Jessica looked once more at J. T.'s notepad. Now it read:
#1 is #9-Traitors
#2 is #8-?
#3 is #7-Violents
"So, we're missing a word," she said.
"I know that, Jess." He frowned. "Still, I already took the liberty to add the line 'number two is number eight' in my message to the FBI's mailing list of academicians and mental institutions and professionals who might be helpful in deciphering the killer's peculiar code."
"Can't hurt," she assured him, taking another sip of her drink. Silently, Jessica turned the small list of words and numbers over in her head several times. "It's Greek to me," she finally said with a half smile he did not understand.
"It's not Greek to everyone. Somebody out there knows what this means."
"He may be elusive, he may enjoy playing cute, but he's misspelled 'violence,' " Jessica replied, not knowing what else she might say to J. T.'s combinations with the numbers and ambiguous, anomalous, paradoxical, quizzical, puzzling, enigmatic, obscure, problematic, and terse messages left them by the Phantom for the sole purpose of taunting them or her? She wondered if they were specific taunts to her alone. But suddenly, Jessica now realized what J. T. was attempting to convey to her, that Martin was not victim number two of the Phantom, but number three, and that somewhere victim number two awaited their discovery.
The thought had been suggested by McEvetty and Kaminsky, but she had paid little heed to the notion there might be a third victim, since there had been only two phone calls. Then again, she'd shunned her telephone since the calls had begun. She well might have missed his call surrounding the killing of another victim labeled "#2 is #8."
She'd have to call Bishop.
"He may've spelled it with the T at the end of violence to denote people," suggested J. T., breaking into her thoughts, repeating himself. ''You know, that people could be termed the violent ones, hence violents, that people in general are violent, hence violents, rather than violence."
"So he's creating new words? Sorry, but I'm in no mood for Scrabble or lexicography. What we really need to do is to follow up on the all-points bulletin for areas between here and Vegas on any suspicious fire-related deaths," she replied. "Especially anything smacking of our guy. A message on the mirror would be a clear indication that it's our guy."
"I already have, and I've already heard back."
"You're holding out on me? From whom have you heard? Where?"
"Bishop's people in Vegas. They got another call from the killer, Jess, there at the Vegas Hilton, your room."
"My God, why didn't anyone contact me?"
"The killer's call came only today and couldn't be traced. He didn't stay on the line long enough. They tried to get word to you, but you and I haven't exactly been standing still."
"So you've been holding out on me," she repeated. "Why?"
He shrugged. "After seeing you, I thought you could use a break, so I kept silent until now."
"So, what's the bad news?"
''Grand Canyon, one of the lodges we likely flew over this morning. A place called the El Tovar Hotel, Yavapai East, right on the rim of the canyon. A place called Grand Canyon Village."
"What's been done there?"
"I'm afraid the body's already been removed, and-"
"Damn it. Damn it to hell."
"Nobody's fault, Jess. They, the locals, believed it an accidental fire, or a possible suicide. Clean-up of the room was begun. Evidence lost, but if you'd like to see it, we can double back. We have it secured now. A little late, but-"
"Jesus Christ, they've disturbed everything…"
"— better late than never."
"How damned stupid are these backwoods people?" she exploded, her last nerve frayed, causing people at other tables to stare. "Who the hell's responsible for-"
"No one there knew, Jess. How could they?"
"He called it in, though? The killer?"
"That's my information, yes. But there was a delay. He only telephoned it in today."
"Today?"
"Right, he did, early this morning, about the time we arrived at the autopsy for Martin, around eight forty-five, nine, in there. That's what they're saying."
What caused the change? I wonder. Who are they? Bishop's people, Harry Furth?"
"It was Bishop himself I heard from, Western Union. Apparently they've had trouble reaching us. I think he thinks we're at this Grand Canyon Village on the South Rim by now."
Jessica felt somewhat relieved in that she hadn't had to hear-audibly live-the death of this third victim, at a remote hotel on the rim of the Grand Canyon. "So… was there a message on the mirror?" she asked, finishing her drink in a single gulp now.
J. T. gritted his teeth before replying, "Wiped clean by someone at the scene, but someone remembers numbers and the single word 'Fraud,' somebody else is saying 'Malice.' But the local guys chalked it up to the victim's own sorta suicide note, you see."
"How long have you known about this?"
"I didn't learn any of this before sending out our second crime-scene photos and message to Quantico when I asked it be duplicated and forwarded on to our contacts across the country. When I got back to the hotel, someone handed me the message at the desk. Did you check your messages?''
"No, no, I haven't."
"But at the time I got back to Santiva, my report to him went out before I learned of this news, so, well-"
"And so what do we know, J. T.? Damn little."
"Do you want to get over to the canyon? It's a few hours' drive, forty minutes or less by chopper."
"Hand me that map of the area you've been going over," she asked.
J. T. produced the tourist map he'd picked up at the hotel desk, opened it, and spread it before her, its colorful backdrop showing all the national parks and must-see points in Arizona and Utah.
"Bastard's leaving a hell of a winding trail, don't you think?" she asked, taking J. T.'s pen and marking each of the three locations on the map where murder by fire had occurred, asking J. T. to help locate the South Rim and Grand Canyon Village for her. Together, they stared at the zigzag trail of bodies left in the killer's wake.
"Tomorrow morning, by air," she told Thorpe. "Right now, I'm exhausted. Can hardly see straight." Still, she asked, "What do we know of the victim?"
"White female, late thirties. Nothing like Chris Lorentian or Martin, I'm afraid."
"Doing a victim profile on this one appears hopeless."
"The victims are as different as night and day."
"Tell me this: Was the woman vacationing at the lodge? I suppose so. Why else be there?''
J. T. sipped his drink and shook his head. ''Fact is, she was employed at the lodge, a waitress. Lived in the unit for free during peak seasons."
"Damn, but there's precious little to tie the victims to one another."
"The woman led a quiet life, only vice a pack-a-day smoking habit."
"And the locals chalked the fire up to her habit, too?"
J. T. shrugged. "Fire guys up that way didn't take as much care, not suspecting murder… Something about their one good investigator off to a confab someplace at the time, and they claim to have lost one of their last two fire-sniffing dogs to the canyon and the other to government cutbacks. The usual excuses for screwing up."
"Guess we can thank Newt and the new American attitude toward responsible behavior for that."
"Tell you what, Jess, let's order dinner on that boat they have cruising the lake, have a peaceful evening. Get all this off our minds for a while."
"You're on," she instantly agreed. "It's a date."
Dinner served on the lodge paddle wheeler, which went in a large circle around Lake Powell, was a delight, and with their steak and seafood dinners, they watched the sun go down in the western sky. Afterward they walked lazily back up to the lodge from the marina along a winding wharf, Jessica mentally counting the stars in the black firmament overhead.