Finally, she lifted the receiver, saying nothing.
"We got the asshole. We got 'im."
"And this is?"
"Agent Harry Furth." Harry Furth's thick voice sounded a direct opposite of the killer's hollow tone.
"Where? Where is he?"
"Page."
"Page what?"
"Arizona."
"Arizona? Page?"
"Lake Powell."
"Lake Powell?"
"Page, Arizona."
"But… isn't that… hundreds of miles away?"
"I don't need a geography lesson, Doctor." Harry sounded tired, brittle. No doubt like herself, feeling helpless as he listened in on this brutality he could not stop. "But it's not really so far. It's near Bryce Canyon and Zion National Park, actually closer to Monument Valley. By air, you can be there in under a couple of hours."
"We got anybody there, on it, now?" she wanted to know.
"We've got local law enforcement on it. They're crashin' the place as we speak. Keep your fingers crossed."
"Where… I mean, exactly how far is this place from here?"
"A day's drive. Not far. Happened at the Wahweap Lodge and Marina, on Lake Powell. Great place to vacation."
"Not so for Mel Martin, obviously…"
She was relieved in one sense that this cruel, sadistic monster was not in the building, that he was not as close to her as he'd been only the night before, but she was disappointed he'd not remained in the city, that he was expanding the geography of his kill spree, in a sense creating a larger radius for them to cover. Was it part of his plan? Usually, the Behavioral Science Unit of the FBI must work diligently to narrow the geography of the crimes to a specific location, to hone in on the killer, often doing so well as to locate the street on which the killer lived. Usually, the killer lived and worked and killed within a relatively confined area, close to home and to places he felt familiar and comfortable with. The crime geography remained fairly constant with most serial killers-save the Henry Lee cross-country types-even if the killer happened to be mobile, but this pyromaniac killer had jumped to another square quite quickly and unexpectedly, enlarging the geography overnight.' It made her wonder where next he might strike. No one could possibly know using the normal techniques. Not with this guy any more than they'd been able to use normal procedure in the apprehension of the Night Crawler in the Caribbean the year before.
She considered her options. Stay put; return to Quantico; go to the second fire death scene. "I'm getting dressed, Harry. I want to get out there to Lake Powell."
"Whoa, wait up there, Doctor. You need to stay next to this phone, where he can reach you. We need as much tape on this creep as possible, need to study the tape in depth, and we need to get a fix on him next time. Somehow you have to keep him on the line longer."
"That's ridiculous. He's not on the line with me, his victims are! How do I keep the victim alive and on the phone longer, long distance, when this mother's in control of her and me and the time clock?"
"I don't know, but the phone line's our only link to this crazoid."
"Harry, if you want someone to man this phone, then get someone, but I won't be a prisoner to this madman, and I don't intend staying in the Flamingo another night. Do you understand?"
"But Dr. Coran-"
"No, no argument."
"All right… all right. We'll get an actress to play you, a decoy."
"Now, that makes a great deal more sense, Harry. My time's worth more than that of an actress."
"Guess you ain't heard the latest contract Julia Roberts signed with Disney."
She only snorted her reply. "Hmmmph."
"Meantime, we'll get a voiceprint made. This time the guy screwed up big time. We got 'im on tape, and we got 'im spoutin' off in the background, but the scatter needs cleaning up. I can do that, but it'll take twenty, maybe thirty hours, depending."
"Do it, and let me hear of the results. As for now, can you get me to Lake Powell, to this Wahweap Lodge?"
"I'll get a chopper prepared out at the airport; go to Hangar Twenty-four. They'll be expecting you."
"John Thorpe may be accompanying me."
"Gotcha, and I'll let the guys in Arizona know what's going on soon as I hear back from them."
"Do you think they might've gotten in there on time?"
"Doubt it. There was only a small window, a few minutes watching her burn, and he may've gotten out before the fumes got to him, which doesn't leave our guys much time to converge."
"Then you heard the entire conversation?"
"Every word, Doctor. Made no sense. Guy's completely nuts. I don't know how you held it together as well as you did, but you did, and you got a hell of a heart-gumption, my pappy used to call it."
She didn't feel like she had any gumption, or that she'd held anything together. Still, she replied, "Thanks, Harry. Tell 'em at Powell to not disturb the body or the crime scene. Understood?"
"Will do."
"Will I see you at the airport?"
"No, I want to get right on this tape. See what comes of it. Maybe later, I'll see you in Page, you know, when I've got something."
"Damned glad you got in here and set up the tap when you did, else we'd have nothing."
"Couldn't do otherwise. My boss was roasting my chops to get this set up. He seems to think you're pretty special… priority one, Dr. Coran."
She smiled at this. "Tell Bishop thanks for me. And Harry, I've jotted down a couple of things the killer said that may be especially relevant to our narrowing this mystery man down. I want you to tell Bishop these could be important clues to reveal something about the killer, the words he used to refer to himself, Char-ron, he'd said, or Charon, and the unusual word Hellsmouth. Could be a place."
Furth replied, “I thought he said Char-man, that he was like this char-grill guy, char-man. Didn't catch the reference to Hellsmouth. Any event, you can tell Bishop yourself."
"How's that?"
Warren's got a thing for you. Why don't you give him a call? He's gonna want to know about this new wrinkle. May even want to accompany you to Page, knowing Warren as I do."
The innuendo was thick enough to slice with a blunt scalpel, she thought, but it was no secret how Warren Bishop felt about Jessica Coran. She'd seen Bishop at one of today's sessions, and they'd had more coffee together. He'd been understanding-sweet, even-when she spoke of the awful first phone call from the Phantom's supposed first victim, telling him in graphic detail how horrible it all was. He'd been sympathetic, suggesting that she have something a bit stronger than coffee later with him in the lounge, suggesting they have dinner together.
They'd known each other for years, since her first year in the FBI Academy. They'd been close friends and had studied together, competing with one another to be the best. He was so good in hand-to-hand that they made him an instructor on the spot, and so he'd actually become one of her trainers.
Over the years they'd stayed in contact, remaining best of friends, but when the death of Chris Lorentian had happened and Jessica had been placed in danger, Bishop had been out of town on another case, which had taken him to New Mexico.
Now he and his team had gone into swift action, surfing and sifting through FBI computer files for any and all similar fire deaths that might be related. These fire deaths ranged from those ruled accidental to those intentionally set fires that engulfed whole homes, restaurants, or warehouses, leaving someone dead in the process. They'd narrowed the list down to seventy-two that smacked of similarities, primarily the use of butane as an accelerant alongside the smoked remains of some poor slob, male or female. Bishop and his team were reworking and rethinking every angle on each such case, but Jessica's gut reaction was one of skepticism. She believed this guy had started with Chris Lorentian-that "#1 is #9" pointed to this supposition. The phone call to her, the message written in the victim's own bodily grease, all had something to do with the number 1 and the number 9.