Jessica scanned the map, her eyes gliding as if directed by a Ouija board pointer to a select few of the more than ten thousand geysers, hot springs, and boiling mud pots in the park, gasping at their resemblance to Feydor's words of earlier. There on the map, she read of the Devil's Well and Hellsmouth geysers in Lower Geyser Basin near Old Faithful and Old Faithful Lodge. A flood of memories, too disconnected and too disorganized at the moment to make any but fleeting sense to her, assaulted her senses while the editor continued to carry on about the grandeur that was Yellowstone.
'And can you imagine people coming here from the East and telling us, the Forestry Service in particular, that we need to build protective walls and fences throughout the parks? What utter nonsense. People have no idea the scale of nature out here. Why, it's enormous. Would anyone seriously entertain the thought of putting a fence around the Serengeti Plains in Tanzania or Victoria Falls or Niagara for that matter?'
Jessica only half-heard the woman. Her mind was on Dorphmann. Feydor's thinking, his quest, came into full focus. Finally, Jessica knew where he'd been headed from day one, what his final destination must be, and how he planned to kill victim number nine. 'May I keep this map?'
'Ahhh, sure, sure… I've got enough material on the park that I don't need it any longer. I've pretty well put the story to bed.'
'Whatever it cost.' She dug into her purse.
'No, take it. Anything to help get this madman you're chasing. And I'm dreadfully sorry about those three brave agents.'
Jessica swallowed her desire to confide any sliver of truth to the woman. 'Yes, it has hit the agency hard, just as the previous five murders by this maniac have.'
'Good luck on your manhunt, Dr. Coran. We all know one thing.'
'And what's that?' she asked, folding the Yellowstone map back into its original shape.
'That you're the best person for the job.'
'Thank you. I hope that's so.'
'Well, obviously, from what you've told us, the killer certainly thinks so.'
She smiled for the first time in twenty-four hours. 'Yes. Yes, that certainly is so.'
After the phony story was put to bed, a phone call to the hospital told her that Bishop died at 3:19 a.m. while still on the table, undergoing surgery, and that Agents Morganstern and Howler had also both died of wounds suffered in the fire. Excellent, she thought. Mrs. Crighten had played her part well.
EIGHTEEN
I do not believe in a fate that falls on men however they act; but I do believe in a fate that falls on men unless they act.
An all-points bulletin stretching nationwide was put out on Dorphmann, but Jessica knew that any resulting action would likely only net authorities a few arrests here and there of look-alikes, deadbeat fathers, estranged boyfriends, and the like. Dorphmann had hinted that he had physically altered his appearance already, or rather that Satan had done so for him. He had burned off his fingerprints, thinking this crucial to his living the life of a nonfugitive once he'd finished the Devil's work he'd been put to; he had shaved his head, had likely put on some weight given the free food provided by the tour package. He might have altered his appearance in other ways, such as changing the color of his eyes, from contact green to frame glasses and blue eyes. There was little telling, but he obviously knew something about makeup and diversion and escape tactics, as he'd proven in Vegas and now in Salt Lake City.
Jessica had returned to her hotel room after leaving the newspaper office, and now she felt badly that she couldn't be beside Warren Bishop when he opened his eyes, but there appeared no help for it. She had a rendezvous with a madman, a rendezvous that was long in coming, one she could put off no longer. She meant to put an end to Feydor Dorphmann's maniacal kill spree so that no one else would ever suffer at his hand again.
She telephoned the hospital and got hold of John Thorpe, whose sleepy voice slurred a good morning to her. It was 9:40 a.m.
'Anything new on Bishop?' she asked.
'He's dead, or haven't you heard?' J. T. quipped.
She pleaded with J. T., 'Please stay by his side, John.'
'I will, for you, Jess. Meanwhile, I'll go over Repasi's findings on the Grey woman, see if he missed anything or failed to tell us anything of a vital nature we don't already know, right?'
'Clever boy.'
J. T. broke the news to her that he'd gotten hold of Chief Santiva, who was en route to Jackson Hole, to report Bishop's true condition and why they had felt it necessary to plant the phony story.
'How'd he take it?' she asked.
''He thought it a long shot, but agreed we had little else to gamble on with this nutcase, so he's okay with it, Jess. He still doesn't understand what Bishop and the 'other two agents' thought they were doing. He still doesn't know about the long arm of Frank Lorentian in this matter.'
'He'll know soon enough, when he touches down at Jackson Hole. Gallagher will give him an earful, no doubt.'
Jessica thanked J. T., finishing with, 'For all you've done, John, over the years, thanks.'
'Hey, don't go getting maudlin on me, Jess. As for sitting this out with Bishop, it's no big deal. You're needed up in Wyoming, so get saddled up and get going. And don't worry about Warren. On the QT, they're calling him a fighter.'
'Has his prognosis improved?' she hopefully asked.
'His condition is stable but still critical.'
'Damn…'
'He's a tough guy. He'll weather it, and he's out of surgery and in IC, where he's under constant watch, Jess. What kind of trouble do you suppose he was in with Frank Lorentian?'
'Most likely gambling debts. When I look honestly back on our early days together at the academy, I remember now how avid a gambler Warren always was. I'd rosily chosen to forget that aspect of his character.'
J. T. replied, 'Damn, I know it. I had a girlfriend once who'd bet on which of two apple blossoms would fall from a tree first.'
'Yeah, Warren had that shortcoming, but I had no idea it had become a driving force in his life. Maybe it contributed to his divorce. I can't say.'
Jessica felt badly that friends, coworkers, his agency, his former wife, and his kids would hear through the news media that Warren Bishop had died of a gunshot wound in the course of his duty as an FBI agent. She tried to minimize the horror of it all by pretending Bishop was, in a sense, doing decoy work in his most unusual undercover operation, most possibly his last as an FBI operative, and one he was not even aware of. She rationalized spreading the lie also in that it might save lives if Feydor Dorphmann bought into it.
'Where will you be, Jess, if he comes around?'
'I… I'll be at the hotel, getting some sleep,' she lied.
'When will you be taking off for Jackson?'
'Sometime this afternoon.'
'Maybe I can join you then. Call me before you make any arrangements, okay?'
'Will do,' she lied again, knowing now precisely where Feydor Dorphmann was directing her to go. J. T. didn't know it, but she might well have said her final goodbye to him.
Rather than racing immediately off to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, Jessica chose another course of action, or
