Extreme Instinct

by Robert W. Walker

  “That's what it recalls to mind, yes.”

  “Of course, The Divine Comedy, Dante's Inferno,” she replied. “I haven't thought of that place since... since I was a junior in high school, where I had to read it for Mr. Blevins's World Literature class. Jim, you're a genius. I knew there was a reason I was supposed to call you!”

  “Very flattering.”

  “The subconcious always knows best. I called because I wanted to hear your voice, to tell you I miss you, to tell you I love you, Jim, but somehow my inner self knew that you could also help out on this horrid case.”

  “That's more like it. Great to know I'm needed. Still, you knew I was a lit major in college, and ancient literature was my field before I got into law enforcement, or had you forgot?”

  “Obviously not,” she lied. “You're brilliant as well as handsome.”

  “Not quite brilliant. I recently read a recap of the rea­sons why Dante was considered so important in man's per­ception of Hades, good and evil, all that in a chapter of a book called the History of Hell, so it's been on my mind. So, naturally, when you told me about what kind of nut­case you're dealing with... well, it was hardly brilliance on my part.”

  “So, why're you reading about Hades?”

  “Believe it or not, it's required reading in my course on comparative religion and the literature of evil along with People of the Lie.''

  “You're taking a course?”

  “Helps pass time. I miss you. God, I do.”

  “Don't beg! I miss you, too.”

  “And I'm worried about you. More so now than before. Please be careful there, darling.”

  “I'm all right. I knew this guy was killing in the name of the king of Hell, Satan, but it's all right now... now we know his game. Dante's Inferno, of course. He'd called himself at one time Charon, Nessus at another....”

  “Yes, the boatman who takes Dante across the River Styx to the Land of the Dead, and Nessus takes them across the river of boiling blood, guarded by the Centaurs. In fact, Nessus is one of the Centaurs.”

  She recalled having said to J.T. that the killer likely thought he'd be rewarded by his demons by becoming a godlike creature himself, perhaps sprouting a pair of dev­ilish wings. She said to Jim, “Centaur, huh? This kook thinks he's a goddamned Centaur?”

  “Why're you, of all people, sounding so surprised?” he asked, following with a light laugh.

  “It's been a long time since I've read Dante. So this guy thinks he's a Centaur now, half man, half bull?”

  “No, half man, half horse. Minotaur is the bull man.”

  “Got it.”

  “Read Inferno again. It could give you some insights into this creep.”

  “Exactly. At least now I will know something about what he's talking about. He's anxious for me to learn.”

  “What's that?”

  “I think in all this madness, he's trying to... instruct me.”

  “So you have a monster for a teacher? Sounds like par for your course, Jess. You can beat this creep-bastard. You and I both know it”

  “Thanks for the pep talk and the information. Before now, I had no point of reference when he'd make refer­ences to Hellsmouth, call himself different names.”

  “Don't be so hard on yourself. The guy freaked you out. Who wouldn't be?”

  “Yes, Charon was the name of the guide who pointed the way for Dante and Virgil in their mythical tour of Hades,” she thoughtfully replied. “Maybe we can use it against him.”

  “Don't take any unnecessary chances, Jess. Promise me.”

  She paused before saying, “Not to worry. I've got Bishop and the Salt Lake City field agents behind me. I'm surrounded by big, muscular types.”

  “And that's supposed to ease my mind?” His laughter washed over her.

  She loved to hear him laugh, and she imagined his warm, lovely smile, and she thought of how much they had laughed together in Greece and Rome. She took a moment to tell him how much their trip had meant to her before saying, “Good-bye, James, and thanks for the help.”

  “Good-bye, and be careful, Jess. I love you.”

  “I love you, too, beyond your imagining.”

  She hung up, dressed, and tried again to get J.T. back at Bryce Canyon but without luck. Still the phone lines were tied up and all she could get was a busy signal. She thought of getting an operator on the line and having her break into the line, but instead she decided to locate the nearest library. With the help of the doorman, she learned it was too late for the library, that it would be closed. “Salt Lake rolls up the sidewalks at dusk, pretty much, ma'am,” he apologized for his city.

  “What about a bookstore?''

  “Oh, yeah, there's one a half block on the southeastern comer, that a way,” he said, pointing. “They may be open.”

  Jessica made the short walk and found the storefront shop window filled with books. Inside, she found a musty place filled with used books on wood and crate shelves. A huge orange cat lay asleep on the cash register. She finally found a dog-eared, paperback copy of Dante's Inferno. She paid two dollars and twenty-five cents for the copy and began revisiting Hades in the lobby of the hotel, and later in her room to be near the phone so she could keep trying to raise J.T., to let him know her whereabouts in the city.

  Jessica hadn't seen or thought of Dante's strange pan­orama of Hades since her school days, when it was re­quired reading in her AP class. She read it anew with the fanatical killer in mind, imagining his imaginings now. Dante Alighieri's Divine Comedy, in its entirety, was enor­mous, but it had been his depiction of Hades that captured the imagination of generations since its publication in 1321, and apparently their killer had been no exception.

  Rivers of boiling blood, that was what the killer had turned his victims' bodies into. The Wood of Suicides, where the naked forms of men, women, and children dan­gled from thorny prongs of dead trees like so much litter and parchment; vile creatures such as the flying Geryon, Minotaurs, Centaurs guarding vestibules and black corri­dors, monsters at every turn, and those souls damned to living out putrid lives in the land of Dis or Satan, inside the body of the beast.

  She read on and recalled the Furies, Medusa, and the Harpies, all of whom peopled Satan's world, an enormous inverted, three-dimensional mountain created when Satan and all his followers fell to the earth. She skimmed, re­calling far more than she now read. Some said the Grand Canyon was created by Satan's fall to Earth.

  Her eyes grew weary over the words, and for a time she felt alone with the mad Phantom, alone with the Devil. And she lay on the covered bed in her room here at the Litde America Hotel in Salt Lake City, and here she nod­ded off with Dante's elaborate, allegorical window into Hell on her lap.

  It was six twenty-five now, a light pattering rain having begun at the windows when the nightmare result of her cramming metamorphosed into a garish dream that carried her along a spiraling red river of blood without any chance of refusing. It was a river filled with muck and putrid odors so horrid they could not be swallowed. She felt herself going down into the deepest recesses of the human psyche where the demons dwelled, although some of the shadows in the room with her seemed corporeal enough to shake her from slumber. In the dark underworld, she saw herself staring back at her.

  On waking, she shuddered, clawed her way to a sitting position on the made bed, and picked up the phone's re­ceiver. She again dialed for J.T. at Ruby Inn in Bryce to inform him of the breakthrough, that the killer was work­ing with the Dante mythos.

  This time she got through. Obviously John had gotten a room at the inn, for they patched her through to his room.

  “Jess, thank God, I've been worried sick about you,” he almost shouted. “Where are you?”

  Jessica thought she heard a voice in the background. “Are you alone?”

  “Not entirely, no.”

  “Well, good for you. The breakfast waitress?”

  “How'd you guess?”

  She told him her whereabouts and
updated him on the search for the killer, and as J.T. calmed, she informed him of the Dante connection. “That's wonderful news,” he told her, adding, “and I have some good news, too. We located the bus he's been traveling on all this time.”

  She saw the noose tightening for Charon and Nessus. “Miraculous! How'd you do it?”

  “Blood, sweat, tears, and a search under the registration of a Chris Dunlap. Bishop's idea.”

  “Bishop's there with you—good. Now tell me what you've got.”

  “No, Warren's probably in Salt Lake by now, Jess. You've got to get over to the Hilton. That's where Bishop will be, flushing this creep out. He's got his number now. He knows the tour number, the bus plate, and by now the creep's room number. It's just a matter of time now.”

  “Give me the details, J.T.!” She was shouting in ex­citement now. “What've you got?”

  “The bus tour Chris Lorentian booked, she booked as Chris Dunlap, and it was on the Vision Quest bus line. The tour number is thirteen fourteen and the number of the bus is sixty-seven.” He added the Utah plate numbers. “Got that?”

  She jotted down the information on the hotel stationery beside the bed. “Excellent work, J.T. And you say Bishop's here in the city?”

  “Yeah, he left here by helicopter some time ago.”

  “He must not be here yet, else he would have contacted me here through the field office.”

  “I don't know why he hasn't, Jess, but he's a good man. Who knows, a take-charge guy like him? Maybe he wants to handle it himself. I saw him dress down Karl Repasi for you while he was here, gave him an earful. Thought you'd like to know.”

  “Thanks. I've got to get over to the Hilton. See what's happening or what has happened in my absence there.”

  “Go lightly, Jess. Promise me you'll be careful.”

  “My middle name is careful. Talk to you later, J.T. I'm at this number.” She gave him the number and name of the hotel she was staying at. “Now I've got to get a cab and get to the Hilton. Good-bye, J.T.”

  “Jess!”*

  “What?”

  “I should be there with you.”

  “J.T., you've pinpointed the exact location of the killer. Something no one else has been able to do. You did great.”

  “Jess, be careful out there!” But she hung up on J.T.'s cautionary words.

  Jessica quickly dressed, snatching on her undergar­ments, a pair of slacks, a pullover shirt and sneakers, and she tied her hair back with a ribbon. She grabbed up the receiver again and asked the desk to get her a cab. She found her purse, valise, and keys when the phone rang, likely the desk to let her know that a cab waited for her.

  But when she lifted the receiver, she heard the faint, choking, gagging sound, followed by more evidence of someone in distress. Then he came on the line, saying, “I've found you, Dr. Coran. And I've found number five.” Jesus, her mind raced, how could he know she was here? How had he gotten her number? As if to answer her thoughts, he said, “You aren't hard to figure, Doctor. I knew you'd follow, and all I had to do was page you at the desk. They wouldn't give me your room number, but they put me through to you.”

  He must have randomly selected hotels around the city and taken his chances, she surmised. He wasn't supernat­ural. “Your time is running out, Charon or Nessus or whatever you choose to call yourself today,” she informed him, summoning her strongest voice.

  “Really? I thought it the other way around. Listen to this!”

  “Wait! I've been reading Dante's Inferno.”

  This silenced the killer for a moment. “So, now you know where you're headed? I know where you belong, Doctor Coran.”

  “Everyone knows where you are now, Nessus,” she threatened. Bishop and the others did know his approxi­mate whereabouts. They knew he was somewhere in the Hilton. They were converging on his room, however, and not the room belonging to the unfortunate number five. Even so, she wondered where precisely Bishop and the others were now in relation to the killer. At any rate, she must keep the monster on the line for as long as possible. “I know where you're at right now,” she coldly informed him.

  “Impossible,” he replied.

  “You're here, in Salt Lake.”

  “Of course, but that comes as no surprise to either of us, does it?” He began a snorting laugh.

  “You're in the Hilton here in Salt Lake, and everyone knows it.”

  This fact coming from her silenced his laughter.

  “The FBI have you surrounded,” she informed him as casually as the most jaded telephone operator.

  “Lies become you, bitch! Listen to this, your answer.”

  “Wait!”

  But he didn't wait any longer. He put his fifth victim to the torch, the superheated whoosh of the flames now as familiar as a backyard barbecue to her, while the screams of the un­seen, unknown victim set a sickening snake loose to wiggle down her spine. She dropped the receiver on his maniac's laughter and left it dangling off the hook. She grabbed up her black valise and tore from the room to find a cab to race to the scene of the murder and the Phantom killer.

  Jessica fumbled with the cellular phone she kept in her valise, calling 911, announcing her identity and the fact that there was a fire at the Hilton; the operator wanted more detailed information, information she didn't have. “Just get the fire trucks there, now!”

  She hung up and dialed Neil Gallagher, the field agent in charge in Salt Lake City. After a series of voices and blips, she was patched through to Gallagher in the field. “Why didn't you contact me before you zeroed in on the Hilton?”

  “What are you talking about?” he asked, confused. “Haven't you heard from Bishop?”

  “Warren Bishop? Vegas? No, we haven't.”

  “My God. Get over to the Hilton. There's been another fire killing there. I've got fire trucks on the way.”

  “I've got two men posted at the Hilton, and I'm within spitting distance. I'm there!”

  “On my way, too.” Jessica hung up and rushed for her destination, hailing a cab and calling out as she boarded, “The Hilton, downtown Salt Lake City location.” On the short ride through the downtown district, the cab weaving to avoid jackhammers and construction block­ades, Jessica wondered again why Bishop hadn't contacted her or Gallagher, according to the other man. But why wouldn't Warren be in touch with the local FBI offices, even from the air? Why would he work around Gallagher? How many or how few people in the city knew of the killer's whereabouts while she had sat in the dark? she wondered. Warren had no doubt organized an attack force of some sort to converge on the hotel as soon as he'd arrived in the city. Had he bypassed Gallagher, knowing it was the only way to keep her in the dark about his movements? Did he really think he was sparing Jessica an ordeal? “Bastard,” she muttered.

  The questions continued, piling upon one another in av­alanche fashion. When would Warren's strike force strike? Why hadn't they done so earlier? What had held them back if they knew the man's room number by this time? By this time they must, she reasoned. But then why had they waited until yet another victim was sacrificed to this mad­man's unholy altar?

  FBI operatives from the Salt Lake City field office, which shared jurisdiction with the Flagstaff, Arizona, field office, had encircled the downtown area, awaiting more specific information about the operation, but it was infor­mation that did not come.

  Instead, three men entered the Hilton, and one among them, Chief Warren Bishop, rushed to the desk to learn what room was booked to a Chris Dunlap, a passenger on one of the bus tours. He flashed his badge and ordered up the information.

  “Package like that, we just rent a block of rooms to the tour group company; they make the selections who goes into which room.”

  “Who do I talk to, then?”

  “We can get Guy, Doris, and Maureen down here,” said a second clerk. “They're the tour guides currently in town. They'll each have a list.”

  “Then get 'em down here.”

  Only Maureen and Doris could
be found, Guy having already gone out for the nightlife. Maureen's list revealed no Chris Dunlap. Doris's list, however, did. “What do you know about this guy Dunlap?” Bishop asked the guide. “Next to nothing. He's a cold fish, a real loner. Keeps to himself, rides the back of the bus. Wouldn't join in at all the first days of the trip, but he's thawed some lately. Getting on and off the bus, he'll help someone, you know with a hand. Everybody on the bus has tried to be civil to him, but no one's gotten to know much about him. Word is he's retired, on disability, sued someone and made a bundle, so now he just takes trips all over, spending his money. Least that's what the ladies on the bus think...”

  “Have you seen him tonight?”

  “At dinner in the hotel restaurant.”

  “Is he still there?”

  “No, that was over an hour or so ago.”

  “What's his room number?”

  “ Five-twenty-two.”

  “I saw him leave with a woman from Guy's group,” added the one named Maureen. “We sometimes talk about our passengers, especially the weird ones.”

  “Do you know what room she's in? The woman who left with Dunlap?” Bishop asked her.

  “Couldn't tell you. Only Guy would know that. And Guy's not going to be found until daybreak. I don't know how that man does it, but he can even find a poker game in Salt Lake, and he plays to all hours, then—”

  “Damn it.” Bishop turned to the hotel clerk. “Give me the block of rooms this guy Guy has for the night, now!”

  The clerk's fingers speedily called up this information on her computer. “Rooms six-twelve through six-fifty.”

  “Back me up!” he called to the other agents with him, big men who had not bothered to display their badges. Sixth floor! Block off all the exits. Stop anyone with a case in his hand, anyone looking the least bit suspicious! Go, now!”

  As he rode the elevator up with two other men, Bishop told them to go door-to-door, knocking on every single door in the grouping. “You take the right, you take the left,” he told them.

  “And where will you be, Bishop?” asked one of the stone-faced men.

  “Yeah,” agreed the other man.