Robert Walker - Extreme Instinct

Markie's father had to be held by others, restrained from jumping in after his daughter. Her mother fainted. Later, her father stated that no one present actually saw her fall or misstep; that she had been walking along behind them, skipping along on the boardwalk, when suddenly they heard a splash. They instantly turned, only to see other tourists helplessly staring and shouting down at someone who'd fallen into the hot spring, and next horror struck: It was little Markie.

Her body sank from sight. Eight pounds of bone, flesh, and clothing were recovered by park rangers the following day.

Jessica wondered again at Dorphmann's suggestion that she meet him at the Devil's Well. She calculated that he'd have been eleven years of age in 1979, and she wondered if he, too, as a child, had visited the Devil's Well, and if he had become captivated by it. She wondered if others, fascinated by the eyelid of Satan in this place, might not have wanted to see what would happen if they lifted a little girl over a rail and dropped her into such a pool of superheated water.

She wondered if a Feydor Dorphmann had been on hand that day in Yellowstone to push a foolish little girl from a guardrail that she'd climbed up onto to impress, surprise, or gain attention from her parents.

In any event, Yellowstone's geysers and hot springs remained from generation to generation beautiful and strange, and peripheral areas both awesome and ugly, such as the boiling pots and pits of white mud froth from which rose a sulfuric steam that covered onlookers. At dusk, all around Old Faithful Lodge, rising banshees of smoke rose and cantered off in the wind on all sides, creating the effect of an army of phantom souls released into the night. This from hundreds of hot springs and bubbling pools, some as searing as 280 degrees Fahrenheit, enough to strip an animal of its fur as well as its skin, should it fall in. The carcasses of buffalo, elk, deer, and other animals were routinely found in this obstacle course of superheated waters bubbling up from Earth's core. And many a person had foolishly lost his life to Yellowstone's unpredictable ways, so much so that a local historian who'd chronicled the foolhardy deaths in Yellowstone published a book under the title Death in Yellowstone. Sales of the book in the gift shops continued to be brisk each season.

Yellowstone, of course. It appeared the perfect place for Feydor Dorphmann to end his quest.

Jessica dared tell no one of her plan. The others would find out soon enough, as soon as they tired of Jackson Hole as a staging area to catch Dorphmann.

Still no word from Dorphmann came. The bastard, she thought, is going ahead as planned. This meant a likely death in Jackson Hole, another at Yellowstone, possibly two there.

She called the desk for a cab, picked up her waiting bag and professional bag, and was halfway out the door when the phone rang. She put down her things and moved toward the phone, taking it up on the third ring.

"Yes?" she asked.

"It's time for number six."

"Wait. Didn't you see the papers? You've already killed by fire two additional victims, Feydor. You don't need to do this."

"I can't take any chances," he replied. "Those others were flukes, mistakes, not planned by him and me. This way, I know for sure. Number six is number four: Avaricious amp; Prodigal. Understood, Doctor? Now, that, that is for sure," he finished, obviously removed a gag from his sixth victim, and with a whoosh of power, ignited the gasoline already poured over her or him. Jessica could not tell from the wailing, agonized screams whether it was a man or a woman.

"There's a fire, but I fooled you again. It's not in Jackson Hole, Doctor. Your pals won't be in the right place. Only you know where I am tonight, you alone."

She realized he could be anywhere between Salt Lake City and the great Yellowstone National Park, in any of hundreds of motels and hotels along Interstate 287, the main highway of 191, or back roads spreading fingerlike from these two roads, but she said, "All right, Feydor. I'll come alone to where you want me, to Yellowstone, but you've got to promise, no one else is killed. Understood? No one else between now and then."

He hung up, the fire engulfing everything around him, no doubt, but he'd heard her promise and her request. He had heard what he wanted to hear from her. She prayed he'd go for the bargain.

Jessica left the safety of her room for the waiting cab. She'd earlier arranged for a private helicopter to take her up to Yellowstone. It was nearing 6:00 p.m. Gallagher, Santiva, and the others in Jackson Hole would remain on a long vigil until they got word of the latest fire death, Satan, God, and Feydor alone knew where.

"Salt Lake Regional Airport," she told the cabbie, who muttered something about the nice evening as his tires screeched from the curb.

Eriq Santiva and Neil Gallagher and the others now had every hotel in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, a small but bustling commercialized village, under watch. Eriq had taken time to oversee Gallagher's setup, and after approving of what the Salt Lake City bureau head had done, he began to question Jessica Coran's delay in getting to Jackson Hole.

He got on the phone to the hospital in Salt Lake City, and after several frustrating channels, John Thorpe was reached. Thorpe had earlier reached Eriq on the airplane phone, telling him of the planted newspaper coverage and the fact that all three men who'd been injured in Salt Lake City were in fact still very much alive.

Now Eriq asked, "Where's Dr. Coran at this moment?"

"She's not there in Wyoming? With you, sir?"

"No, she is not. When did she leave?"

"Well, she was planning on leaving mid- to late afternoon, but she was also supposed to contact me before she left. I'd planned, hoped to travel with her to Jackson Hole."

"I'm telling you, she is not here. She's made no contact with us here."

"I'll try to get her at the hotel. She may've overslept. She'd been going all night, sir."

"Do that, and get back to me! Meanwhile, how's Bishop doing? The other two agents?''

J. T. instantly hedged. He didn't like lying to his boss, but Jessica had asked him not to reveal the Lorentian connection to Bishop this way, over the phone. ''All of the men are out of serious danger now, and Bishop is showing good signs of recovery, but all are being kept heavily sedated, sir-for the pain, you see."

"Understood."

J. T. hung up and tried to hail Jessica at the Little America Hotel and Towers, but he was told by the desk that she wasn't answering her phone. A stab of fear split his heart. What was she up to? he wondered, feared. Then he made out someone talking in the background there at the desk, telling the fellow on the phone that Dr. Coran had checked out and had taken a cab to the airport.

"When? When?" J. T. pressed the man when he came back on with this information. "When did she leave?"

"Around six, sir, six this evening."

"Oh, all right… thanks." J. T. hung up and immediately got back to Chief Director Santiva.

"She's on her way, then. Good."

"I believe so, sir, yes. I'll call the airport to confirm."

"Do that."

Again they hung up, but now J. T. wondered what was going on with Jessica. Why hadn't she called him to tell him her plans, to include him on the trip northward? Something was wrong. He felt it in the bone marrow. A quick call to Salt Lake International revealed nothing save the fact she hadn't flown out of there either on a private or a commercial plane. He asked at the hospital about any small airports in the area, and he was given several names, but the one that everyone agreed on as the best was Salt Lake Regional. A call there proved frustrating. A helicopter had taken off at six thirty-five, but as was usual with helicopter charters, no flight plan had been left with the tower. It was assumed to be a sight-seeing run, but the helicopter in question hadn't returned.