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 naivetй, 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.
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 Lorentian, 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 Dunlap, 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
