Extreme Instinct

ELEVEN

Feydor had settled in at Ruby's Inn, a rustic roadside inn on Highway 63 in Bryce, Utah, within shouting distance of the fantasyland of rock formations created by nature that so dazzled hundreds of thousands of tourists each year. It was a place of sheer beauty, but Feydor had seen enough of rock formations from the bus window to last him a lifetime.

Whenever they got off the bus after the day's journey, everyone's bags were placed before the door at the hotel or motel they stopped at, and a key was pushed into each party's hands. The bus tour company made life easy for its passengers, and for Chris Dunlap in particular.

Inside his room now, alone, alongside a plethora of Polaroid photographs of burning bodies, Feydor stretched out his own body serpentine fashion, the mattress and his skin feeling fiery hot. But it was a good heat he now felt: neither rash nor burn. It was no longer the dreaded and hated redness Satan used to punish him with. No, this was more a warm glow, like the way other people described themselves feeling after what they termed "normal" sex, something Feydor had no firsthand knowledge of.

Still, for the first time in his life, Feydor Dorphmann felt whole and in control; there came a sense of accomplishment with performing the ritual that Satan had given him to do, but there also came a sense of purpose and power. He hadn't expected so much personal satisfaction. In fact, he hadn't expected any satisfaction to come of the gruesome work he had done, but in the doing he had discovered himself.

In fact, he had discovered some semblance of understanding that his purpose-guided as it was by Satan-must in fact be, dare he think it even, God's directive. For nothing Satan ever did came of his own volition, but as a scheme set into motion by God Himself, or so many Christian religious leaders professed.

Inscrutable as God himself, so must be God's plan to appease Satan, or to perhaps trip the Old Serpent up on some transcendent level mankind could never hope to glimpse, much less understand. Feydor knew himself to be in the presence of cosmic forces beyond himself; he felt privileged in glimpsing-although "glimpsing" was hardly the word-glimpsing the small truth he had glimpsed. He struggled for a better word than "glimpsed," angry at his limited thought patterns, the linearity and limited boundaries of the mind. A peek, an impression, a quick and momentary view beyond which his brain would fry. A subliminal image of his Satan, a force to be reckoned with, a force that, of course, must sense the whole as well as the parts of all existence, and this intense power must know that while Dorphmann was merely a pawn in this empyrean game of cat and mouse, that God would, in the end, redeem Feydor's soul because, after all, he was as much God's pawn as the Devil's.

And so, the grand and vast plan must go forward now of its own volition…

Yet Feydor, on some primal level he did not himself understand, felt a need to rekindle memories of his last three kills, one of which neither Jessica Coran, nor any of the other authorities, had as yet discovered.

His limbs felt strong and powerful for the first time in his life. Propped up now on one elbow, Feydor examined himself and the Polaroid photographs, one after the other. He'd earlier scattered what he called his "most memorable moments" about the bed, peeled his clothes off, and lay down nude beside the still memories. And from across the room he could see himself reflected in the mirror.

The others on the national parks tour bus with him had all been taken on a side tour, bused out to a copper mine somewhere nearby. In the relative peace here at the hotel, he found silence and solace, and he could here give full vent to his sexual excitement over the memories he had collected.

He clutched one of the photos and brought it to his chest, rubbing it into his nipples and down to his flat stomach. Each photo was taken at the moment the crackling fire opened up the bodies like melons.

God would forgive him his small and petty pleasures; Satan had directed him, and God had allowed it all. He was, after all, only human…

So he would continue to indulge and enjoy himself now as he had then, on seeing them die amid licking, stroking flames. He hadn't known it would be so potent a sexual high that he achieved when the flames' tongues licked a victim's fat away. It recalled his excitement as a child when he had burned small things and rubbed their ashes against his body. It recalled a certain moment in the dim past when he'd killed that little girl, had watched her being swallowed up in the jaws of a searing fire, in the very mouth of Satan.

He had forgotten the thrill of it all, had denied his true nature. Now he knew that in order to feel-to feel anything-for him, there was no other way. At least not until his pact with the Devil was a fait accompli.

He stared into the next photo he grabbed up, imaginatively climbing into it to become the burning victim, his body catching the wavelike fire. The photos helped him to return to the moment and excite himself anew.

He brought the picture down to his crotch, rubbed it along his inner thigh with the other one in his other hand pressed against his penis. Semen stained the photos with his release, and seeing it come forth, he saw, felt, heard, smelled, and tasted it as an epiphany of memory, and a monumental memory came like a horseman from his unconscious mind.

He had once seen with his amazed little boy's eyes the evidence of Satan's own semen where it bubbled up from Hell, had seen it and had wanted to leap into it, but he had forced the event into a corner of the deepest cave within him. And so it felt natural, this sexual explosion he felt with each burning body. It was as natural as nature itself, he believed.

And so it was natural for Satan to have selected him for the work at hand.

Feydor groaned at the overwhelming sexual release he now felt, and he rolled over onto the other photos, his brain replaying the actual events in his mind so vividly that he was once again there in the room with the flaming corpse, first this one and then that and then the other, again and again, over and over, hearing the tormented cries, which only further excited his genitals.

Still, Dr. Stuart Wetherbine had somehow managed to keep a foothold somewhere in the back of Feydor's brain, and he now loudly condemned Feydor's puerile connection with Satan's semen, with fire and flaming corpses. Wetherbine's was the one small voice remaining in his brain that told Feydor he was simply rationalizing away his conduct, but a larger part of his brain said otherwise, a larger part brought to the argument the actual fact that he-Feydor Dorphmann-had, of all the billions on the planet, been selected, that he had been contacted by demonic powers due to his twisted birth needs, perhaps due to his DNA, his genetic makeup.

He'd spent years in self-analysis and had created a complete picture of his own needs, but for years after coming to the conclusion that only through burning himself with matches, cigarettes, and candles could he ever achieve any sexual satisfaction, only then could he control the urges. And he had successfully done so for most of his adult life, putting away "childish" things. However, the dike broke when Satan came into the picture, telling him to open himself up to Satan, to answer his own birth needs, to accept the seed placed in him at birth.

And so he had, and so others must burn so that he might rejoice. "Rejoice, ye sinners!" he said and laughed. "Rejoice, and behold the righteousness of evil."

Sated for the moment, he rolled over on his back, Polaroids sticking with semen to his body. He now stared up at the ceiling when Satan whispered anew in his ear, asking, "Who's next? Number four is waiting. "

Feydor contemplated number four. He didn't think of them as kills, as people being burned alive; he thought of them as gifts given over to him by Satan. Satan arranged for the firewood, Feydor the fire. And God… God allowed it all. God allowed Satan-and Feydor by extension-his way.

Again he told himself, speaking to the room and to Satan, "I have done your bidding in good faith. I have accomplished far more than I ever realized possible in so short a time and in good fashion; I am fully one third of the way to your goal of nine victims."

"It's… not… enough," Satan disagreed, his voice spilling over with threat.

It's never fucking enough with you, Feydor thought but said, "Each victim has been sacrificed to you, each has become a prize for you, my demon god, and soon you will have your final prize: Jessica Coran. What more can I do? It can't be rushed."

We're traveling by bus, for God's sake, Feydor recklessly thought.

"I heard that," Satan replied with a hint of mirth, leaving Feydor to wonder if he had heard all of his recent thoughts.

"Buses are slow. The killing will take time."

''Don't question providence.''

"I wouldn't think of it." Satan liked calling his wisdom and his kingdom providence so as to mock God.

"You already have questioned my wisdom."

And Feydor had. His demon director had chosen an unusual mode of transportation, and it was on Chris Lorentian's ticket. The demon god, quite taken with serendipitous fate, had said, "What better way than this to lure Coran across state lines and the country, away from the safety of large cities and toward the gateway into Hell itself?"

"Where is this place?" he'd asked.

"You have stood at this destination before, and you once almost succumbed to the alluring beauty of a death in the place where you are now leading Coran in pursuit of you.

Feydor vaguely recalled Satan's semen, a bubbling white mud pissing upward from out of the earth in some place he'd been as a child, some sort of tar pit of superheated, bubbling mud spurting up from the ground. This strange place must be one of the many destinations on the national parks tour. Feydor grabbed for the itinerary given him on the bus the day he and Satan had together left Vegas. He scanned each destination until his eyes fell on Yellowstone National Park. He had been there once, years and years before, a lifetime before, as a child. He'd stood before the steaming geysers, hundreds of them it seemed, with their steam and sulfur clouds creating huge, ghostly veils, like the astral wanderings of the dead, over the land. He'd become mesmerized, paralyzed even by the sight of the cauldrons of boiling, superheated water belching up from the center of the earth. He'd seen the bubbling, scalding mud pots that created lavalike sculptures. He had taken steps toward the 280-degree water, preparing to leap into Satan's saucepan when his father had suddenly grabbed him and pulled him away, scolding him and saving him from the scalding waters while loudly detesting his stupidity and idiotic expression.

A day later, while again in the park where death met life, he'd found a substitute for himself, and he had watched while his victim, the one he'd pushed into the scalding water of a geyser, literally boiled to death. It had been exquisite to watch, but he'd put the image from his mind now for years. Guilt and remorse had been so constant afterward that he finally erased all memory of the moment until now. Little wonder Satan had found him again.

"I promise you your freedom from me and all the demons that have ever controlled you in this life, if you comply now with my wishes," Satan sharply again reminded Feydor.

But Dr. Wetherbine's image pushed its way into his brain, and he heard Wetherbine's complaint, also loud and clear: "Don't go there, Feydor. It's a trick, all a trick. Satan cannot be trusted. He never could be trusted. Listen to me, son!"

"Shut up!" cried Satan, his voice filling the motel room, making passersby start, turn, and stare at Feydor's door, but now Feydor came awake, silencing the voices in his head.

Feydor now fully and clearly recalled every detail of the dying little girl he'd killed when he was himself a child. He wanted now, more than ever, to go in search of number four, to push on to numbers five, six, seven, and eight, and to finally kill number nine. He wanted to end his horrid suffering to become like other human beings, to be human, and to be free to conduct his life as he saw fit, rather than as Satan or God or Wetherbine or any-fucking-anybody-or-anything-else-in-the-fucking-universe saw fit. ..

The Evil One, in a torrent of raging and unfeeling words, shouted down Feydor's concerns, his own dark concerns flooding over Feydor with his insistent scream: "SO WHERE'S NUMBER FOUR-FOUR-FOUR-FOUR COMING FROM FEYDOR?"

In the lounge at Wahweap Lodge, overlooking the green and cerulean blue waters of Lake Powell, boat lights winking up at them, J. T. bought himself and Jessica a round of drinks. Jessica's limit these days was one whiskey sour. She sipped slowly at it, stretching out her pleasure and relaxation, giving thought to Athens and the Parthenon, where she and James Parry had enjoyed the previous summer. In her head, she could hear the traditional Greek music and see the folk dancing at the taverna where she and James had dined one evening. They had taken day trips to Corinth and Mycenae, where they saw the Lion's Gate, the tombs of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra.

Later they'd traveled by boat to Crete, where they found King Minos's palace at Knossos and Heraklion, now a modern city but once the center of Minoan civilization, which at one time "ruled"-as youngsters of today put it-the cultural world. It had all been so wonderful, magical, and now she felt a million light-years away from the emotions she'd felt on that day. She questioned why she was here in Page, Arizona's Glen Canyon, chasing a madman. She questioned her own steps, the path that had separated her from Jim so many months before. She doubted that her life would ever be one of a settled nature, the hub of which would be home, family, children, husband, and wife. She doubted that she'd ever be truly happy, that happiness was a commodity meant for others, that this elusive thing called joy, graceful happiness, would always elude her grasp, due in great part to the decisions she'd made early in life, due to the forces that molded her, and due primarily to her decision to become a death investigator. Like her father before her, she had chosen a career that offered little opportunity for anything else, and the fact she was a woman only added to the dilemma. Her father's life and career were held together by invisible supports and unheralded glue in the person of Jessica's patient, caring mother, a woman who could wake him with lovemaking, create a breakfast, and have the dishes put away before he left the house for work. She would never have such support, not from Jim Parry… not from any man.

Jessica finished her drink on this somber thought. J. T. meanwhile kept one eye on a blond bartender and another on a notepad and pencil he fiddled with. He was still playing with the killer's words over and over, jotting them on the notepad he'd snatched from his coat pocket.

"What're you doing, J. T.?" she asked, curious about his doodling. ''You know an expert graphologist can tell a lot from your doodles." She sipped again at her drink.

"Look at this." His forehead scrunched in consternation, Thorpe displayed the two recovered messages from the killer thus far as they appeared one atop the other. They read:

#1 is #9-Traitors

#3 is #7-Violents

"It's still meaningless gibberish," Jessica complained, tossing her hair back. "God, it's been a long day. My back is killing-''

"Look closer, Jess."

She wanted to recall more of Greece, less of the present. "I'm really not in any mood for the killer's games, J. T. Truth be told, I'm no more in the mood for your puzzles at the moment, either."

"I tell you, the killer's trying to tell us something."

"Of that I have no doubt, but-"

"Don't you see? Suppose there are two numbers missing," he suggested.

"Two missing numbers?"

"If there's a message missing from this list, what would those numbers be?"

Jessica frowned, gave up on her memories of a faraway land, and stared again at the puzzle of words and numbers.

J. T. unnecessarily filled in the blanks, saying, ''The number two and the number eight, if we follow the syllogistic wisdom-logic, if you will-"

"Okay, so two and eight," she replied, shrugging. "It still doesn't help us in the least."

J. T. jotted down the missing numbers between the two lines left by the killer. Then he pushed the notepad back under her gaze, a smug look coming across his face, his eyes darting again to the cute waitress who paraded by. Finally he said, ' 'This makes the configuration of numbers all the more.. . complete."

Jessica looked once more at J. T.'s notepad. Now it read:

#1 is #9-Traitors

#2 is #8-?

#3 is #7-Violents

"So, we're missing a word," she said.

"I know that, Jess." He frowned. "Still, I already took the liberty to add the line 'number two is number eight' in my message to the FBI's mailing list of academicians and mental institutions and professionals who might be helpful in deciphering the killer's peculiar code."

"Can't hurt," she assured him, taking another sip of her drink. Silently, Jessica turned the small list of words and numbers over in her head several times. "It's Greek to me," she finally said with a half smile he did not understand.

"It's not Greek to everyone. Somebody out there knows what this means."

"He may be elusive, he may enjoy playing cute, but he's misspelled 'violence,' " Jessica replied, not knowing what else she might say to J. T.'s combinations with the numbers and ambiguous, anomalous, paradoxical, quizzical, puzzling, enigmatic, obscure, problematic, and terse messages left them by the Phantom for the sole purpose of taunting them or her? She wondered if they were specific taunts to her alone. But suddenly, Jessica now realized what J. T. was attempting to convey to her, that Martin was not victim number two of the Phantom, but number three, and that somewhere victim number two awaited their discovery.

The thought had been suggested by McEvetty and Kaminsky, but she had paid little heed to the notion there might be a third victim, since there had been only two phone calls. Then again, she'd shunned her telephone since the calls had begun. She well might have missed his call surrounding the killing of another victim labeled "#2 is #8."

She'd have to call Bishop.

"He may've spelled it with the T at the end of violence to denote people," suggested J. T., breaking into her thoughts, repeating himself. ''You know, that people could be termed the violent ones, hence violents, that people in general are violent, hence violents, rather than violence."

"So he's creating new words? Sorry, but I'm in no mood for Scrabble or lexicography. What we really need to do is to follow up on the all-points bulletin for areas between here and Vegas on any suspicious fire-related deaths," she replied. "Especially anything smacking of our guy. A message on the mirror would be a clear indication that it's our guy."

"I already have, and I've already heard back."

"You're holding out on me? From whom have you heard? Where?"

"Bishop's people in Vegas. They got another call from the killer, Jess, there at the Vegas Hilton, your room."

"My God, why didn't anyone contact me?"

"The killer's call came only today and couldn't be traced. He didn't stay on the line long enough. They tried to get word to you, but you and I haven't exactly been standing still."

"So you've been holding out on me," she repeated. "Why?"

He shrugged. "After seeing you, I thought you could use a break, so I kept silent until now."

"So, what's the bad news?"

''Grand Canyon, one of the lodges we likely flew over this morning. A place called the El Tovar Hotel, Yavapai East, right on the rim of the canyon. A place called Grand Canyon Village."

"What's been done there?"

"I'm afraid the body's already been removed, and-"

"Damn it. Damn it to hell."

"Nobody's fault, Jess. They, the locals, believed it an accidental fire, or a possible suicide. Clean-up of the room was begun. Evidence lost, but if you'd like to see it, we can double back. We have it secured now. A little late, but-"

"Jesus Christ, they've disturbed everything…"

"-better late than never."

"How damned stupid are these backwoods people?" she exploded, her last nerve frayed, causing people at other tables to stare. "Who the hell's responsible for-"

"No one there knew, Jess. How could they?"

"He called it in, though? The killer?"

"That's my information, yes. But there was a delay. He only telephoned it in today."

"Today?"

"Right, he did, early this morning, about the time we arrived at the autopsy for Martin, around eight forty-five, nine, in there. That's what they're saying."

What caused the change? I wonder. Who are they? Bishop's people, Harry Furth?"

"It was Bishop himself I heard from, Western Union. Apparently they've had trouble reaching us. I think he thinks we're at this Grand Canyon Village on the South Rim by now."

Jessica felt somewhat relieved in that she hadn't had to hear-audibly live-the death of this third victim, at a remote hotel on the rim of the Grand Canyon. "So… was there a message on the mirror?" she asked, finishing her drink in a single gulp now.

J. T. gritted his teeth before replying, "Wiped clean by someone at the scene, but someone remembers numbers and the single word 'Fraud,' somebody else is saying 'Malice.' But the local guys chalked it up to the victim's own sorta suicide note, you see."

"How long have you known about this?"

"I didn't learn any of this before sending out our second crime-scene photos and message to Quantico when I asked it be duplicated and forwarded on to our contacts across the country. When I got back to the hotel, someone handed me the message at the desk. Did you check your messages?''

"No, no, I haven't."

"But at the time I got back to Santiva, my report to him went out before I learned of this news, so, well-"

"And so what do we know, J. T.? Damn little."

"Do you want to get over to the canyon? It's a few hours' drive, forty minutes or less by chopper."

"Hand me that map of the area you've been going over," she asked.

J. T. produced the tourist map he'd picked up at the hotel desk, opened it, and spread it before her, its colorful backdrop showing all the national parks and must-see points in Arizona and Utah.

"Bastard's leaving a hell of a winding trail, don't you think?" she asked, taking J. T.'s pen and marking each of the three locations on the map where murder by fire had occurred, asking J. T. to help locate the South Rim and Grand Canyon Village for her. Together, they stared at the zigzag trail of bodies left in the killer's wake.

"Tomorrow morning, by air," she told Thorpe. "Right now, I'm exhausted. Can hardly see straight." Still, she asked, "What do we know of the victim?"

"White female, late thirties. Nothing like Chris Lorentian or Martin, I'm afraid."

"Doing a victim profile on this one appears hopeless."

"The victims are as different as night and day."

"Tell me this: Was the woman vacationing at the lodge? I suppose so. Why else be there?''

J. T. sipped his drink and shook his head. ''Fact is, she was employed at the lodge, a waitress. Lived in the unit for free during peak seasons."

"Damn, but there's precious little to tie the victims to one another."

"The woman led a quiet life, only vice a pack-a-day smoking habit."

"And the locals chalked the fire up to her habit, too?"

J. T. shrugged. "Fire guys up that way didn't take as much care, not suspecting murder… Something about their one good investigator off to a confab someplace at the time, and they claim to have lost one of their last two fire-sniffing dogs to the canyon and the other to government cutbacks. The usual excuses for screwing up."

"Guess we can thank Newt and the new American attitude toward responsible behavior for that."

"Tell you what, Jess, let's order dinner on that boat they have cruising the lake, have a peaceful evening. Get all this off our minds for a while."

"You're on," she instantly agreed. "It's a date."

Dinner served on the lodge paddle wheeler, which went in a large circle around Lake Powell, was a delight, and with their steak and seafood dinners, they watched the sun go down in the western sky. Afterward they walked lazily back up to the lodge from the marina along a winding wharf, Jessica mentally counting the stars in the black firmament overhead.

"You look much better, Jess. Relaxed! I know I am," J. T. remarked, squeezing her hand.

"Thanks, yeah, much better. Nothing like a little R and R for the soul. Now for some sleep," Jessica agreed.

They weaved their way through a clutch of revelers reluctant to part for anyone, all crowded in the small lobby where the hotel clerk, seeing her, waved Jessica over. "You have a package that arrived earlier. I tried to locate you, but you were out."

It looked to be "business as usual" in the lodge, as if the fire of this morning had never occurred here.

"Thank you," she replied to the clerk, taking hold of the package rushed to her from Santiva in Quantico. A second sealed envelope, this one Western Union from Warren Bishop, was also handed her.

Soon she and J. T. located Jessica's room, where she said good night, but at the last J. T. voiced his concern for her. "I heard that you and Repasi had something of a showdown in the autopsy room. Told ya the man's an odd duck, a weird act."

"Did you hear that he accused me of being in collusion with the killer, that this was all prearranged as some sort of publicity stunt? That I'm rabid for tabloid press coverage and will do anything to get it? Is that crazy or what?"

"Just crazy enough to show up in the tabloids, Jess," he joked, poking her with a relaxed fist to her shoulder.

"I can't figure his game," she admitted, leaning against her doorjamb.

"Easy," he replied. "It's Karl Repasi who wants to be in the tabloids. Remember, he's always writing a book, and publicity-any publicity, good, bad, or indifferent-sells books."

"I suppose you're right. I just couldn't believe his gall, the way he attacked me. Really, John, have I become that much the.. . the celebrity that it's gotten in the way of my being capable of doing my job?"

"That's nonsense, Jess."

"Say it like you mean it, John."

"I do mean it!"

"Once more with conviction!" Now she teased him.

"I'm too exhausted to muster conviction for much, sorry, the day your professional ability is compromised by anything-anything whatsoever-Jess… well, I know you well enough, Dr. Coran, that that's the day you step away from this work."

She dropped her sleepy-eyed gaze, finished with having put J. T. on the spot, through with scrutinizing his reaction down to the least tick. "Thanks, J. T. You're a friend, a true friend. I have very few of you left, you know."

"Nonsense." J. T. pointed to the mail in her hands. "You're not going over that stuff tonight, are you? You're far too exhausted."

"No, nothing more tonight," she promised. "And yes, I am tired."

''How are you really doing, Jess? I mean, well, I know this maniac's got to you."

"I'm holding up," she assured him, thinking, but barely…

J. T. gritted his teeth and said, "And Karl Repasi's only making it more difficult for you."

"Leave Repasi to me, okay. I don't want to hear that you two've gotten into a fistfight behind the barn over my honor, J. T. Is that clear?"

"All clear, Doctor… All clear."

"I know it sounds crazy, J. T., but you know what I fear the most tonight?''

"Your telephone, I would imagine."

She nodded. "Exactly. Crazy, isn't it? I mean, he can't possibly know I'm staying here tonight, yet."

"If it bothers you, unplug the damned thing."

"Unplug the phone? If I do that, I cut myself off from Quantico, from Bishop, everyone. No, I can't do that."

"Why the hell not?"

"It's not done in our profession."

"It's time you started thinking of yourself, Jess, and to hell with our profession."

She smiled back at J. T., saying, "Maybe you're right. Maybe I'll do just that, and thanks, John."

"What for?"

"For being a friend."