Maps of Hell mw-3

by Paul Johnston

  Gordy Lister looked at his cowboy boots. “No,” he mumbled.

  “I didn’t think so. If you don’t want me to stomp on your toes again, start talking.”

  Gordy’s head stayed bowed for some time, before he raised it slowly and looked at Simmons.

  “Call off your attack poodle, will you, Clem?”

  Simmons laid a hand on his partner’s arm. “Don’t mind him,” he said, smiling encouragingly. “What have you got?”

  “What I heard, a writer from London is the man. Matt Wells, his name.”

  Pinker edged closer. “Come on, Gordy, you know that’s bullshit. He could only have done Professor Singer if he used a private jet.” He caught Lister’s eye. “And he didn’t.”

  Lister shrugged. “That’s what our sources are giving us.”

  “Those sources wouldn’t happen to be in the FBI, would they?” Simmons asked, poker-faced.

  Lister looked down again. “You kidding, Clem? You want me to name our sources?”

  “Rhetorical question. What else are you hearing?”

  “Not much. ’Course, the guys who are working the stories might be looking at things they haven’t told me yet.”

  Gerard Pinker shook his head. “You people are so hot for that sexy occult angle, aren’t you?”

  Lister raised his bony shoulders. “Sure. It sells papers.”

  “I bet it does,” Simmons said, giving him a slack smile. “Speaking of demons, you ever hear of the Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant?”

  “Jeez, it’s cold out here. The Antichurch of what? No, man, doesn’t ring any bells.” He shuffled his feet.

  Clem Simmons held his gaze on him, then glanced at his partner. “He hasn’t heard of the Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant, Vers.”

  “No. No, he hasn’t.”

  The newspaperman took out his cell phone and looked at the screen. “Look, guys, I got to go,” he said, avoiding their eyes. “See you around.”

  Pinker waited till Lister was out of earshot. “What do you reckon?”

  “Obviously he was lying about the Antichurch. The question is why. Is that the Star Reporter’s next big story?”

  They started to walk back to the MPDC building. They hadn’t gone more than twenty paces when both their phones rang.

  Peter Sebastian stood on the west bank of the Anacostia River, below the National Arboretum. To his left, a tent had been erected by the CSIs around the body of the middle-aged male Caucasian that had been found in the river. People had gathered at the barrier tape behind him and he could hear their voices. There wasn’t much sense of shock-people in northeast D.C. were used to violent death-but they were still curious.

  The FBI man’s curiosity had also been piqued, and not just by the murder. He watched as Dana Maltravers showed ID, ducked under the tape and came toward him, her expression as resolute as ever.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said, points of red on her cheeks.

  Peter Sebastian gave her an icy look. “I’ve told you before that I need to be able to reach you at all times, Special Agent.”

  Maltravers recoiled. “I was over at Hate Crimes, sir.”

  “Really? And what took you there?”

  “Those threats that were found in Professor Singer’s e-mail program? It turns out Hate Crimes has logged the group that made them.”

  Peter Sebastian’s face changed. “The Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant? What do Hate Crimes know?”

  “Very little, unfortunately. It was founded over a hundred and fifty years ago, up in Maine. But it only lasted a few years, till it was violently put down by the locals. There was no sign of it until the threats against Professor Singer late last year.”

  “So could they be the killers we’re looking for?”

  Maltravers raised her shoulders. “Apparently they used to perform human sacrifices.”

  “Shit.” Sebastian looked at his subordinate. “Good work, Dana. I presume Hate Crimes is collating information.”

  “I asked them to. You may have to make a formal request. You know what they’re like. They guard their data, even from us.”

  Sebastian watched as Detectives Simmons and Pinker arrived at the barrier tape. “Here come the soon-to-be-relieved investigating officers,” he said in a low voice.

  Dana Maltravers turned toward the tent.

  Peter Sebastian put a hand on her arm. “Just a moment, Special Agent. Do not engage in any more flippant conversation with Pinker. He and his partner are about to become the enemy.”

  Maltravers nodded uncertainly, then followed her boss to the tent where the latest victim lay.

  “Son of a bitch,” Gerard Pinker said, standing by his Crown Victoria outside the barrier tape. “Who does ol’ Dickhead think he is?”

  “Someone who has more pull with the commissioner than you and me,” Clem Simmons said.

  “Not to mention Chief Owen.”

  Simmons shrugged.

  Pinker scowled. “Shit, I’ve never been taken off an investigation in my life.”

  Simmons smiled softly. “Me, neither. Then again, we haven’t exactly covered ourselves in glory here, have we, Vers?”

  “You really think this is one of them?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Simmons thought about the male corpse in the tent. He’d been naked when he was found, so the pair of knives in his chest had looked like the obvious cause of death. It hadn’t been until Dr. Gilbert had examined the skull beneath the dead man’s hair that other wounds had been found. The M.E. reckoned that the larger of the two skull fractures would have been lethal. Although it was hard to tell because of the body’s waterlogged condition, she thought that the knives had been inserted postmortem. The time of death was hard to calculate, but Marion Gilbert reckoned the victim had been in the water for at least twenty-four hours, and he had certainly been dead before he went into the river. Her initial evaluation was that the man was in his early forties, in good physical condition and in a profession that demanded substantial exposure to the elements-his hands and face had weathered, probably over the course of many years. The only distinguishing feature on the body was a tattoo on the upper right arm. It showed the Marine Corps insignia and the words Semper Fi.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Pinker said, opening the car door. “I’ll tell you what I think.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Simmons said, getting in the passenger side.

  “Oh, yeah,” his partner mimicked, reversing out onto the road. “That guy wasn’t killed by the occult killer.”

  “And your reasoning is?”

  “For a start, knives were used instead of skewers. Plus, he hasn’t got a drawing pinned to him.”

  Clem Simmons nodded. “True enough. Even if it had been pulled off by the flow of water, there would have been puncture marks.”

  “Right. And we kept those collections of shapes out of the public eye. So whoever killed the floater didn’t know about them.”

  “Mmm. You could be right. Or maybe the killer just ran out of time.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Pinker said, shaking his head. “I’ll tell you something else, Clem. The murderer of the first three is a class act. He didn’t just toss his victims in the river. Why take the risk of being spotted when you’re smart enough to leave no traces?”

  The daylight had almost gone. Simmons eyed the lights of central Washington ahead. “You’re forgetting the fingerprints at Monsieur Hexie’s place.”

  “Matt Wells’s? They’re a ruse and you know it, man. The Brit isn’t even in the city.”

  The big man closed his eyes. “Maybe,” he said, rolling his head on the rest. “But who gives a shit, Vers? We’re off the cases, remember?”

  “Screw that,” his partner said, spittle flying from his lips. “Those Bureau assholes will come begging for our help in a day or two.”

  Clem Simmons laughed. “Assholes? There was me thinking that you had a soft spot for Princess Maltravers.”

  “Kiss my ass, big man. You know brunettes
don’t do it for me.”

  “I saw the way you’ve been scoping her.”

  “Unfortunately it takes two to do the horizontal tango, Clem. She wouldn’t even look me in the eye back there.”

  Simmons swallowed a laugh. He reckoned Dana Maltravers might have been warned off by her boss. Not that it mattered anymore. He didn’t trust either agent one little bit.

  “Shame about Dr. Gilbert, though,” Pinker said, starting the engine.

  “How’s that?”

  “We won’t be seeing so much of her. Now, there’s a woman I could go for in a big way.”

  This time Simmons didn’t hold back on laughing. “Jesus, Vers. You think you stand any chance with the M.E.? She’s way out of your league, man.”

  Pinker shook his head. “See, that’s where you’re wrong, Clem. I’ve always had a good feeling about her.” He looked to the left. Marion Gilbert was heading toward a black SUV, her head down. “You notice a change in her recently?”

  “How do you mean?”

  Pinker raised a hand at the M.E., but she didn’t respond to the gesture. “I don’t know. She’s looks kinda stressed. Maybe these murders have been getting to her.”

  Simmons shook his head emphatically. “You lovesick fool. Dr. Gilbert lives and breathes homicide victims. She’s got formaldehyde in her veins.”

  Gerard Pinker pursed his lips as he drove away from the crime scene. Sometimes, he thought, his partner was surprisingly unperceptive.

  The blonde woman was lying on the bed and looking out of the window. Her eyes were wide as she took in the trees beyond the high fence and the mist rolling down them. It made her think of a wispy summer dress, but she couldn’t remember ever wearing such a thing. She couldn’t remember much about herself at all. All she knew was that she was in hospital, the doctor had told her so this morning. After he’d gone, the friendly nurse had said she was doing very well and that her treatment was almost finished. But when she had asked what she was being treated for, the nurse had just smiled and said the doctor would explain everything soon.

  The next person who came into the room wasn’t a doctor, though. She was dressed in a gray uniform with shiny black boots, and she wasn’t like the nurse-she was stern. Her brown hair pulled back from her face in a tight grip, and she didn’t smile once. She handed the blonde woman a file and told her to study everything in it. After she’d gone, the woman looked at the photograph and read about the man depicted in it. There was a lot of detail-where he lived, what he did when he wasn’t working, his family. Then there was a separate section about his work. The blonde woman read the words and committed them to her memory, but she didn’t understand all of them. They were written in her native language, but the writing was hard to follow in parts.

  When the doctor finally came back, his questions made her even sleepier. He asked her for her name, her date and place of birth, her parents’ names and what she did. Her mind was completely blank and she couldn’t answer any of the questions. For some reason, she didn’t find that in the least upsetting.

  Thirty-One

  Trucker Bo dropped me on the outskirts of Baltimore. The only money I had was a few dollars I’d got in change when Mary and I had stopped at a gas station-she had given me cash for gas when she went to the washroom. I had to assume the rail and bus stations in Washington would be being watched.

  So I stuck my thumb out again. This time it took me longer to get a ride, but eventually a young man in a cargo van stopped. He was going to D.C. with a load of bathroom tiles for a house in Kalorama Heights. I played the Canadian tourist again and got him to explain where that was. My memory was playing games with me again-I had no recollection of where in D.C. my friend Joe Greenbaum lived.

  The radio was playing and a news bulletin came on not long after I’d got in. I wondered if my name was going to come up, but the news was all local and the shoot-out at the motel in New York wasn’t mentioned. I found out more about the latest news on the occult killings.

  “Good old D.C.,” the driver said, glancing at me and smiling wryly. “You get much of that kind of thing back home?”

  I had a flash of the White Devil and the Soul Collector. “No,” I lied. “It’s pretty quiet where I come from…in Ontario.”

  “Well, it sure ain’t been where we’re heading.” He laughed and lit a cigarette. “Go, you Redskins, go.”

  I tried to make sense of what was coming from the battered speakers. It seemed that a body had been found in a river, and there was evidence to connect the unidentified male Caucasian to the previous murders. My name didn’t come up. Then I heard that the FBI had taken over the investigation. That was not good news.

  The young man let me off in the area he identified as Adams Morgan and I went straight to a phone booth. I had enough coins to make a call. Fortunately Joe’s number was listed. I got connected.

  “Greenbaum.”

  “Joe, it’s Matt.”

  There was a brief silence. “Jesus, Matt. Where are you?”

  “In your town.”

  “I don’t believe it,” he said, the words coming in a rush. “The police…well, I’ll tell you when I see you. Where are you exactly?”

  I looked around. “Eighteenth Street and Belmont Road.”

  “Okay. Stay there. I’m on my way.”

  About fifteen minutes later, a yellow-and-black taxi pulled up and I saw Joe’s heavy frame in the back. I got in the other side and punched his shoulder.

  “It’s great to see you, man,” I said, meaning it. I suddenly felt emotional. Seeing someone I knew, someone I remembered, brought home how much I’d been through.

  Joe smiled. “Yeah, this is a surprise-a great one, of course.” He looked over his shoulder and said the name of what sounded like a bar to the driver. “I only hope I haven’t landed you even more in the shit.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I went to the cops about you.” He raised his hands. “All good, don’t worry. But they may have thought it was worth staking out my place, in case.”

  “So they’re still after me…” I said, my voice low.

  “Not if they listened to what I said.”

  “I just heard on the radio that the FBI has taken over the investigation.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, I heard that, too. I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”

  The taxi pulled up outside a run-down bar. After paying, Joe got out and scanned the area. “Don’t worry. We’re not going in. There’s another place about a ten-minute walk from here. You up to it?”

  I laughed. “Are you?”

  “What do you mean?” he said, feigning outrage. “I’m at my fighting weight.”

  “I didn’t know hyper-heavyweight had been recognized.”

  He thumped me in the chest. “Yeah, I’ve missed that classy English humor.”

  “Shall we split up for a bit? See if anyone’s on our tail?”

  “I forgot you were an expert at this. Okay.”

  I crossed the road and ducked down behind a van with high sides, while Joe kept walking straight ahead. I waited while a couple of people passed him, but neither showed any interest. I kept him in sight as he waddled on. When he went into a much more salubrious bar, I looked around again. There was no one suspicious, at least to my eyes, so I went to join him.

  Joe had found a table at the far corner of the place, which was a cross between a neighborhood bar and a trendy young persons’ hangout. The waitresses were wearing short black skirts, so it was bearable. Joe had already ordered us beer.

  “So, let me look at you, man,” he said, taking in my less than salubrious clothes. “Still buying your gear at Bloomingdale’s, eh?”

  I laughed. The oversize reporter had a comic streak that was at odds with his work outing corrupt businessmen and officials. “I see you’re still on the sperm whale diet.”

  “Yup,” he said, grinning. “Blubber three times a day keeps the doctor away.”

  I had come up with that jibe the first tim
e I’d met Joe-he’d made a comment about how thin I was.

  The beer arrived, accompanied by a platter of snacks. I suddenly realized that, although Bo had given me a bottle of water, nothing solid had passed my lips since last night at the motel. I actually managed to match Joe bite for bite. That seemed to impress him.

  “All right,” he said, wiping his lips. “Tell me what happened.”

  “I’ll tell you what I can remember.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

  “Somebody wearing army boots has been stomping through my memory.” I told him what I could about the camp and my escape. It would be fair to say he looked astounded.

  “Jesus, Matt. What is this shit?”

  I shrugged. “I was hoping you might be able to help me out there, Joe.”

  He smiled. “What, along the lines of ‘Yeah, now you come to mention it, Matt, I know just the place you mean up in the Maine woods. It’s a research center run by the CIA and-oh, look-I have the cell-phone number of the man in charge.’”

  I laughed. “That kind of thing, yeah.”

  Joe’s expression grew more serious. “Why would someone want to mess with your mind, Matt? Do you know something they want forgotten?”

  “Good questions, both.”

  He rubbed his unshaven chin. “Can you remember anything about how you got up there?”

  “No, that’s one of numerous things that my brain is steadfastly refusing to access. I’ve remembered Karen’s disappearance, but…” I broke off, suddenly seeing the woman on the upturned cross whose throat was cut.

  “What is it, man?”

  I took several deep breaths. I wasn’t going to let myself believe that Karen had been the victim. It must have been a trick. But why would anyone be so heartless? She was pregnant, for Christ’s sake. Our son…

  “Matt?” Joe’s hand was on my arm. “Are you okay?”

  I snapped out of it and gave a weak smile. I wasn’t going to tell him-if I did, it would seem even more real.

  “Just a bit wasted-not enough sleep.”

  “Not enough beer.” Joe raised a hand for more. “So you don’t recall you and me running around Virginia and D.C. after Karen disappeared? I pulled the chain of any law enforcement professional I thought might be able to help.”