When she got to Museum Mile, she hailed a cab and sat back in the seat, her breathing ragged. She knew herself too well to be under any illusions. She had never had the slightest desire to have children, but now Matt Wells was about to become a father again. That was getting to her. She had no idea whether the child was a boy or a girl, but for some reason that she couldn’t fathom, she was interested.
This was changing her, and that wasn’t good. Something that she couldn’t control was happening to her, something that was making her see the world differently.
The Soul Collector had to find her former lover urgently.
It was as if he had unknowingly infected himself with a disease that would change him irrevocably. Whenever he descended to the underground chamber hosting the Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant in exile—what those who believed in the false faith would have called a cathedral crypt—the Master almost forgot his name.
Given how many identities he possessed, he shouldn’t have been surprised. Of them, only his birth name of Heinz Rothmann was important to him, but even it was less desirable than the title he had assumed. The Master of the Antichurch was not only the guarantor of eternal death to his followers. He also still had control of the fortune that he had obtained as the businessman Jack Thomson, distributed over the years in numerous offshore banks. He was also still the sole owner of the conditioning drugs and techniques developed by his unjustly killed sister and lover, and there was no shortage of government agencies around the world that would pay with the lifeblood of their citizens for those. Not only that, he still had a large number of subjects who had been through coffining and could be activated as ruthless killers with a single phone call.
But for the Master, all of that had become a secondary reality, one seen through a glass lightly. Now he preferred the darkness that the Antichurch brought, the darkness and the knowledge that life was an illusion and that only death had any substance. The great poets had always known the power of death and its inescapable triumph. That was why the Mesopotamian tradition had the hero Gilgamesh descend to the underworld, the house of dust, to see firsthand how ineluctable the death gods were. The great poets, Homer, Virgil, even the deluded Christians Dante and Milton, had sent their protagonists to the underworld—assuming, as was obvious, that Satan was the hero of Paradise Lost. And even the false messiah Christ was said to have harrowed hell before his supposed resurrection. Lucifer and his realm were triumphant for eternity. To think that when the Master had revived the Antichurch in Maine, his motivation was that Americans would respond more readily to a religious cult than the antireligious ideology of Nazism. Now he knew that the Antichurch had more potential for destruction than any political system. After all, the established religions in the West had been sucking innocents into their maws for centuries.
The man with the scarred cheeks looked at the manuscripts he had laid out on the table in the underground chamber. Maybe he should see it as a crypt after all—the word meant ‘hidden,’ and there was nothing more hidden than the original Antigospel, written by its founders’ own hands. But it wouldn’t be a crypt for long. Soon the Antichurch and its primary lessons, that death governed all things and that human beings were naturally violent, would be known across the world.
But something was missing. The Master corrected himself—not something, but someone. He needed a senior disciple, a helper he could depend on. People capable of what the Antigospel required were very rare—even fully coffined subjects could not be relied upon in the most testing circumstances. He had encountered one with true potential, though: the Englishman, Matt Wells. The Master now understood that blaming Wells for killing his sister was a mistake. By that act, the crime writer, who had immersed himself deep in death’s philosophies and experienced the persecution of merciless killers, was the ally he needed. The problem was, Wells was nowhere to be found.
But that would soon change, he was certain. The murders in the northern cities would see to that. Matt Wells would become one of the nameless, as had the Master. And then the will of Lucifer would sweep across the land like the flames of hell itself.
Eleven
I was checking reports of the Hitler’s Hitman murders on the internet, when I heard Karen groan.
‘What is it, my love?’ I asked, going over to the sofa.
‘I don’t know, Matt. Help me up.’
I got her into a sitting position.
‘I have to go to the bathroom.’
After she was on her feet, I took her arm.
‘No, I’m all right,’ she said, gently pulling free. She stopped before she reached the door. ‘Oh, Matt.’
I was over there immediately.
‘I think…’ She moved a hand to her nether regions. ‘No, it’s all right. I thought my waters had broken.’
I took a couple of deep breaths and watched her walk on slowly. Then I called the midwife, who cheerfully told us to hang in there. I could cheerfully have throttled her, but Karen just laughed when she reappeared in the cream nightgown that she’d obtained through Julie Simms.
‘Let’s listen to more of that nice music,’ she said.
I put the second Monteverdi disk on and went over to join her on the sofa. We held hands until the music stopped. Karen asked me to put the first one on again, saying that Orfeo would always remind her of this time.
Later in the evening, after I’d made us toasted sandwiches, she dropped into an uneasy sleep. I turned the TV on, but it was too late for any fresh news. I leaned my back against the sofa and followed Karen into the land of dreams.
Not for long. Her stifled scream woke me.
‘Ah!’ she gasped. ‘The contractions are starting, Matt.’ Her face constricted and I felt nauseous. The sight of the woman I loved in pain was hard to bear.
I called the medical center and was told to calm down and wait until the contractions became more regular. All I could do was hold Karen’s hand and occasionally mop her brow with a damp towel. I lost track of time and my mind seemed to go into some kind of primitive passive mode to cope with the waiting and the uncertainty. I couldn’t remember much about my daughter’s birth.
Eventually I managed to get the midwife to send a car over. When we arrived at the medical center, it was quiet, being that it was now five in the morning. The rooms that had been set up as a temporary delivery and neonatal ward were empty and cold. I asked for the heating to be turned up.
The midwife was a jovial Latina woman. ‘Don’t you worry, Mr. Wells,’ she said. ‘We’ll take good care of your wife.’
‘Partner,’ I corrected. ‘Wife-to-be.’ When she took off her tunic to change into surgical scrubs, I saw she was wearing a green army shirt. I wondered how many midwives the U.S. military had on its books.
‘Whatever,’ she said, with a smile that displayed gleaming teeth. ‘We don’t discriminate. My name’s Angela, by the way. You can call me Angel.’ At least she wasn’t hung up on formality like the psychologists.
We sat on either side of Karen’s bed. She was mostly in control, but the layer of sweat on her forehead was a giveaway. Angel kept an eye on the monitors and from time to time ran her hands over Karen’s belly and below. The hours passed. The obstetrician, a Japanese-American called Kitano, looked in around 8:00 a.m. He was in uniform and bore the insignia of a lieutenant colonel. I’d got pretty good at recognizing people’s ranks since we’d been in the camp.
‘Everything good, Sergeant?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir,’ Angel confirmed. ‘Contractions are every two minutes, nil dilation so far.’
‘Very well. You know where to find me.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Angel acknowledged. ‘Reading medical journals in the colonel’s office, sir,’ she added, after he’d gone.
That didn’t reassure me. Kitano had been brought in from an army hospital in Chicago and I could have done with more signs of his commitment to Karen’s case.
I tried to take Karen’s mind off the pain by talking. She answered briefly, but he
r mind wasn’t engaged so I let her be. I even dropped off for a couple of hours, my head resting on the foot of her bed. It wasn’t quality sleep, though at least I didn’t dream. No nocturnal journeys through the underworld—the pale-faced Dr. Brown would have been disappointed.
The contractions eventually got more frequent and Angel’s eyes and hands busier. Kitano came in a couple of times and examined Karen. He made no comment, which irritated me.
‘Don’t worry, Matt,’ Angel said. ‘Your lady’s doing real well.’
I smiled at Karen. She looked like she had run a marathon, her blond hair damp and lank, her face lined. But she smiled at me bravely.
‘Well done, my darling.’ I kissed her on the cheek.
‘What, nil by mouth?’ she quipped, then gasped as another wave of pain broke over her.
I put my lips to hers. ‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘Not long now.’ I sat back, holding her hand. It went limp when the contraction passed. She was exhausted. How much longer was this going to last?
When it happened, there was no warning. Angel had checked Karen’s dilation and had her hands on the bump. Then her eyes opened wide when she took in the monitors. She immediately hit the panic button and a loud alarm started to sound every few seconds. Karen moaned and her hand reached for mine. Angel was pressing buttons and unhooking cables.
‘What is it?’ the obstetrician demanded, arriving at speed. There were two auxiliaries with him, big guys.
‘No heartbeat from the fetus in the last thirty seconds,’ Angel said.
‘O.R.,’ Kitano ordered. ‘Now!’
The auxiliaries laid hands on Karen’s bed and pushed it toward the door.
‘Matt!’ she said, as my hand came away from hers. ‘What’s happening?’
I followed them down the corridor. Kitano took a set of scrubs from a nurse and pulled his white coat off, dropping it on the floor.
‘What’s happening?’ I repeated, my heart thundering.
‘Don’t worry,’ Angel said. ‘We know what we’re doing.’
‘Matt!’ Karen wailed. ‘Help me!’
The big man at the front of the bed crashed through the doors to the operating room and the others followed. I was stopped by a male nurse.
‘Sorry, sir. You’ll have to wait outside.’
I had no option—wait was all I could do. I strode up and down the corridor, never going too far from the doors to the theater. My mind was bucking like a mustang stung by a horsefly. I couldn’t hold on to any thought for more than a few seconds. Was Karen in pain? What were they doing to her? Why had the baby’s heart stopped? Would he be harmed? Would his brain be damaged? Eventually I realized I was panting. I stopped walking to get my breathing under control.
That didn’t help. All that happened was that the possibilities hardened in my mind. Karen was being operated on. At best, she’d be denied the natural birth she wanted. At worst, her life was in danger—as might be that of Magnus Oliver Wells. I cursed myself for allowing her to make decisions about his name. An atavistic superstition about tempting fate overcame me and I staggered against the wall.
‘Karen, I love you, I need you,’ I whispered. ‘Come back to me. Bring him back.’
Then a cruel fear lanced into me. The Rothmanns. Whatever Dr. Rivers said, the Nazis’ conditioning process could be doing this to Karen. If she’d been harmed, if the birth of our son had been jeopardized, I would seek Heinz Rothmann out and make him pay.
That cold fury was all that sustained me until Kitano came through the doors, pulling a white coat over his bloody scrubs.
Peter Sebastian was in an FBI plane that had taken off from Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport a quarter of an hour earlier. He was feeling pleased with himself. The Director had approved his plan, had even congratulated him on it, and had authorized him to fly immediately to the camp in Illinois.
Sebastian had always counted himself a devious operator. He wouldn’t have reached the illustrious level he had if he hadn’t known how to outflank the competition and cover his ass, but recently he’d exceeded his own expectations. At this rate, he’d have a shot at deputy director within the next couple of years. After that, even director would be within his range.
Then again, he thought as he sipped black and unsweetened coffee, he had to pull this scheme off. If there were any more hate-crime murders, if the so-called Hitler’s Hitman killer continued to run rings round him, the Director would be forced to replace him. You were only ever as good as your current cases, and Sebastian was running at 0-4. Still, that had its own advantages. Desperate measures were necessary and had been green-lighted. This was exactly the kind of situation that Sebastian flourished in.
A call came through on the secure phone. It was Arthur Bimsdale.
‘No sign of the suspect Gordy Lister, sir. Major Carstens has circulated the description to the whole of the Philadelphia force.’
‘Have you considered sending it to law enforcement at the previous scenes?’
‘Already done, sir. All four have got it out to their homicide departments and to the people on patrol.’
‘Very good, Arthur,’ Sebastian said. Bimsdale was beginning to shine, which might be problematical.
‘Em, where are you, sir?’
‘That’s classified, Special Agent.’ Sebastian looked out of the cabin window.
It was already dark, the only lights those of another aircraft in the distance.
‘I see, sir. What are your orders?’
Sebastian had thought about that. ‘Get back to D.C. I’ll be in touch.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Bimsdale paused. ‘There’s something else, sir.’
‘Spit it out,’ Sebastian said impatiently. One thing that his assistant had still to learn was to be more forceful.
‘Gordy Lister. I’ve accessed his file. He has a brother.’
‘Is that right?’ Once again Arthur had surprised him. ‘What about him?’
‘He lost his legs in a car accident thirteen months ago.’
‘Where’s this going, Special Agent?’
‘Well, I’ve run a check on him. Michael John Lister. He worked as an electrician, sir. Standard household repairs, that sort of thing. Except he recently bought a fully converted Jeep Grand Cherokee and moved into a condominium outside Tallahassee, Florida.’
‘Well, well,’ Sebastian said, surprised again. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve talked to this Michael Lister.’
‘He’s known as Mikey, sir. No, I haven’t. What do you think about surveillance by the field office down there?’
‘I think it’s less than likely that Gordy Lister will show, but it’s definitely worth a shot. Good work, Arthur.’
They concluded the call shortly afterward. Sebastian was satisfied. Bimsdale was like a dog with a fresh bone, which had distracted him from the issue of Matt Wells. When they’d spoken earlier in the day, his assistant had asked why the Englishman was so important. What would he say now that Sebastian was on his way to make Wells a major player in the investigation?
He looked out into the darkness again, the murk that lay over the eastern states. Desperate measures was right. If his plan misfired, the deleterious influence of Heinz Rothmann would spread across the land like a plague. Americans had always been prey to political extremists. Even more were attracted to religious fundamentalism. Rothmann’s combination of Nazi ideology and a perversion of Christianity could unleash a wave of violence much worse than the four murders he had so far inspired. There was no doubt in Sebastian’s mind that Rothmann was behind the killings, no doubt at all. The fact that the Nazi had pioneered a successful brainwashing technique made the situation even more dangerous, even if Dr. Brown’s process might negate it. That was why Matt Wells, with his history of conditioning, was such a vital link.
Peter Sebastian found himself thinking about what the Englishman was going through. He had been informed that Karen Oaten was in the medical center. Matt had been through the birth of a child before, although the FBI man h
ad no idea how he had coped. Neither did he know how the writer’s relationship with his ex-wife had been. He found it hard to imagine that Matt had been more in love with her than he was with Karen. Here was a couple that lived for each other, and their shared experiences at the hands of the Rothmann twins had clearly made the bond between them even stronger.
Sebastian thought back to the births of his own children. Astrid’s had been straightforward, over in a couple of hours, while Roy had been reluctant to emerge into the world and had reduced his wife Emma to a groaning wreck. Which reminded him—he should call Emma and tell her that he wasn’t going to get home much in the immediate future. Since the Hitler’s Hitman murders started, he had seen very little of his family, returning home to Glenmont outside D.C. only to pick up fresh clothes and eat hurried meals. Astrid and Roy didn’t care. They were only interested in hanging out with their friends and indulging in the strange pursuits of modern youth. Emma should have gotten used to the demands of his job, but she had stopped being supportive in recent years, preferring the company of her female friends, even on the limited occasions he was around. Maybe she had a lover. Maybe she thought he had one, but he had never been tempted—not even by his previous assistant, Dana Maltravers. She had been some woman. Her concealed background and prolonged betrayal of the Bureau meant that she would be in federal prison for a very long time.
As the jet began its descent to the airport at Rockford, northwest of Chicago, Sebastian thought of Matt Wells again. He put his hand into the pocket of his suit and felt the box that contained the engagement ring he had procured. It would be the least he could give the Englishman.
Twelve
Kitano looked at me briefly, and then at the floor.
I felt like I was about to faint and throw up at the same time. My vision blurred and my ears rang as if I had suddenly been immersed in freezing, muddy water. I felt a hand on my arm.
‘Mr. Wells,’ the obstetrician was saying, ‘do you need to sit down? Mr. Wells?’
The Nameless Dead Page 10