"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.
"She's not going to Jackson Hole," he said to himself where he sat at the useless telephone at a nurse's station outside Bishop's room. "Damn," he swore. "She's gone after him alone." But where? Where had she gone? Where would the showdown occur?
He rushed from the hospital to Jessica's room at the hotel.
Once at her hotel, J. T., flashing his credentials and claiming it an emergency, stepped into the room so recently vacated by Jessica Coran. She'd left the room in immaculate condition, as typical of her, but J. T. prayed for any clue as to her whereabouts. On a notepad beside the phone he found a notation she'd made, and it had a chilling effect on J. T. as he stared down at the message, which read:
#6 is #4-Avaricious amp; Prodigal
"Damn it," he muttered, knowing what the message must mean. "He's killed again. Somewhere between here and Jackson Hole."
"Sir?" asked the bellman who'd unlocked the door for him.
"Nothing, never mind." J. T. then saw the discarded map in the wastepaper basket. He lifted out the map and unfolded it, spreading it across the bureau, instantly recognizing it for the answer he'd come in search of. "Yellowstone. She's gone to Yellowstone."
Another glance at the map and he saw the fine-pen circle mark around Old Faithful and the Upper Geyser Basin, with the names of the various hot springs. One in particular caught his attention and his imagination, recalling to mind what Jess had said about the one phone call from the killer in which he mentioned Hellsmouth and the Devil's Well.
J. T. raced out with the map in hand. He had to get to the airport, and fast.
NINETEEN
The passions are like fire, useful in a thousand ways and dangerous in only one, through their excess.
The helicopter pilot taking Jessica to Yellowstone had at first balked at taking her, a lone woman, into Yellowstone's wilderness area. She'd shown him her badge, explained to him that she worked for the FBI, and that she must get to Old Faithful Lodge at the greatest possible speed. He then wanted to take the time to sketch out a flight plan for the tower, and she told him it would delay them too much. It was then that she offered him twice his normal rate for a ferry to Yellowstone.
He agreed, and they began their journey together. Still, he remained skeptical of her purposes, the familiar paranoia about government types filtering in, she believed. With the rhythmic scream of the rotor blades overhead, the flume of whirring sound and vibration rocking the carriage of the chopper, they spoke to one another through the headphones.
"You got business in the park, huh? With the rangers, huh?"
"As a matter of fact, yes."
"Fronval know you're coming?"
"You know Fronval?" she asked, surprised.
"Doesn't everybody? Man's something of a legend in these parts. So, does he know you're coming?"
"Not yet, but when we're in range, I'd like to call Sam on the radio. Do you know Sam personally?"
"Sure, everybody whose ever rangered knows Sam," the pilot, who'd introduced himself as Corey Rideout, said, more curious about her now than ever.