Extreme Instinct Page 3

  “Think about it, John,” she quickly replied. She only called him John when she felt annoyed. “Adewah, Repasi, MacEachem... Sloan, Slaughter, Oleander, for that mat­ter .. .”

  He pictured each of these infamous medical examiners in turn.

  She continued, “They take out bets on which one will find the most unusual and unique stomach contents on a victim in six different categories, E-mailing each other weekly to compare findings, so just imagine them sur­rounded by slot machines.”

  Again J.T. laughed. “So, big deal. We do the same to ease tensions in the lab... which wound on a stabbing victim will be the first fatal blow, whether a time of death will or will not turn an acquittal into a guilty verdict. Whether a young attending female student will find me attractive or not....”

  “Big wooooo!” Now she laughed in response. “Still, if everyone's at the gambling tables and the bandit boxes, how're the brightest minds in the forensic world ever to come to any consensus about our bylaws, current issues with regard to the witness box, the latest in DNA findings, serious matters of ethics, legislative issues, and—”

  “That's your problem, Doctor.”

  She halted, her eyebrows lifting like birds on the wing. “What's my problem, Dr. Thorpe?”

  “Too damned serious for your own damned good at times, Jessica Coran. Life's short. When do you intend to find time to enjoy yourself, your life?”

  “Hey, I had a great time in Athens and Rome with Jim, and now I'm back. I have plenty of fun... plenty...”

  “And if Parry hadn't flown down to the Caymans to find you with those two tickets in his fist?”

  Her eyes widened. “I'll be damned. You put him up to it, didn't you?”

  “No, no... no,” he denied, his eyes darting, searching for someplace to light, a pair of confused birds let out of a cage. He wondered how he'd gotten himself into this cage.

  “And here I thought it was all Jim's idea. Didn't I tell you not to go playing Cupid? You're not that cute... al­though since putting on a few, you do have a cherubic quality about you.”

  J.T., pleased he was only mildly scolded, instantly de­fended his weight, saying, “For a man my age, thirty-nine next month”—he lied about his age—”it's not so bad, or so I'm told by my trainer. Axel always says—”

  “Axel?” She stifled a laugh.

  “Yeah. Axel always says, 'It's good to have a little to burn....'“

  “I'll just bet good ol' Axel says that. And just what burner are you working on?” she continued to tease.

  He was glad that she had been pleased down in the Caymans when she had reached out and found Jim Parry appearing from nowhere while she, like some real-life Per­ilous Pauline, had hung suspended over a bevy of hungry, blood-sniffing sharks. Parry had literally saved her from death in the waters off Grand Cayman, a surprise that had been totally unexpected. Then he whisked her off to Ath­ens, where they remained for a week, followed by a second week, in Rome. And for a time, J.T. believed Jessica Coran would never return to D.C., and sometimes he still wondered why she had.

  “As for me, when it comes to a gamble,” she was say­ing now, uselessly pointing in the direction of the Fla­mingo Hilton, fearing the driver was taking a circuitous route, “I can take it or leave it”

  “Who's a bigger gambler than you? You gambled and won against Matisak in New Orleans, and you did the same with Tauman in the Caymans. Take it or leave what?” Then he wondered if she had meant Parry and paradise, feeling a bit awkward at putting his foot in it

  “Gambling, gambling, and this Mecca for gamblers and people who crave to throw their fortunes, big and small, down the most extravagant 'come on' toilet the world and history has ever seen—that's what I'm talking about.”

  “Ahhh, come on, Jess. There's got to be some redeem­ing factor about Vegas. Every city has some... upside.”

  “Well, there is plenty of—”

  “Neon?”

  “Parking,” she finished.

  Jessica was well aware that the low-lying metropolis, nestled as it was on the desert floor, represented the fastest- growing city in America and that its growth had changed its character over the years. However, she firmly believed that all character began with a bedrock that remained in­transigent and unchangeable. A city openly spawned on corruption and greed could not deny its roots or heritage by raising temples to the sky, even if they held “family” attractions within. The central root upon which it all flour­ished remained human fallibility, greed, and feeding off that greed. Sure, the limbs of the tree had sprawled far and wide from its core—downtown Vegas being the hub from which architects and city planners worked—but there was scarcely a household on the desert floor left untouched by money had from gambling in one fashion or another.

  Absolutely, Vegas brimmed full with good and decent people—families eking out a living, children struggling in schools at all levels, playhouses, cultural events, museums, and small pleasures that on the surface appeared to have nothing whatever to do with downtown Vegas or gam­bling, but then, no place in the city was immune. The entire tax base rested on gambling, and every 7-Eleven, every gas station, Laundromat, Chinese restaurant, and grocery store, as well as the airport, had slot machines for casual “play.” She imagined it must be an extremely con­fusing place to grow from childhood to man- or woman­hood.

  The limo pulled into the Flamingo Hilton drive, flanked by O'Shea's on one side, the Barbary Coast Casino on the other. The Hilton hadn't escaped the towering tackiness of the place any more than the more modem “erections” here, she thought. “I'll get the bags, you get the tip,” suggested J.T.

  The weather was searing, a torrid 101°F in the shade, and while a wildly gusting wind blew a thin, near-invisible desert veil over everything, it did nothing to cool but rather irritated the skin. They'd been sweating since leaving the comfort of the airport, the driver obviously no good with controls, or perhaps he was saving on gas, or simply had no understanding of air-conditioning. He wouldn't receive a full tip, not from her, despite his familiar woes.

  After helping J.T. with the bags, the cabbie said to Jes­sica, “Welcome to Los Veegas, pree-ty la-dy....” His accent, jet-black, sweat-saturated hair, broken-toothed grin, and swarthy skin gave him away as a Hispanic immigrant, possibly an illegal. A once-broken nose and a serious, healed-over scar also marked him as a former brawler; perhaps a man who had fought in the ring—either amateur or lightweight division—or in a back alley, if not simply for money. He seemed a bit punchy, his shirt half in, half out of his waistband. She handed him several folded dollar bills, despite the awful conditions of the so-called limo, when suddenly the cabbie began to thank her profusely, saying, “Ju know, dis's dee only tip I've got all de day long? God bless ju, and—''

  “The only tip you've gotten all day long?” asked J.T., astounded. It was nearly six in the afternoon.”

  “It has been dis way lately. No one comes. Too many cabs”—he pointed to the long line of cabs lined in a row in front of and behind them like sentinels, all awaiting another fare.

  “So, t'ank you, amigos, and have a nice day.” It was a practiced line. “And my shill-dren and my wife, dey, too, bless you.” He smiled and started for the other side of the cab, waving and leaving her feeling guilty. She and J.T. exchanged a look before she snatched open the pas­senger-side door and tossed in an extra ten to the man.

  When she straightened up, J.T. instantly pulled her aside and asked, “What's the matter with you, Jess?”

  “Whataya mean?”

  “That was a scam. You just fell flat-assed for that limo driver's scam, Jess.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so. All that God bless 'ju,' business. He dropped his guard, said 'you' twice in that last remark to 'ju,' pree-ty la-dy.”

  “Damn.” She stared at the limo, which had remained static, the driver waiting his turn for another fare. She con­sidered going to his window, flashing her badge, and per­haps giving him a taste of what it
was like to be hassled by a federal agent “I'm going to do something about that,” she muttered, the oppressive heat bearing down like some mighty entropy.

  J.T. firmly shook his head, saying, “It's too late. He took you, fair and square.”

  “What's that? Vegas rules?”

  “Don't forget where you are. You're out your money, kiddo, and somewhat out of your element....”

  “Shit” she angrily muttered, feeling like a large mem­ber of the cat family just cheated out of a meal.

  “Forget it Jess. It's only a tenner. Don't sweat the small stuff. If ju don't lose it here, ju lose it in the slots inside. So, big deal.”

  She frowned, accepting her moment of naivetd, a mo­ment when she let her guard down and was burned for the privilege.

  J.T. called for a bellman for the bags. Jessica knew her friend and colleague was itching to get into the casino to lose his money in a game of chance, and this consoled her to some degree. At least she hadn't knowingly, consciously thrown her money down a toilet, as John intended. In fact, it appeared J.T. meant to binge on gambling, and this wor­ried her.

  But for the moment, glad to be getting out of the op­pressive desert heat, anxious for a shower, maybe even a swim at the pool, she hurried ahead of J.T. and the bellhop to locate the registration desk. Signs greeted them in the lobby, signs reading WELCOME forensic science as­sociation of america—east pavilion. And despite Jes­sica's frown, J.T. insisted on getting a photo of himself where he now stood, alongside one of the huge, expen­sively framed and gaudily lettered signs. Then, to her con­sternation, he insisted that the bellboy take a snapshot of the two of them together beside the welcome sign.

  “For my album,” he said in her ear, hugging her as the photo was snapped.

  So far Vegas sucked. Get me to my room! she mentally screamed.

  TWO

  Startling, like the first handful of mould cast on the coffined dead.

  —PJ. Bailey

  Feydor Dorphmann had kept the woman sedated enough so that she was no trouble. She tossed and blubbered and talked to herself, but this did not bother him, so long as she did not scream.

  Still, Feydor was upset. Things were not going as well as planned, nothing as neat and tidy as imagination.

  “Might've expected as much,” he muttered to himself. Why had Dr. Coran delayed her flight to Vegas? Was she coming at all, or had she postponed altogether? He re­played the events of the day in his head, wondering what he might tell an angry Satan when next they met.

  The newspaper account of the day before had told him where Satan's target would be, at the Flamingo Hilton. Satan told him how to position himself. What to do, pre­cisely what tools and instruments he required, each step of the way, each step to take, every detail, down to making a list, and precisely how to make contact with Dr. Jessica Coran. It had been Satan who'd revealed to Feydor whom he must destroy, and that in the destroying, he must kill six of lesser importance to get to the seventh most impor­tant of Satan's chosen.

  Feydor, of course, like many Americans, knew of Dr. Coran. He'd read widely the accounts in newspapers across the country of her battles with such notorious serial killers as Mad Matthew Matisak and that freak on a boat in Flor­ida they'd called the Night Crawler. He knew of how she'd dispatched a ruthless killer in Hawaii and another in New Orleans. Who didn't know the name of Dr. Jessica Coran, the FBI's most valued forensic detective? It just never in a million years would have occurred to him that one day he would be directed by the potentate of Hades to pursue and destroy this woman.

  Feydor also knew that men whom society termed “mon­sters” were in fact extensions of Satan on earth, that Jes­sica Coran prided herself on hunting down and destroying such monsters, and that now he himself was the next such extension, but that he was being given a special opportu­nity, unlike all those who came before him, to free himself of Satan's terrible grip, the inviolable hold over his mind and body.

  “If I cooperate,” he said again and again in a mantra to himself, “if I cooperate with Lucifer, then later... later, after Satan satisfies himself over Coran, then Feydor Dorphmann—after all these years of being afflicted by Satan— can go back to being an ordinary man to lead an ordinary, healthy life and find redemption in Christ and the church.”

  It made sense. It made perfectly sound sense.

  The young woman tied to the bed squirmed on hearing the mad rantings of her abductor. He saw her discomfort and shook his head wildly, trying to explain, saying, “It's true. It's the deal we struck... the deal I struck with the Evil One.” He could hardly afford the hotel room, but the girl was different. Her purse was stuffed full with hundred-dollar bills and credit cards. She had already covered the cost of the Hilton. Oddly, however, according to papers she had folded and pushed into her purse, she had registered under an assumed name, or at least one that read differently from her credit card. While her credit card name was Chris Lor- entian, she was traveling under an alias, Chris Dunlap, a fact that caused some mild curiosity in him but not so much as to dissuade his actions. And with previous ar­rangements made at the hotel using the name Chris Dun- lap, he'd had no problem getting the room card key.

  After tying the woman's hands and feet, he'd gone down to the desk to be seen and recognized, although the makeup and wig he wore would keep the game interesting. He told the desk clerk that Chris Dunlap was his wife, and that she was already at the slot machines, unable to control her gambling fever, so he needed a second key. The desk clerk, seeing that he already had one card key to 1713, didn't question him but simply handed over a second key. He had smiled and laughed with the cute little clerk behind the counter over the fact his wife had discovered that she had gambling fever. Meanwhile, Feydor gave the clerk am­ple time to eyeball his rash, a bad one having cropped up on his neck and chest.

  “She also likes her sex rough and tumble,” he said with a boyish grin, a proud little shrug of the shoulders.

  The clerk remarked on how interesting that all was, when in fact she felt nothing but revulsion. The clerk stared at his hair and remarked, “It's the brightest red I've ever seen except maybe for the actor David Caruso.”

  She was lying. She didn't like his hair any more than she liked his rash or his crude comments, but that was okay. She would remember him, and he wanted her to remember the “fireman” and his red hair and his red rash, because he wanted to be noticed.

  He meant to sprinkle seeds of bait for Coran to come to him, just as he'd read about in her famous case involv­ing Mad Matthew Matisak in his failed quest to kill her. Satan had a real liking for this Dr. Coran.

  The red rash was real, but Feydor's true hair color was actually a mahogany brown.

  “I'll call a bellhop for your bags, then, sir,” the desk clerk had said.

  “No, not necessary,” he said, putting up a hand to her, and with the other hand he displayed his only bag, a brief­case, Samsonite with large clasps on either side. “Wife's bags are still in the car, and I can pick them up later,” he had quickly added.

  The clerk again smiled, but she seemed a bit perplexed with him by this point.

  Later, he'd gone out to the car in the lot, hustled the girl named Lorentian, alias Dunlap, from the trunk of her car, and ushered her through a back entryway he'd located. Anyone seeing them might think her drunk but otherwise okay. The drug had kept her still and silent, and the oven­ like conditions in the trunk had done the rest, wilting her and her hair. She had perspired so badly in the trunk that she now smelled like a pig.

  Satan had said to him, “How she smells matters little, not where she's going.” Then the thunderous roar of his insane laughter filled Feydor's brain like an inky black splotch.

  After securing her to the bed, Feydor had returned for her baggage. In the backseat of the car he had rifled through her carry-on and found a bus ticket made out to Chris Dunlap. Nothing else of consequence or use was found in the carry-on, so he decided to leave it and simply hold on to the big suitcase. T
here might be some other treasures in these he could use later.

  Satan had called Feydor to the desert, away from home in San Francisco, called him here to Vegas and had told him to wait here until he should be called on to do the Devil's bidding. Satan told him that eventually he would end the game at the Devil's Well, that he would see both Feydor and Dr. Jessica Coran at the Devil's Well, but that he must be patient to get to this place, which Feydor had seen once as a child. And so he had waited with intermit­tent visits from Satan's army of familiars, ranging in age and form and ability to deliver pain, all coming just to tell him to wait longer.

  It had been nearly three months now, living out of Dumpsters, panhandling for coffee and bread until finally the time had come. He knew it a few days before when he'd picked up the Vegas paper that carried the story of the gathering of the Forensic Science Association of Amer­ica and the Medical Examiners Association meeting at the Flamingo Hilton. It carried only a line or two about Dr. Jessica Coran, singling her out due to her reputation earned through a series of daring FBI cases she had cracked. He, of course, remembered her from previous newspapers, TV interviews, and nationwide manhunts, and this sudden rev­elation filled his brain to overflowing. The image of her on the spoiled page he'd held up that day was enough! It clearly told Feydor who it was that Satan had left him sitting around here and starving here and waiting here for.

  Only after having stripped Chris where she lay on the bed, hands and feet tied, her eyes fixed and dilated, a gag in her mouth, her clothes stuffed in around her there on the bed, his privates aroused, did he telephone down to the front desk and politely ask after Jessica Coran.

  “I'm calling about a colleague, a Dr. Jessica Coran. Has she checked in yet?”

  “One moment, sir, and I'll see if I can verify that for you....”

  Even the brief wait was damnably long after so long a delay getting this close to a closure for Feydor, and the Lorentian woman was moaning like a drugged Siamese cat now, a bit loudly. Someone walking by might hear her. He checked the gag, tugged on her bindings at hands and feet, to be prudent. He'd tied her with a cheap belt and tie he'd brought for the purpose. He wore surgical gloves, not wishing to leave any prints.