The Nameless Dead

by Paul Johnston

  My senses recalibrated themselves.

  ‘Tell me what happened,’ I said, pulling away from him. I knew his hands had done terrible things. ‘Tell me!’

  Kitano looked over his shoulder. Two soldiers were watching me.

  ‘Leave us,’ the surgeon ordered.

  ‘Tell me,’ I said, my voice hoarse.

  ‘Mr. Wells, you should sit…’ He broke off, realizing that he was in danger. ‘All right, have it your way. I’m very sorry, we did what we could, we really tried very hard.’ He looked away. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘My…my son…is he…’ I couldn’t bring myself to say it.

  ‘I’m afraid so. The umbilical cord was wrapped twice around his neck. We were as quick as we could have been, but…’

  I tried to slow my breathing down, but had lost power over my body.

  ‘When…when will Karen…Karen come round?’ I asked, leaning against the wall.

  ‘You don’t understand, Mr. Wells,’ the obstetrician said, his face sagging. ‘Your wife…your wife didn’t survive the operation.’

  My knees quivered and I slid to the floor. Karen? No, it wasn’t possible. She couldn’t be… I couldn’t even think the word. No, he was mistaken. What did he know? He wasn’t a proper doctor, he was in the army. Karen was just resting, she’d come round soon.

  ‘I want to see her,’ I said, getting to my feet with difficulty. ‘I need to see her now.’ I stumbled toward the doors that led to the operating theater.

  ‘Mr. Wells,’ Kitano said, alarm in his voice. ‘You can’t go in there. Your wife…’

  I turned back toward him, tears cascading down my face. ‘She’s not my wife!’ I screamed. ‘She’s my partner. We’re getting…we’re getting married after…’

  This time my legs gave way as if I’d been shot. I heard a loud crack and then dived gratefully into the void.

  People who thought Philadelphia was quaint had their heads up their asses, Gordy Lister thought—or they hadn’t been to the southern part of the city, where he had found a cheap hotel. This was urban blight in a big way, the kind of place the Star Reporter would have described as ‘Yuksville, U.S.A.’ He looked at the copy of the paper that he’d picked up for old times’ sake at a convenience store. He had worked his way up from gofer to senior editorial consultant, the latter meaning Heinz Rothmann’s fixer—a position he still occupied, though the working conditions were kind of different. The paper looked exactly the same as it used to, the new owners knowing a winner when they saw one. They’d got it cheap, as well. The government had closed down as many of Rothmann’s companies and blocked as many of his accounts as they could. Much good it had done them. His employer was still doing what he wanted.

  Lister looked through the dirty gauze curtain at the dilapidated tenement across the street. Laundry was hanging from wires strung across window frames and the piercing voices of the poor rang out in several unfamiliar languages. He caught glimpses of people wearing scant clothing despite the chill. The fools had given everything they had, sold their futures to get here. Did they really think it was worth it? What kind of shit-holes had they come from?

  Gordy Lister thought back to his own childhood in a trailer park outside Oklahoma City. His father had been a drunk, who rarely showed up. Even though she was hardly a looker, his mother turned tricks while he and Mikey played at the other end of the trailer. Often the door swung open and they saw more than was good for them. Mikey had grown up a hopeless fanny hound, at least until the accident. Not that being legless cramped his style much, or so he claimed on the telephone. Apparently some women were turned on by his stumps.

  Ah, Mikey, he thought. You’ll be the death of me. If Rothmann finds out I’ve been calling you and sending you money, I’ll be the Antichurch’s next sacrifice. But what can I do? You’re all I’ve got since AIDS took Mom, not that I cried many tears about that vicious bitch. Pop’s liver swelled up and his skin turned yellow before he died screaming in the emergency room. Who else is there? Certainly not that murdering bastard Rothmann. He keeps me close because he needs me, but the moment he finds someone who can do what I do without cracking wise, he’ll have a hole dug for what’s left of me.

  Lister took a slug from the bottle of cheap bourbon on the bed and opened his laptop. It was time for the morning report. He still had his writing skills, honed by years at the Star Reporter, one of the top six supermarket tabloids, with but a passing acquaintance with the truth. Reporters were encouraged to let their imaginations loose. ‘Governor Dates Alien’ had been one of his breakthrough stories. It cost the leader of a Western state his job when it turned out that the alien in question was a) an illegal from Guatemala, and b) a hermaphrodite. The photos of the weird genitalia had cost a lot, but no one cared about that. Circulation soared and Gordy was on his way to the tenth floor in Washington. He looked out of the window again. Philadelphia was the nearest he’d been to D.C. since Rothmann’s organization had been ripped apart by the Englishman Matt Wells.

  Maybe that would be the way to distract Rothmann from the absence of on-the-spot information about the professor’s murder—say that he’d seen Wells behind the police line.

  Gordy Lister flexed his fingers. No, it was too risky. His boss would lose his cool and do anything to find Matt Wells, even compromise the most precious of his plans. After all, as well as screwing up the plot to kill the President, the Englishman had killed Rothmann’s twin sister. It seemed there was nothing fiercer than a Nazi whose closest relative had been murdered—so much for Hitler’s followers being heartless beasts. Then again, it would be Wells who would end up heartless if Rothmann laid hands on him.

  Lister laughed. ‘Matt Wells was involved in the decision to let me go in D.C.,’ he said under his breath. ‘That was a big mistake—no one’s seen him since the cathedral massacre. The Feds probably took him to Gitmo. Rothmann’s been scanning the internet every day for sightings of him, but there’s been nothing. That makes fingering the limey easy. I could say I saw him with that shithead Sebastian and leave the Kraut to draw his own conclusions.’

  He tapped out a few lines, then stopped. His lower jaw took a dive. Even he was amazed by this flight of his imagination—what if the Feds had done some conditioning of their own? What if they were using Matt Wells as the Hitler Hitman to frame Rothmann? It wasn’t so crazy. From what he’d learned, the victims had been mutilated and treated in ways that hinted at the Antichurch’s rituals. There were Nazi slogans and insignia at the scenes. Was that what this was? One enormous setup?

  He didn’t really buy that, but it would give his boss something to chew over, thus getting him off his back. It would also justify this bullshit trip to Philly.

  Yeah, Gordy Lister thought. Job done.

  Karen was sitting on a blanket in a wide field, the sun beating down. Insects buzzed lazily about the bright green grass and clover. In the distance a wide river swung round a bend, the trees on the far bank dipping their leaves in the blue-brown water. Swallows were zipping to and fro on the southerly breeze.

  Magnus gurgled in her arms.

  ‘Who’s having fun?’ she said, lowering her head and rubbing her nose against his. ‘Who likes the sunshine?’

  Our son started laughing, stretching out his little hands to grab his mother’s hair.

  ‘Ow!’ she pretended. ‘Little man hurting Mummy, no, no!’

  I went over to them, lowering the camera.

  ‘Oh, here’s Dadda. Now you’d better watch out.’

  I put my finger out and felt his hand close round it. ‘Who’s a strong boy?’ I said, bending over and looking into his green eyes. ‘So, when are you going to give me back your mother’s breasts?’ He stared at me and then stuck his tongue out.

  Karen screamed. ‘It’s the first time he’s done that!’ she said, kissing him on the forehead. ‘Clever Magnus. Silly Dadda.’

  I kneeled down and put my arms round them. ‘I love you,’ I said. ‘I always will.’

  A meta
llic sound made me look over my shoulder. I stood up, the camera falling to the ground. A figure in black combat fatigues was walking toward us, a cap obscuring the face. There was an assault rifle, bayonet fixed, in the figure’s hands.

  I turned back to Karen. ‘Run! Take the baby and run!’

  She gave me an agonized look, and then got to her feet and took off toward the distant line of trees.

  I faced our assailant. ‘No!’ I yelled, as the rifle was raised to the shoulder. Multiple shots rang past me as I rushed toward him. I lowered my shoulder and took him down before he could aim at me. We fought for what seemed like a long time. Eventually I managed to tear the weapon away and toss it behind me. Then I pulled the cap off.

  ‘Hello, Matt,’ Sara Robbins said, licking blood from her lips and smiling. ‘I told you we’d meet again.’

  I wasn’t surprised it was her. I grabbed the front of her jacket with one hand and smashed the other into her face. I kept doing that till it was a red mush, then I let her fall back, then turned and ran.

  ‘Karen!’ I screamed. ‘Where are you? Karen!’

  I followed the direction she had taken, looking from side to side. The grass wasn’t long enough to hide her. They had disappeared.

  Could she have got to the trees? How long had I been struggling with Sara?

  I reached the forest. ‘Karen!’ I yelled, again and again.

  Then I pushed past a low branch covered in fresh leaves. There she was, lying on the ground with her arms outstretched. The baby was a few feet ahead. Both were motionless.

  ‘Karen,’ I moaned, falling to my knees. ‘Magnus…’

  The pain that suddenly transfixed me was worse than any I had known. I looked down and saw the bloody point of the bayonet protruding from my chest.

  I screamed and then an explosion of light melted my eyes.

  ‘Matt? Matt?’

  I was blind and the pain in my chest was still intense. My head was also throbbing. The voice, soft and deep and female, continued saying my name, but I didn’t recognize it.

  ‘Pull it out,’ I heard myself say. ‘Pull it out!’

  I felt dampness on my eyes, a cloth or the like. Then it was withdrawn and I found I could open them. Faces swam into view.

  ‘Pull it out! Please…’

  A honey-colored face that I’d seen before came close to mine. ‘It’s Angel, Matt. The midwife.’

  My chest was in agony. ‘Pull it out,’ I pleaded.

  ‘Pull what out, Matt?’

  ‘My heart,’ I said. ‘My heart. Pull it out.’

  Angel’s eyes brimmed with tears. ‘Oh, Matt.’

  A man in a white coat moved in front of her. ‘Mr. Wells? My name’s Jimson. I’m the doctor looking after you. Do you remember what happened?’

  I stared at him. ‘Of course I do. Karen and I were having a picnic. It’s the first time we’d taken the baby on one. We…’ I broke off as I had flashes of Sara Robbins in black, a rifle in her hands. And a bayonet. ‘Karen,’ I said. ‘Where is she? Where’s my son?’

  ‘Calm down, Mr. Wells. I gave you a sedative. You’ve been…you’ve been dreaming.’

  Something clicked and my world seemed to reconfigure itself. ‘That’s a relief….’ I said.

  Dr. Jimson nodded. He was a handsome man in his uniform, a colonel, no less. I remembered the other doctor, the one with blood on his tunic. Kitano. He told me that…

  Something clicked again, this time more jagged and metallic.

  ‘He’s remembered,’ I heard Jimson say. ‘Get ready to restrain him.’

  But I didn’t move. I just said dully, ‘Karen’s dead. Our son, as well.’ A bitter taste filled my mouth and the pain in my heart got worse. ‘Isn’t that so?’

  He looked at me and then nodded. ‘I’m very sorry, Mr. Wells. My colleagues did everything they—’

  ‘I want to see them.’

  ‘I…I don’t think that’s a very good idea.’

  ‘I want to see them. Now!’

  Two big men appeared on either side of the bed and took hold of my shoulders.

  ‘Please, Mr. Wells, you need to—’

  ‘I want to see them!’ The words burned my throat.

  A face that I recognized appeared from behind one of the gorillas.

  ‘Let him see them, Doctor,’ Peter Sebastian said. ‘It’s what he needs to do.’

  Jimson nodded. ‘Very well. But he’s still my patient. I need to check if he’s up to it.’

  I closed my eyes as he examined me. I breathed evenly, willing myself to appear normal. I couldn’t feel my heartbeat; there was only the knifing pain.

  After some time, I felt electrodes being removed from my chest and I opened my eyes. The big men had stepped back.

  ‘Can you sit up, Mr. Wells?’ Jimson asked.

  I found that I could. One of the auxiliaries pushed a wheelchair forward.

  ‘I don’t need that.’ I pushed my feet downward and put my weight on them. My legs felt weak, but I could take a few steps.

  ‘Let him walk,’ Sebastian said.

  I looked at him and felt relief. At least someone understood. Angel knelt down and slipped a pair of slippers onto my feet.

  ‘Follow me,’ the doctor said, heading toward the door.

  I moved forward.

  ‘Would you like me to come with you?’ Sebastian asked.

  I shrugged. Whatever happened, I was going to see them alone. He could tag along as far as the last door if he wanted.

  Fortunately, nobody spoke during the short walk. Angel was in the group, probably because she felt bad about what had happened. I didn’t feel anything except the pain in my heart.

  Jimson led us through a door. There were desks and other office furniture, and another door across the room. A sign said Authorized Admittance Only and there was a key card panel.

  ‘Mr. Wells,’ he said, his eyes avoiding mine, ‘Dr. Kitano had to perform a Cesarean section. You…you should be aware of that.’

  I understood the warning—don’t look down there. ‘I’m going in on my own,’ I said, extending my hand, palm up.

  The doctor exchanged glances with Peter Sebastian, who nodded, and gave me a plastic card.

  ‘I’ll be here, Matt,’ Sebastian said, his expression grave. ‘Anything you need, anything at all.’

  I walked away from them and inserted the card into the locking device. I pushed the door and let it close after me. The room was cold. The first two aluminum tables were shrouded by white sheets. The one on the left was almost flat, a tiny object lying near the top. The outline of an adult was on the right. I stepped up to that table first and drew the sheet back slowly. Karen’s face was peaceful, the furrows labor had created on her forehead now gone. Her skin was gray, as were her lips, and her hair was limp. I stood by her for a time, my fingers on her chill brow. The pain in my heart had increased even more and I was struggling to stay upright. Tears drenched my cheeks and obscured my vision.

  After a while, I went to our son. I pulled the sheet away gently and looked at the small body that was still curled as it had been inside Karen. It was swaddled in white, the face a deep, unnatural blue. His hair was dark brown and there was a lot of it. His nose was flat and his lips an even deeper shade of blue. He was beautiful. I picked him up and kissed him on the forehead. Then I took him to his mother, pulling down her shroud and setting him gently on her chest. Her arms had already stiffened, but I managed to get them around him. I stepped back to take in the sight of them together. I kissed them both for the last time, and then I covered them carefully with the sheet.

  When I opened the door, the group in the other room looked away, apart from Peter Sebastian. He stepped toward me, but he didn’t make it in time.

  I saw the floor approach rapidly. Then everything, even the pain in my heart, was gone.

  Thirteen

  The Soul Collector. Sara Robbins considered the name she had given herself the last time she had been in the U.K. It struck her now as ludicro
usly over the top, despite the fact that it had been a tribute to her brother, who had called himself the White Devil. She had been influenced by the occult back then. Not that she believed in any of the Satanic stuff, but her sister had. And Matt Wells had killed her, just as he’d been responsible for the White Devil’s death. She would never forget that, no matter how much time passed or how much the circumstances changed—and no matter what her expensive Upper West Side shrink said.

  She glanced around the chairs outside the Brooklyn Heights café. It was the kind of place that pandered to its customers by putting gas heaters on the terrace in winter, even on days like today, when the sun was bright and there wasn’t much wind. A pair of well-dressed young women at the table in front of her discussed their boyfriends, listing their inadequacies and squealing with laughter. They both had leather laptop cases and were obviously in good jobs. Sara was tempted to lift one of the bags. When she had worked on a newspaper in London, she had often picked people’s pockets on the Underground and slipped shop goods into her pocket—nothing major enough to be missed, but she was good at it, she never got caught and it was fun. The chaos that the loss of her laptop would bring to the airhead was delicious to imagine, but Sara decided against it. As ever, she was keeping a low profile.

  In the years she’d been on the run, she had changed her name and appearance frequently, paying for the best hair and facial treatments, the best documentation and bureaucratic apparatus necessary to establish false identities. The wallet in her bag contained a New York State driver’s license in the name of Colette Anne Olds, born Utica, 10/3/1971. The photo matched the way she looked: short blond hair, blue eyes (courtesy of contacts) and features that bore little resemblance to how she used to look. Her nose was thicker, her lips fuller and her cheekbones almost as prominent as Joni Mitchell’s. If Matt Wells sat down at the table, she was certain he wouldn’t recognize her, at least not immediately. She had worked on her voice as well, developing a New York accent bought and paid for. And the kicker—if necessary, she could change the way she looked with one visit to a luggage locker in Grand Central Station. The suitcase there contained wigs, a range of colored contact lenses and two changes of very different clothes.