Dave.”

  Returning the woman's smile, Feydor did as instructed, handing the tall, lanky bus driver two bags that had be­longed to Chris Lorentian, while he held firmly to a small black briefcase that held his torch, wand, gasoline, mask, and tools. After checking Chris Dunlap's suitcases, Feydor climbed aboard, clutching his own quite crucial briefcase. He located a seat at the rear, and then Feydor leaned back into the cushions of the luxury tour bus, the one that Chris Lorentian would have been sitting on had she lived. He gave a momentary thought to who Chris Lorentian had been and why she'd been traveling under an assumed name. But it mattered little to him, so he dropped the thought for more important thoughts.