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.
Satan was wise. Satan said he would provide, and he had. He provided Feydor with the perfect escape route and in plain view. There must be a dozen tour buses waiting for passengers to board this morning.
The tour bus would take him safely out of harm's way.
What could be simpler?
Feydor had gone to the rear of the bus, from there he could keep a vigilant eye on anyone and everyone else aboard. Here, at the rear, if there weren't too many passengers, he might stretch out across two seats and finally relax as the coach rocked him to sleep. He felt now he could sleep peacefully, if everyone left him alone.
He trundled down the aisle, making eye contact with no one. When he got to the seat he picked out, he popped the overhead compartment door. He kept his tools and torch in the briefcase and he placed this in the overhead compartment, close at hand. Satan would soon give him a sign, and he would again heed the call and would again need the fire.
An exhaustive manhunt for the killer of Chris Lorentian was massed in Las Vegas. The local FBI office swung immediately into action, using what they knew of victim and killer profiling to make a guesstimate about the killer. The bulletin went out among police officials statewide, saying the killer might be a white male living in the Vegas area, either alone or with his parents, that he was likely in his late twenties or early thirties, but with an emotional age of a late teen, that he likely lived or worked close to the crime scene, had recently acquired a butane torch and other incendiary devices and had shown these items to acquaintances, was likely a "spontaneous" person with a quick temper, most likely taking great pride in his vehicle-probably a van or pickup.
More specifically, the report said that the killer may have been in the underground parking lot at the Flamingo Hilton between 3:00 and 6:00 p.m. on the day of the killing. The description went on to characterize the actions of the killer since his heinous crime, saying that his eating and drinking habits would suddenly become erratic, along with personal hygiene. He would show an inappropriate interest in the crime and reports about the crime, frequently initiating conversations about the case or fire deaths in general. He might show signs of burns, seared hair on hands, arms, face, and head. He likely worked with fire or with fire equipment; he had a knowledge of fire. He might suddenly and unexpectedly leave the area, the report warned.
Warren Bishop had gotten back to Las Vegas to find his office knee-deep in an investigation centering around Dr. Jessica Coran. He immediately sought her out, calling her at her hotel room and meeting her for breakfast. The hotel was filled to capacity with tourists and conventioneers, coming and going, and this meant a long wait for a table in the coffee shop. Limos, cabs, buses lined the streets outside. The tourist trade was in full summer swing.
While they waited for a seat in the coffee shop, Jessica repeated her bizarre story to Warren, whose reaction was one of amazement.
When they finally got a seat, Warren looked intently into her eyes and promised, "I'll see you have carte blanche with my field office, Jess. Whatever support you need, just ask. Meantime, I'll have my best techs wire your phone here, just in case."
This remark made her look up from her toast and coffee and into Warren's big brown eyes. "You don't think he'll actually call me here again, do you?"
"We'll take no chances." He reached across the table and took her hands protectively into his own. "To date, Jess, you've been extremely lucky. I'm not going to sit idly by and see you get hurt on my watch."
Jessica gave a thought to their fleeting romance of years gone by when she was first recruited by the FBI, Warren always throwing a protective mantle about her. It was comforting, usually, but she also recalled feeling constrained and sometimes smothered by his constant attention.
"I appreciate all you and your team can do for me, Warren. And I guess you're right about the tap. Better safe than sorry."
"Getting a voiceprint on the guy could help tremendously later if we ever get him before a jury."
True enough, she realized. ''Only thing is, Warren, he-the killer-didn't speak a word to me. He forced his victim to call me, and he fooled me into listening to a murder over the wire."
"He'll have to talk, sometime."
"It appears he prefers to write." She explained about the message left on the mirror. "Any ideas what 'one is nine' could mean?" she ended with a question.
He thought about the strange message, but shaking his head, replied, "Not in the least."
After that, they reminisced about earlier days, and each brought the other up on their current life outside the agency.
Warren stirred his coffee and sifted through his thoughts before saying, "I returned to the single life about two years ago, when my divorce came through; got a fourteen-year-old son and a twelve-year-old daughter whom I see whenever possible, which isn't often enough."
She informed him of her ongoing relationship with James Parry in such a way as to make it clear that she was not interested in renewing any former flame between them.
"Well, I'd best get your room upstairs set up." He stood up, his six-four frame as muscular and as attractive as ever, only his thinning and graying hair giving any hint that time had touched him. "I've got my best electronics man standing by. And Jess, don't worry. At least if this creep does call back, you won't be entirely alone with him. Your line'll be monitored at all times."
"Monitor this guy Charles Fairfax, too."
"Fairfax?"
"He's seeing to getting some laser-lifting fingerprint tests performed. Seems the killer wrote his message in the fried grease of his victim on the mirror. Stuck his hand in it. He either has a high tolerance for heat or blackened fingers."
"Grease from the burning victim? God… what a sicko."
The waitress, overhearing their conversation, grimaced, thought better of asking after them, and eased off.
"I'll keep after Fairfax," Warren promised. "Soon as we have the prints, we'll run a nationwide search on them."
"Thanks, Warren, for everything. You're a true friend."
"I'd still like to show you the desert sky at night."
"I'd like that, really."
"Plan on it. I'll pick you up at, say, eight?"
He was a hard man to say no to. "All right," she finally said, "see you then."
He said his good-byes and left Jessica to her day.
FIVE
Silent as the sheeted dead.
Hours later, Jessica felt an overwhelming despondency regarding the lack of progress in the Chris Lorentian case. Despite all the FBI input and the heat put on the investigation into the heinous murder, nothing had come of all the time put in. Pictures of the young woman remained hard to obtain. Witnesses were nonexistent, and people who knew and saw Chris in the hours before her death were similarly hard to find. Her father, a wealthy hotelier with something of a shady reputation, had gone into a terrible depression on learning of his daughter's fate and was placed on medication.