Robert Walker - Extreme Instinct

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.