what if any truth is in that.'
''Is he linked to other fire deaths?''
'Nothing even closely resembling this modus operandi in the previous fires alluded to that I can see, certainly no phone calls to me, no. And no fire investigator worth his salt would call these fires connected. This fire investigator guy probably just got carried away with the press attention.'
'What's your gut reaction to this guy they're calling the Phantom, Jess? Honestly, now.'
She let out a long spray of air in chaotic response. 'Guy just may shoot himself in the head or burn himself up before he kills again, for all we know at this point.'
'How did he get your number?'
'As I said, he must've somehow found out I'd be staying at the Flamingo, where the convention is being hosted. Likely just assumed as much, called the desk, and confirmed. We got a composite from the desk clerk 'cause the killer signed in using Chris Dunlap's registration. But the damn composite looks like a clown.'
''Well, keep us apprised here, and like I said… You need anything, give a call.'
'Thanks, Eriq.'
They hung up, and she paced the room. It was a bit overstated in its decor, this place, far too much pink and flowers for her taste. She had wanted to attend some of the sessions today at the conference; there were always new methods, procedures, and information to learn at such conferences, and it was part of her duty as a medical examiner to keep abreast of the latest in forensics and science in general. Still, she was torn. There was much to do with regard to the Lorentian girl's death. Her friends, school associates, other relatives ought to be interrogated. Whoever got to her seemed to have known her movements. As it happened, she'd had a previous reservation or two at the Flamingo, quite possibly as a rendezvous place for a lover or lovers. From her pictures, she'd been quite beautiful.
Still, all such information could as well be gathered by the local police, and since they were on the case, Jessica decided to take advantage of the day to make the best of what had become an awful stay.
She dressed comfortably and casually for the day's sessions, went to the ones that piqued her interest and curiosity, and got her mind off the Phantom, his victim, and Frank Lorentian's unveiled threats.
SEVEN
Sin is a sort of bog; the farther you go in, the more swampy it gets.
Jessica was awakened in the middle of the night by an insistent phone at her bedside, where a digital clock read 3:10 A.M. She hadn't answered a telephone ring since hearing from-she wondered if she dared think it him now- the Phantom Killer. Not knowing how many rings had already come, she still hesitated answering the annoying machine, like some clawing Rumpelstiltskin at her bedside. Her hand, as if independent of her mind, halted in the air over the receiver. A fearful dread continued to blot out her resolve.
Possibly… probably Jim… calling from Hawaii. It's late there, too-1:10 a.m.-and he's thinking of her, and he wants to hear her voice. Or perhaps it's Eriq Santiva, or someone else at Quantico with an urgent message, something about the case that simply couldn't wait till daybreak. Perhaps it was Kim Desinor with some psychic words of advice…
She lifted the receiver. Placed it tentatively against her ear. Muttered a soft, 'Hello?'
'Dockkkk.' The word was chillingly choked off. 'Kkk-Coran?'
The voice sounded like Chris Lorentian's; it sounded like a voice from the grave. Jessica immediately wondered if she weren't simply in the midst of a nightmare, one of those horrible replays of a true event the brain safely tucked away but the soul took out to examine more closely, always about this predawn hour. Yes, her weary mind playing tricks on her, but her blood temperature plunged at the chilling tones coming over the spectral wires, while her hands-trembling with the dreamed-up receiver-turned strangely clammy, her mouth as dry as potato dust.
Finally, she heard herself ask, ' 'Who is this?''
A high-pitched voice replied, 'Mel… Marrrr-tin.'
'I don't know you. Who are you?' The voice sounded far away yet strident, pulled tighter than a guitar string, shaky and twangy. A quaking, older-than-Chris Lorentian female voice, she felt certain now. If it was the nightmare of the other night happening all over again, there seemed to be certain minute changes. Still drowsy, part of Jessica remained just as certain that she'd wake from this all-too-familiar nightmare any moment now to find a silent room, the receiver on its cradle, her nerves intact, her bodily control and functions returned to her. Another part of her mind screamed that this was no ephemeral event.
'He made me… made me call.' The disembodied voice filled Jessica's ears; the shaky, cracking voice resounded with terror. Obviously in pain, obviously in tears, the caller conjured up the image of the helpless form Jessica had seen in room 1713 of the hotel, the scorched remains of Chris Lorentian.
'Who is he? Who is the bastard? Give me something, anything, any clue,' Jessica pleaded.
'Any Chhh… Christ…'
Any Christ? she asked herself. Was the caller swearing? 'A name!'
'Beelzebub!'
'Satan?'
'Doe… douwhn…'
'Dough?'
'Doooon't let him hurt me! Says… says he's doing it for… for you.'
'Doing what for me? Who is he? A name! And what does he want from me? Ask him! Ask him! Keep him talking,' Jessica pleaded.
Another voice, all male and vicious and throaty, growled into the receiver, 'I… I kill for… thee, Kkkkoran…'
'Who are you? What are you?'
'I am Charon!'
'Listen to me, Sharon.'
'Char… Char-ron,' he corrected. 'And there's no time for Hellsmouth like the present. It's over for number three.'
She only understood his threat. 'No… no,' Jessica muttered and then screamed, '' No! '' even as she heard the slosh, slosh, slosh of a wet substance, and she heard the baritone voice of a male shadow, the Phantom, saying something in the background that sounded like a muffled, 'Burn… die, bastard thing, burn in the mouth of Satan for all eternity, burn in the well!'
'Mel!' Jessica shouted just as the whoosh of superheated air traveled through the lines, stinging her ear. She could smell the fire and feel its singing, singeing song amid Mel Martin's single, long, contorted wail of pain until there was nothing left but the beating of the fire's wings moments before the phone line went dead.
This is it… I wake up screaming now, right? Jessica thought, all in the same instant that the phone line went dead. I wake up now. But she realized it was no dream, that she was awake, and that the weight and firmness of the receiver in her hand were corporeal, not spectral.
She choked and coughed as if the fire had somehow singed her own lungs, and gasping for water, she slammed down the receiver and grabbed the glass of water she routinely kept at her bedside, knocking it over, spilling the contents over the carpet.
'Damn, damn, damn this mudderfreakingsonofabitchin' bastard of Satan!'
Tears had come of their own volition. Jessica had seldom felt so maligned, so abused, and so helpless. She wanted desperately to reach out and touch this someone, this SOB. Then she recalled the security measures Warren's local bureau had placed on her phone. She prayed they had the fire freak on tape, and that they could place him precisely where he had called from this time without delay. She prayed the fiend had remained close by
