power, and so had making fools of the authorities.
It had also reduced the redness and swelling of his red rash. Satan appeared to be a being of his word, despite Wetherbine's continued warnings. 'He'll take you down with him. He's the consummate liar.'
While they searched the usual escape routes out of the city, he had slept comfortably in a bed on the fourth floor, one he'd registered for under his own name, paying cash. While Feydor had waited for Jessica Coran's arrival at the hotel, he'd rifled through Chris Lorentian's bags and purse, and he'd found her wallet stuffed with large bills, as well as a ticket made out to a Chris Dunlap out of Vegas.
Just as he had told Feydor what materials and instruments would be needed for the work, Satan had said he would provide for Feydor's safety, and he had. Dr. Wetherbine had been wrong about everything. A man could align himself with Satan, strike a bargain, and walk away free of any lesions or permanent scars and pain.
Feydor had merely to bide his time. At dawn, he found himself waiting about the lobby and the casino, no red hair now, for the tour bus that would slip from the city beginning at 6:00 a.m. He had a ticket to ride…
Feydor felt comforted now that he had taken the first step in his long journey, a journey laid out before him by the most supreme supernatural being of them all, the creature of pure evil, Satan. And happily, Feydor's first contact with Dr. Coran had been precisely as Satan had planned; it had gone so flawlessly well.
He knew, for he had stood in the crowd who watched outside room 1713. He'd seen the FBI woman's distress. He'd been questioned among others about what he might have seen or heard. He'd remained calm, assured, strong in the faith.
Seven more such victims, and Coran would make the true ninth and final victim.
Then Feydor's obligations, his pact with the Devil, would have been performed, finalized…
He would make a wish at the well, and all would, in the end, be well. Feydor would be well and whole again.
Feydor handed the ticket over to the tour guide, who smiled widely and with a quick glance, said, 'Welcome aboard, Chris. Why don't you check those bags with your driver, Dave.'
Returning the woman's smile, Feydor did as instructed, handing the tall, lanky bus driver two bags that had belonged to Chris Lorentian, while he held firmly to a small black briefcase that held his torch, wand, gasoline, mask, and tools. After checking Chris Dunlap's suitcases, Feydor climbed aboard, clutching his own quite crucial briefcase.
He located a seat at the rear, and then Feydor leaned back into the cushions of the luxury tour bus, the one that Chris Lorentian would have been sitting on had she lived. He gave a momentary thought to who Chris Lorentian had been and why she'd been traveling under an assumed name. But it mattered little to him, so he dropped the thought for more important thoughts.
Satan was wise. Satan said he would provide, and he had. He provided Feydor with the perfect escape route and in plain view. There must be a dozen tour buses waiting for passengers to board this morning.
The tour bus would take him safely out of harm's way.
What could be simpler?
Feydor had gone to the rear of the bus, from there he could keep a vigilant eye on anyone and everyone else aboard. Here, at the rear, if there weren't too many passengers, he might stretch out across two seats and finally relax as the coach rocked him to sleep. He felt now he could sleep peacefully, if everyone left him alone.
He trundled down the aisle, making eye contact with no one. When he got to the seat he picked out, he popped the overhead compartment door. He kept his tools and torch in the briefcase and he placed this in the overhead compartment, close at hand. Satan would soon give him a sign, and he would again heed the call and would again need the fire.
An exhaustive manhunt for the killer of Chris Lorentian was massed in Las Vegas. The local FBI office swung immediately into action, using what they knew of victim and killer profiling to make a guesstimate about the killer. The bulletin went out among police officials statewide, saying the killer might be a white male living in the Vegas area, either alone or with his parents, that he was likely in his late twenties or early thirties, but with an emotional age of a late teen, that he likely lived or worked close to the crime scene, had recently acquired a butane torch and other incendiary devices and had shown these items to acquaintances, was likely a 'spontaneous' person with a quick temper, most likely taking great pride in his vehicle-probably a van or pickup.
More specifically, the report said that the killer may have been in the underground parking lot at the Flamingo Hilton between 3:00 and 6:00 p.m. on the day of the killing. The description went on to characterize the actions of the killer since his heinous crime, saying that his eating and drinking habits would suddenly become erratic, along with personal hygiene. He would show an inappropriate interest in the crime and reports about the crime, frequently initiating conversations about the case or fire deaths in general. He might show signs of burns, seared hair on hands, arms, face, and head. He likely worked with fire or with fire equipment; he had a knowledge of fire. He might suddenly and unexpectedly leave the area, the report warned.
Warren Bishop had gotten back to Las Vegas to find his office knee-deep in an investigation centering around Dr. Jessica Coran. He immediately sought her out, calling her at her hotel room and meeting her for breakfast. The hotel was filled to capacity with tourists and conventioneers, coming and going, and this meant a long wait for a table in the coffee shop. Limos, cabs, buses lined the streets outside. The tourist trade was in full summer swing.
While they waited for a seat in the coffee shop, Jessica repeated her bizarre story to Warren, whose reaction was one of amazement.
When they finally got a seat, Warren looked intently into her eyes and promised, 'I'll see you have carte blanche with my field office, Jess. Whatever support you need, just ask. Meantime, I'll have my best techs wire your phone here, just in case.'
This remark made her look up from her toast and coffee and into Warren's big brown eyes. 'You don't think he'll actually call me here again, do you?'
'We'll take no chances.' He reached across the table and took her hands protectively into his own. 'To date, Jess, you've been extremely lucky. I'm not going to sit idly by and see you get hurt on my watch.'
Jessica gave a thought to their fleeting romance of years gone by when she was first recruited by the FBI, Warren always throwing a protective mantle about her. It was comforting, usually, but she also recalled feeling constrained and sometimes smothered by his constant attention.
'I appreciate all you and your team can do for me, Warren. And I guess you're right about the tap. Better safe than sorry.'
'Getting a voiceprint on the guy could help tremendously later if we ever get him before a jury.'
True enough, she realized. ''Only thing is, Warren, he-the killer-didn't speak a word to me. He forced his victim to call me, and he fooled me into listening to a murder over the wire.'
'He'll have to talk, sometime.'
'It appears he prefers to write.' She explained about the message left on the mirror. 'Any ideas what 'one is nine' could mean?' she ended with a question.
He thought about the strange message, but shaking his head, replied, 'Not in the least.'
After that, they reminisced about earlier days, and each brought the other up on their current life outside the agency.
Warren stirred his coffee and sifted through his thoughts before saying, 'I returned to the single life about two years ago, when my divorce came through; got a fourteen-year-old son and a twelve-year-old daughter whom I see whenever possible, which isn't often enough.'
She informed him of her ongoing relationship with James Parry in such a way as to make it clear that she was not interested in renewing any former flame between them.
'Well, I'd best get your room upstairs set up.' He stood up, his six-four frame as muscular and as attractive as ever, only his thinning and graying hair giving any hint that time had touched him. 'I've got my best electronics man standing by. And Jess, don't worry. At least if this creep does call back, you won't be entirely alone with him. Your line'll be monitored at all times.'
'Monitor this guy Charles Fairfax, too.'
'Fairfax?'
'He's seeing to getting some laser-lifting fingerprint tests performed. Seems the killer wrote his message in the fried grease of his victim on the mirror. Stuck his hand in it. He either has a high tolerance for heat or blackened
