Extreme Instinct

EPILOGUE

Later, at Old Faithful Lodge, the team recuperated, sitting out on the massive deck, drinks in hand, watching from comfortable knotty pine chairs the eruption of Old Faithful every half hour or so. Everyone was pleased that the Phantom had finally been put down, and a twenty-four-hour watch had been placed on Hellsmouth in the hope that something of Feydor Dorphmann might return to the cauldron's surface.

Jessica remained in Mammoth for now, her injuries being attended to by people who knew a great deal more about rehabilitating burned tissue than J. T. or Repasi or anyone else on the deck here. The bus that Feydor Dorphmann had been using for the greater part of his trek to his wished-for freedom from his demon had arrived, bus 67, carrying its cargo of sight-seeing passengers and Doris, the tour guide. J. T. recognized the VisionQuest bus as soon as it pulled up at midday. Had Dorphmann not been interfered with in Salt Lake City, if J. T. hadn't run down the bus and tour group that one Chris Dunlap had attached himself to, if Dorphmann hadn't had the run-in with Warren Bishop, the fiend might well have remained on this schedule, today's schedule. Feydor Dorphmann would be arriving this moment at Old Faithful Lodge, awaiting Jessica's arrival in a less agitated state of mind, far more prepared to face her and put an end to his fevered brain one way or another.

J. T. considered this possibility. What might Dorphmann have done differently had he the luxury of time? The night Dorphmann had arrived here, he believed he must kill two more sinners for his crusade or puzzle before facing down Jessica Coran. Dorphmann had hastily done just that, killing two more innocent bystanders, hurrying his showdown with Jessica.

Again J. T. wondered how differently things might have worked out if Feydor Dorphmann were just now getting down from bus 67, which J. T. stood staring down at now from the deck overlooking the front entry to Old Faithful Lodge. He imagined the monster among the meek travelers now searching impatiently for their bags.

J. T. found himself vacating his position above the bus to stand at the side of the bus tour director. She didn't know who or what he was until he flashed his FBI credentials and asked if he might have a word with her.

"I could use a drink," the heavily made-up lady with the name tag of Doris replied.

J. T. waltzed her into the lounge, which was, at this hour, nearly empty.

"How can I help you?"

"I thought you'd like to know that Dorphmann, the man you knew as Dunlap, was killed here by an FBI agent early this morning out at one of the hot springs."

Doris's mouth hung open for a moment, and after a deep breath, she said, "That's good news."

"You don't sound convinced of that."

She was understandably shaken. She told J. T., "I knew from day one he was a sad man. Lonely, I figured, like… well, like so many. But he wanned a bit the last few days he was with us. Ask anyone on the bus. I mean, he seemed such a… a nice man…"

"Really?"

"I mean after we got the ice to break with him. I mean he was always helping others on and off the bus with a smile, bought little presents in the gift shops not for himself or his family-guess he had no family-but for people on board the bus, strangers to him. Couldn't get him to join in on the sing-alongs, but Chris, Mr. Dunlap

… Dorphmann, always offered a kind word to me about my voice. Said I was a fine entertainer, that I could play Caesar's Palace in Vegas if given a chance."

"I see."

"I just can't believe it-that he'd kill anyone, and in so brutal a fashion as they say. Are you writing a book, too?" she asked.

"Ma'am?"

"In Jackson Hole I met another medical man, an M.E. like yourself. Said he was writing a book in which this case would figure prominently."

"Oh, yeah… That'd be Dr. Repasi."

"Yes, that's him. So, are you?"

"Writing a book on the case? No, not me."

J. T. thanked the woman, paid for their drinks, and said good-bye. He momentarily wondered how Karl Repasi intended to portray him in the book, if he'd be mentioned at all; then he wondered how Karl meant to portray Jessica, and he wondered if anything remained of the teeth in libel laws. Then he promptly forgot about Repasi and his damned book.

Several days had passed and Jessica had returned to the lodge, where she was the guest of the FBI. Santiva had told Jessica to take off as many days as she felt necessary, while he, J. T., Gallagher, Repasi, Rideout, and everyone else returned to their normal lives. Jessica was left to wonder what exactly "normal life" meant. She feared she would never know the feeling of a steady existence. She feared for her friend Warren Bishop, whose wounds had thankfully healed to the point where he was talking of leaving the hospital in Salt Lake City but the moment he did so, the FBI brass wanted to see him. He was up on charges of selling his position and influence, his connection with Frank Lorentian in this affair now public information. She worried for Warren, knowing that if he had any future with the bureau at all, it would be a dim one, three steps back.

At the hospital in Mammoth Springs, Jessica had received telegrams, flowers, and cards from well-wishers, friends, relatives, colleagues, and strangers. With hands heavily bandaged, she had a nurse open them all for her. One enormous flower arrangement had been waiting for her in her room, brought in moments before she'd come up from the ER. The arrangement's size and beauty, twenty-four mixed-colored roses, had her believing that it must be from James. A nurse read the card to her, saying, '' 'Thank you for sending that murdering pervert straight to Hell.' Signed 'Frank.' And there's a.. . a sizable check made out to you, Dr. Coran."

"Check? Let me see that." She looked at the amount. It was a stunning one-hundred-thousand-dollar check. She hoped that Frank Lorentian had finally found some closure in the horrid death of his daughter. Obviously, his answer to everything in life was wrapped in green. In the meantime, he had bought and paid for one FBI agent who'd subcontracted out to a once-reputable medical examiner already. And Karl Repasi planned an early retirement on royalties from a book that promised the unvarnished truth in the Phantom case. Enough was enough, Jessica concluded, and asked the nurse, ' 'Would you please give these flowers out among all the other nurses on the floor? And make arrangements for me to see whoever's in charge of accepting donations for your burn center? I'll be wanting to make a sizable donation."

That'd been a week before, and now Jessica was back on her feet, so to speak, with the help of a pair of crutches she hated. Jessica now hobbled from the lodge on crutches she was tiring of. She breathed in the fresh air of this morning, the sun bright in a cartoon-blue sky set off by milk-white clouds whipped up only in Wyoming. It took her considerably more time to get out to the hot pools on crutches than the last time she'd been here, but she made her way out to Hellsmouth, and now she stood over the bubbling repository and stared down at the spot where she and Dorphmann had combated for life. Nothing, not so much as a finger bone belonging to Dorphmann had been given up by the monster hot pool. The hot-pool watch for signs of Dorphmann's remains had eased off somewhat by now, most rangers and staffers of the opinion that Hells-mouth wasn't in the mood to return any fragment of its catch.

Clouds of sulfur, white and shapeless, rose up to greet Jessica, taunting her with their silent, unending parade from out of the depths of this place. She agreed with the rangers: Nothing of Feydor Dorphmann would ever be found here, and what little of him that might be coughed up would quickly be covered over by layers of silicified mud and rock, in which case the only way to recover his skull or teeth or bones would be to launch a bizarre archaeological dig here. Not likely, she conceded. Not at the expense of time and money and energy required to cover the entire lip of the searing hot pool that stretched away from her in an irregular circle with roughly a hundred-yard diameter.

Alone now for the first time since Feydor Dorphmann had attempted to drag her into the Inferno with him, Jessica stared deep and long into the blistering, watery abyss that had claimed Dorphmann. With the sun at her back, Jessica's shadow rippling atop the pool, this place didn't look as frightening and fearful as it had in the dark. She could see the pretty blue eye of the burning cauldron; she could see into the winding depths of the pool, the epicenter that appeared to reach down into Dante's Inferno, to the River Styx, the City of Dis, where suicides wandered the Forest of the Dead. She imagined the hot spring as the liquid eye of Satan himself, ever glancing upward into the world of man, ever anxious to make of man a monster after his own failed angel's heart. She saw the allure of the pool here beneath the sun, God's eye.

Somehow no one else, no matter how close, not J. T., not Eriq, not even Jim Parry would ever completely understand what had happened here between her and this man she had never known before his first contact with her. The others did, however, understand her need to be alone for a while, that she needed time and space and aloneness, something only mystics, seers, and old wise men in Hawaii and a few other places on the globe understood. Still, J. T. and the others, and even James, who'd called on hearing of her hospital stay, understood and respected her privacy.

She needed peace. She needed to sort out things.

She needed to face her own devils and hopefully come away a better, more enabled person and not the shattered creature that Feydor Dorphmann had become.

She leaned a little toward the pool and spit into it. "Damn you!" she shouted into the pool. "Damn you, Dorphmann, and all your kind!"

A large, gaseous bubble arose in response, sending a flume of sulfuric acid skyward and near Jessica's face.

"Tit for tat, heh?" she asked the natural formation, which seemed to mock her.

Overhead she heard the wild, free cry of an eagle, and she looked upward to see it disappear into the sun. Still leaning on her crutches, she felt one of them give way as it slid off the boardwalk, almost sending her over the side. She regained her balance, gasping and kneeling before the fiery pool.

She felt weak, helpless before the enormity of the evil she felt dwelling here, spouting its venom into the atmosphere. She had only destroyed a man who'd been touched by this evil via birth, the brain, the DNA perhaps. She hadn't begun to destroy the evil itself. She knew it would return with a vengeance, a vengeance directed at her, again and again.

"Pardon me, miss," came a voice to her left, "but suicide is no answer to anything."

She'd gone to her knees, attempting to retrieve the lost crutch. She looked up at an elderly man in jogging fatigues offering her a hand.

"No, you misunderstand," she told him. "I… I just dropped my crutch." Her hands, wrists, and feet had healed well, as she'd been told by the Mammoth doctors, but the bandages made her look like the leftover result of a previous suicide attempt. It was not surprising that the old man thought so, too.

"Of course," the man replied, "how clumsy of me to suggest-"

"Could you reach my crutch?"

The man obliged, actually stepping off the boardwalk to retrieve the crutch. "Be careful," she pleaded.

"There's something odd here," he said.

"What's that?"

"Something down here, below the walkway."

Jessica leaned in and stared below the walk to see a discarded black case, Dorphmann's case, the case he'd been carrying that night. Why had no one else found it?

"Can you reach it?" Jessica asked the stranger.

He used the crutch to lift the case handle and inch it from below the walk, under which all manner of strange green growth flourished atop the lunarlike surface of the silicified earth here. In a moment, both crutch and briefcase clattered noisily onto the boardwalk. "What's in it?" asked the curious jogger now.

Jessica itched to open the case. It had to be Dorphmann's legacy. Who else might have left it at this exact spot?

''Quickly, open it,'' said the stranger as he climbed back onto the boardwalk.

Her fingers held over the clasps. Maybe there is a reason why I'm here, she thought, conversing with herself. Why the killer brought me to this place, and perhaps I just found it.

"Open it up!" insisted the man, a gleaming curiosity filling his green eyes, his white beard showing his agitation as it bobbed.

Dorphmann was no fool. He had led her from the start, as if she had a ring in her nose and he a rope. If he put the case here for her to discover after his death…

The old man grabbed the case, saying, "It's mine. I found it. Whatever's inside belongs to me."

"Damn it, mister, it's evidence in a crime that occurred here. I'll have to confiscate the case, sir. And I don't want it opened until it can be checked out by a bomb squad."

"Bomb squad, fiddle-faddle. That's ridiculous. A crime scene, out here?'' He threw out his arms, one with the case dangling from it, to indicate where they were, and he laughed.

"Careful with that thing, please! I'm the FBI woman who stopped Feydor Dorphmann at this very spot. Surely you've heard the story if you're staying at the lodge?"

"No, I've heard no such thing." He was clutching the case close to him now. His eyes and his body language told her that he didn't believe a word she'd said. He began examining the case, ignoring her. She'd come out in a pullover and jeans, and she'd left her gun and credentials in her room.

"Be careful with that thing. It's full of explosive materials. Butane, gasoline, who knows what else? Dorphmann may've rigged it to go off in the event-"

But the man had begun to step away from her, backing off, and Jessica had grabbed up her two crutches, trying to keep pace, imploring him the whole time when he cut her off.

"If you're FBI, I'm the King of Wales."

"But I am!"

"Where's your badge, then? Your gun? Show me some proof."

"I'm on vacation. I left all that in my room, but, but-"

He turned and jogged off with the case, going toward the lodge. Jessica futilely tried to keep pace. She saw him disappear into a sulfur cloud and turn a corner along the boardwalk ahead.

"Please!" she shouted when suddenly she heard and saw evidence of a fireball explosion ahead of her. The old man now came running mindlessly, wildly back at her, engulfed in flames, his hands outstretched, his head and entire body captured in its own holocaust, his screams like those of Dorphmann before him. Jessica realized that his cotton jogging suit continued to fuel the blaze that the briefcase-triggered bomb had begun. She saw that his left hand was completely gone, his right dangling by a thread of tissue.

A few feet before her now, Jessica attempted to tackle him, bring him down, and do what she could to smother the flames, knowing she had little hope of doing so. She could easily find her own clothing on fire. But just as she threw herself at the flaming figure, he went soaring off the boardwalk and into the spongy, moving earth alongside Hellsmouth pool.

Jessica knew that but for the grace of God, the writhing figure on the edge of the hot pool might well be her. Now the blazing, tortured man rolled into the now inviting, enticing pool in a vain attempt to end the pain of fire. Once more, she was witness to the searing, blistering tongue of Satan as it licked up the flaming figure of the man who'd only stopped in an attempt to help out Jessica Coran.

It was as if Satan, bent on destroying her, like a bad shot, managed to hit everyone around her instead.

The wails and flames and shouts brought other joggers and walkers along the boardwalk racing toward the scene as Jessica cautiously climbed down from the boardwalk, discarding one crutch, using the second as a futile lifeline to the stranger who'd first befriended her and then suspected her of lying. The man miraculously found the crutch and the strength to hold on by wrapping an arm through it, his hands being useless. By now, others along the boardwalk, alerted to the incident, were beside Jessica, and they helped heave the dying man crawling from the pit.

There was little left to save.

His feet slipped away from him like melted paint from a canvas, leaving only bone. Jessica knew that it was a matter of how long he'd suffer at this point. He had third-and fourth-degree burns over a hundred percent of his body, the jogging suit gone, the skin tattered, peeling away like soggy mattress pieces, sodden and useless.

All around her, Jessica heard park personnel and rangers yelling in a bucket-line fashion all the way back to the lodge that someone had fallen into Hellsmouth, that air transport to Mammoth or Bozeman was immediately needed.

A sudden last breath expired from the man in a cloud of heat, and then he, too, expired, a blessing, an end to what must be absolute hell, she thought.

Jessica now called up to the closest ranger and shouted, "Forget the rush. There's no hope for this man. He's gone. See if anyone recognizes his features, so we can identify him, notify any kin."

"That was a brave thing you did, Dr. Coran, pulling him back in like that," said one young ranger. "I never seen anything so gutsy before in my life."

Jessica was helped back to the walk, her crutches handed over to her, onlookers blocking her view of the steaming corpse, what remained of the old man who'd taken her place out there in Hellsmouth.

Now a kid ranger called for assistance over his handheld radio, telling headquarters, "We got another dead body out at Hellsmouth, and there's been some sort of explosion. Best get out here, sir." Through the confusion of noise, Jessica heard a young woman who worked at the lodge say that she thought the dead man was a Mr. Harmon, who'd only come in on a bus the day before.

Jessica found her feet, her bandaged wrists and ankles dirty and sodden now. She next struggled along the walkway with her crutches to the area where the flaming man had come from. She located bits and pieces of canister, briefcase, and flesh remaining in and around a bench where he'd obviously stopped to tear open the case. Debris littered the area on and off the walkway here where the man, consumed by his greed, had snatched open the case to reveal its contents, only to be met with a chemical bomb that spewed forth butane and gasoline and flame over him. Unfortunately, it was not over in an instant for the elderly gentleman.

Jessica would have to live with this ninth and final death in the Dorphmann case, just as she had to live with the deaths of eight others destroyed by Feydor Dorphmann's mania as prerequisites to her death. Even in death, Dorphmann had reached out a final time, only to miss her once again. Still, he had not failed to fill the ninth level in his personal inferno with the death trap he'd set for her.

All along the way, Dorphmann had known her steps, and so he still did. He'd somehow known, in the event of his death, that she'd return to this place; and he had somehow known she would discover his final calling card.

She cautioned herself, however, saying aloud, "I dropped my crutch, which led to the discovery of the case. Nothing supernatural in that." But why had she dropped her crutch over the side at exactly the spot where the killer had left the firebomb? Because that was the place I wanted to see again, she cautioned herself. That's all there is to it.

More rangers from the Lodge began arriving, some instantly recognizing her, some keeping their distance. She saw Sam Fronval, who'd made a remarkable recovery, rushing out to her, his arms outstretched to take her in.

Sam had returned to finish out his final tenure before retirement, and to turn over his headquarters to veteran ranger Charlie Venable, a man of Native American parentage whom Jessica remembered from her first visit to Yellowstone.

Venable stood alongside them where Sam held Jessica and her crutches in an enormous one-armed bear hug, his left arm and shoulder in a harness. Venable, his ranger hat covering his brow, looked squarely into Jessica's eyes and gave a little gasp, as if he saw something dark and sinister in her. Seeing her return his stare, Venable gathered in the scattered debris about them with equal awe. Then he looked beyond Jessica, as did Sam, to take in the body still lying on the crusted earth between Hellsmouth's bubbling waters and the boardwalk path, some twenty yards from where they now stood.

Out of breath, Jessica nonetheless found voice to say, ''Sam, we need to throw up a barricade around this debris and call in a bomb expert."

"What in God's name've you got yourself into now, Dr. Coran?" asked Charlie Venable with a little shake of the head.

''Moments ago, I was almost killed by a dead man, Mr. Venable, Sam. That's what's up. Buy me a cup of coffee at the lodge and I'll tell you all about it."

Fronval smiled and said, "Sounds like a plan. Take care of things here, Charlie, will you? Jessica and me, we have some catching up to do."

"Please wait for a bomb squad to get here," Jessica cautioned Venable. "I'd like to recover as much of the incendiary device as possible to reconstruct the attempt on my life from a dead man."

"Yes, ma'am, of course," replied Venable, a hearty-looking, weatherblown man whose wild shock of hair waved in the wind here. Jessica and Fronval, each with wounds given them by Feydor Dorphmann, walked into the mist and away to the lodge, Jessica's crutches tapping out an anthem.

Venable turned and stared at the debris, seeing parts of it off in the distance, far from the safety of the boardwalk. They also had the old man's body to recover. It seemed to Venable, as it did to the other rangers, that the solemnity and peace of the park had been destroyed since the moment of Coran's arrival here, and it appeared that loss would continue until she left for good. No one would be more pleased to see her leave than Venable, just as he'd be pleased to see the last of old Sam.

The park was entering a new era, and new leadership was required, so far as Venable was concerned. Sam knew his feelings on the matter. There was no hiding anything from a man like Fronval. For now Charlie would take Sam's orders to oversee the men and the mess left by Coran here, but soon Charlie would be overseeing his men and calling the shots.

Jessica wanted to cast aside her crutches, wanted to make her way back to the lodge on her own two feet, but she still couldn't bring her full weight down on the burned feet and ankles, still in cumbersome bandages. It wasn't the first time she'd been left scarred by a killer; she prayed it would be the last.

"You'll have to pardon my savages, Jessica," he told her, apologizing for the stares and the underlying fear his rangers displayed of her. "They don't know how to behave before a living legend."

Jessica laughed at this. ''Then Sam, how can they possibly ever behave properly around you?''

He laughed in return. "They don't! Let's go find that coffee, Jess. Then maybe you'll be up for a hunt?"

"On these crutches, sure!" she complained.

Sam laughed even harder and said, "You on crutches will do better than most men I know on two good legs."