Maps of Hell mw-3

by Paul Johnston

  And there was a screech of tires behind me. I dropped down between two large sedans. I had a few seconds to make a decision about how to play this. “Always attack,” Dave used to say. That was easy to do when you were surrounded by your SAS comrades in full-destroy mode, but the advice had been good in the past. I stuck the Glock under my belt and took out the combat knife. The black car had slowed down and was keeping pace with the men on foot, whose steps I could hear approaching. I let the first one go past, then rose up quickly to grab the second round his neck, the point of the knife breaking the skin lower down his back. That was another of Dave’s catchphrases-always shed blood if you want to gain control. I felt thick drops daub my hand.

  “Tell them,” I said to the man, who was standing stock-still in my grip.

  “He’s cutting me with a knife,” he said. The unwavering nature of his voice told me he was a pro.

  “Put the gun down,” I said to the man in front. I watched as he complied, relieving my man of his weapon at the same time. A silenced pistol was much more use in a city street. I looked to my left. The large black limousine was a few feet away, the window at the front passenger’s seat lowered. I saw two guys inside, both in suits. They looked like the president’s detail, moonlighting.

  “Out,” I said. “Both of you. If you want your friend to keep his kidney, don’t let me see any weapons.”

  They came out slowly, glancing at each other. I had a feeling they weren’t meant to pay much attention to each other’s safety, so I needed to get moving. I dragged my captive to the car and bundled him inside after I’d tossed another silenced pistol onto the floor. There was enough space for me to clamber over him before he could react. I dropped into the spacious driver’s seat, engaged Drive and hit the gas. I heard a series of dull noises before we’d gone fifty yards-they must have had back up weapons under their jackets. The man next to me slumped forward. The car’s glass was obviously armored, as the rear windscreen was hardly marked, but my captive had been unlucky. A bullet had ricocheted off the door frame and hit him in the head.

  I knew for certain that the surviving pursuers would be phoning for reinforcements. It was also likely that some public-spirited resident had witnessed the scene and called the cops, so I dumped the limo three streets down and walked as nonchalantly as I could onto M Street. A taxi was passing and I immediately hailed it, telling the driver to take me to Union Station. I could melt into the crowds there and pick up the Metro. I was glad I’d studied the city map before leaving my hotel.

  I took frequent glances over my shoulder and thought about what I’d done. Had showing myself to Gavin Burdett been worth it? On balance, I reckoned it had. I was now completely sure that he’d been involved in Karen’s disappearance, and mine, too, most likely. Joe would probably be able to trace the owners of the house-they might not be too clean, either. As for the damage I’d done to the banker’s knees and the accidental death of the man I’d taken hostage, I didn’t waste time on remorse. I had the feeling that I hadn’t always been as hard-edged as that. Then I recalled what had been done to innocent people at the camp. I could only hope that Karen was still alive and well. At least the bad men knew I was on their case now. That meant I was going to have to stand tall-and I wasn’t sure if I was up to that.

  Another thought struck me. Maybe what had been done to me in the camp was behind my ability to evade capture and get as far as D.C.-maybe I’d been turned into a callous killer. I’d killed before, as the FBI notification had indicated in Maine. But now I was really good at it.

  Thirty-Four

  Gerard Pinker was cold, hungry and seriously bored. He’d been in the cocktail bar around the corner from Gordy Lister’s office for three and a half hours while the newspaperman got more and more drunk. The detective was wearing a mustache that came down to his chin and a suit that Chief Owen, the department’s resident fashion critic, would have seen as way too preppy. Pinker had borrowed it from his younger brother Leonard, who worked for a D.C. lobbying company and was conveniently the same size.

  If his man had done anything interesting, Pinker could have hacked the evening. It would also have helped if he’d been able to drink more than a couple of beers. But Gordy Lister had sat at the bar, talking to no one except the male barkeep. He’d used his cell phone a few times, but never for long; none of the conversations had made him noticeably happier, either. Pinker hadn’t trusted his disguise enough to go nearer, so he hadn’t heard what Lister had been saying. He was about to call Clem and ask him to take over early, when a tall guy with short fair hair walked in and stood next to Lister. Pinker decided to go for broke. When he got to the bar, he still couldn’t hear much because of a couple of guys whining about the Redskins nearby.

  Gerard Pinker ordered another beer and leaned forward, pretending he was scoping the female barkeep’s ass. For a few moments he thought Lister had made him. The newspaperman caught his eye, but there was no sign of recognition in the bleary gaze. The tall guy was talking in a low voice more or less directly into Gordy’s ear, his eyes never wavering from the other man’s face. Pinker got the feeling that the verbal shit was being kicked out of his target. Then, with no warning, the other man and Gordy headed rapidly out the door.

  Pinker threw some money on the bar and went after them, counting fifteen before he opened the door. When he hit the street, the pair was already moving away to his right. The detective waited another fifteen seconds-that had been the unit of time he’d been taught to stick to by a veteran cop when he was young-then set off after them. At the end of the street they stopped, forcing him to slip into a doorway. When he looked out again, he saw they had separated. It was decision time-should he follow Lister or the guy who’d been chewing him out?

  In any event, Pinker never had to make his mind up. His cell phone vibrated against his thigh and he answered quietly.

  “You better can the tail, Vers. There’s been another murder,” Clem said in a low voice. “There’s been another murder.”

  “Shit. Our killer?”

  “Sounds like it. The vic’s a woman over in Lincoln Park. She read tarot cards for a living.”

  “What about the Feds?”

  “If we get there first, it’s ours till they start crying to Chief Owen.”

  “I’ll drink to that.” Pinker scribbled the address down in his notebook and looked around for a taxi.

  Lister and his interlocutor had already disappeared.

  I was sitting at the window of a coffee shop in Adams Morgan. When Joe Greenbaum came in, I looked down the street in both directions. There was no obvious tail.

  “Jesus, Joe, that stuff will kill you,” I said, when he sat down with an enormous mug of cream-topped coffee. “So, what have you discovered?”

  “The house in Georgetown is owned by a company called N.E.W.S. Properties,” he said, swallowing from the mug.

  “Mean anything to you?”

  The reporter grinned. “Sure. It’s a subsidiary of Woodbridge Holdings.”

  That rang a bell. “Woodbridge Holdings?” I repeated. “That was the name on the logging truck I stowed away on in Maine.” The logo came back to me, too. “The words were written on an open newspaper.”

  “You got it, Matt,” Joe said, licking cream from his mustache. “It’s kinda interesting. Woodbridge Holdings owns numerous papers across the country, including that rag the Star Reporter. They also own large stretches of forest and produce their own stocks of paper. Guess where?”

  “Not Maine by any chance?”

  “Bull’s-eye again, Matt.”

  “The camp I escaped from-maybe Woodbridge Holdings owns that, too.”

  Joe gulped down the last of his coffee. “They certainly have enough of Maine under their belts. There’s more. They also have interests in drug research and production. And, to advise them on their substantial foreign investments, they use a London-based bank by the name of-”

  “Routh Limited. Employers of one Gavin Burdett.”

 
“Correct. Did you never see Woodbridge Holdings in Karen’s files, Matt? She must have known about them, since she was after Burdett.”

  I shrugged. “I may have, but I don’t remember.” I broke off as a nasty thought came to me. “Maybe they wiped stuff like that from my memory at the camp.”

  “Doesn’t seem to have been wholly successful,” Joe observed.

  “Not wholly.” Then, suddenly, I felt as if the furniture in my brain had started to rearrange itself. Things I hadn’t been able to connect came together. “Karen must have found evidence linking Woodbridge and Routh. So she was kidnapped.”

  “And so were you, after you kicked up such a fuss.” Joe looked down at his empty cup. “But that doesn’t explain the occult murders. I can’t believe they’re doing them just to frame you. Besides, the first one happened before you escaped.”

  I remembered the BlackBerry I’d taken from Gavin Burdett and handed it to Joe. “See what you can find in that. Back in London I tailed Burdett to an occult supplies shop. Maybe there’s some link between him and the killings.”

  The reporter looked at me doubtfully. “You think he’s the murderer?”

  “He’s a sleazy bastard,” I said, then shook my head. “But I doubt he’s capable of murder. Anyway, he’s the kind of tosser who would pay somebody else to do his dirty work.”

  “He works for Woodbridge Holdings, so that puts the focus on them. And we’re in luck there. They have their head office in this fair city.”

  “Is that right? What about the Antichurch? Did you find anything on it?”

  Joe sighed. “A few references on the kind of Web site that’s written and read by crazies. People seem pretty much in awe of it, though. Or scared shitless. I sent my e-mail address and asked them to contact me, but don’t hold your breath.”

  “Jesus, Joe, that was taking a chance. You’ve made yourself a target.”

  He shrugged. “Not for the first time. They’ll have to get in line.”

  I was impressed by his understated courage. “What happened at the FBI press conference?”

  “Nothing much. They didn’t release the dead man’s name-they say they’re contacting the family. They seemed pretty sure the occult killer got him. There’s some evidence linking the victim to the others, but they didn’t give details.”

  I stood up.

  “What are you going to do, Matt?” Joe asked apprehensively.

  I smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ve kicked enough kneecaps for one day.”

  That didn’t seem to reassure him much. “They’ll really be after you now,” he said.

  “Give me the Woodbridge Holdings address, will you?”

  Joe tore out a page from his notebook and scribbled some words, then handed it over. “Don’t do anything rash, Matt.”

  I laughed. “What, like stand outside shouting ‘Give me back my memory’?”

  “That would fit the bill.”

  I squeezed his shoulder. “Don’t worry, my friend. I’ll be careful. I’ve got Karen to worry about.”

  I felt his eyes on me as I headed for the door.

  Chief of Detectives Rodney Owen was standing outside an apartment building in southeast Washington. Although the lights of Capitol Hill were under a mile away, the area wasn’t much of a picture. Apartments were gradually being taken by yuppie types, but the recession had made things hard for them and many of the buildings were still occupied by people with little to their names. Uniformed officers had strung barrier tape around the entrance and were keeping the curious at bay.

  Clem Simmons arrived and saw the chief immediately. He sighed in relief when he saw no sign of Peter Sebastian or Dana Maltravers.

  Owen came over. “I broke the speed limit.”

  “I was wondering,” Simmons replied.

  “Yeah, well, I want this case. Till we’re sure it’s the same killer, it’s definitely ours. That asshole Sebastian can kiss my ass.”

  Simmons smiled. If he’d been a nervous man, he’d have felt bad about the meeting with Matt Wells and Joe Greenbaum, but that didn’t bother him. He reckoned they were reliable. Whether this murder was in the series or not, law enforcement needed all the help it could get.

  A taxi pulled up and disgorged Pinker, without his false mustache.

  “Cool threads,” one of the uniformed officers said, provoking a scowl from the detective.

  Owen grinned. “Sure you aren’t overdressed, Vers? I hear it’s pretty messy up there.”

  “Do my brother good to get the real world’s substances on his clothes.” He accepted overshoes and gloves from his partner. “What do we know?”

  Owen glanced at his notebook. “Patrolmen were called by a neighbor who heard a scream from the vic’s apartment on the top floor. He looked through his peephole and saw a figure in a hooded jacket come down the stairs-didn’t see the face. The call was logged at 8:26 p.m. Our heroic citizen stayed behind his locked door. He says he didn’t look down at the street.”

  “Can’t blame him for prioritizing his own skin,” Simmons said. “You ready?”

  Pinker nodded. The pair headed into the building.

  “Check out the buzzer panel,” Owen called. “Second button from the top.”

  “Crystal Vileda,” Pinker read. “Diviner.” He looked at his partner. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Means she read the future,” Simmons said, walking into a hallway that had once been elegant but was now very shabby.

  “Oh, yeah? Unless she had a death wish, she couldn’t have been much good.”

  Clem Simmons shook his head. Sometimes he found Vers too much.

  A CSI was working at the elevator, so they walked up to the fourth floor. The house was narrow, one apartment per level. The door at the top was open, another technician dusting the panels for prints. They went inside, stepping around a CSI who was on her knees, examining the rug.

  “Gentlemen,” said Dr. Marian Gilbert, stepping back from a large armchair. Her face was flushed. “I was wondering where you’d got to.”

  “Jesus,” Pinker said involuntarily.

  The detectives took in the naked body sprawled across the chair, arms wide and legs sprawling. The woman was white, though olive-skinned. She looked to be in her thirties and was in good physical condition. Pinker was reminded of poses taken by women in porn movies-except they didn’t usually have chopsticks projecting from their nostrils.

  “Quite,” the M.E. said, glancing at the police photographer. “Are you done?”

  The man nodded and stepped back.

  “What do you see, Doc?” Simmons asked. He was trying to resist the temptation to throw his coat over the victim-he felt ashamed to be looking at her in such an exposed state.

  “I see a very unusual cadaver,” Marion Gilbert replied. “I-”

  “Are those chopsticks?” Pinker interrupted.

  She nodded.

  “Are they the cause of death?” Simmons asked.

  “I don’t see any other.” She pointed to broken skin on the left temple. “I doubt that blow would have done more than knock her out briefly. Assuming the chopsticks penetrated the brain, they would certainly have caused major trauma. I think they’re ivory, which is strong enough to do the job. I suspect they were sharpened to ease penetration.”

  Pinker groaned. “Thanks for that, Doc.” He looked at his partner. “Two murder weapons like the others…but not skewers.”

  Clem Simmons nodded. “And no paper with drawings on it. We need to turn her over.”

  Marion Gilbert nodded to her assistants and they slowly turned the victim onto her front, keeping her face off the chair.

  “No diagram there, either,” Pinker said, exhaling rapidly. “With the change in murder weapons, that gives us a chance of keeping the case.”

  The M.E. looked at him and then shook her head. “I rather doubt that, Detective.” She pointed to the table at the far end of the room.

  The two men went over. There was a pile of cards at one corner. They
were larger than the ordinary playing kind. In the center were three more, arranged in a row, and next to them, in a clear plastic sheath, was a piece of paper. An array of squares and rectangles had been drawn on it in black ink.

  “Shit,” said Pinker. “More squares and rectangles.”

  “I’m guessing the killer didn’t waste time attaching this to the vic after she screamed,” Simmons said. He bent closer and took in the tarot cards. “Death, the Devil and the Seven of Swords.”

  Gerard Pinker squinted at the garishly colored and grotesque illustrations. “You know what they mean, Clem?”

  “Not really,” his partner said. “The Devil and Death are obvious enough.”

  “Actually, they aren’t.”

  The men turned to find that Dr. Gilbert had joined them.

  “Tarot is a hobby of mine,” she said, smiling briefly. “The Devil may appear to fit the pattern of the occult murders, but the card actually has more to do with the subject being bound by fear and temptation, by material things or addictive behavior. Negative thinking is in there, too.”

  “There’s nothing more negative than being murdered,” Pinker interposed.

  The M.E. shook her head. “No, that isn’t it. I think this shows that the killer is rather ignorant of the tarot.” She paused. “Assuming it was the killer who arranged the cards, of course. The victim might have laid them out before her death.”