by Paul Johnson
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 metallic 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 ludicrously 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 cafe. 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.
As befitted the neighborhood, Sara/Colette was wearing boho chic-designer jeans, Manolo Blahniks and a vintage sheepskin jacket. The dark red beret she had found on the sidewalk-it was new and couldn’t have been there long. When a ditzy-looking waitress with a bare belly and pierced navel emerged, she ordered another double espresso and looked up and down Montague Street. There was no sign of the man she was waiting for, but he was only a few minutes late. She picked up the newspaper she had been reading and turned to the story about Hitler’s Hitman. There had been a feeding frenzy when the newspaper hacks convinced themselves that the deaths were connected and that, therefore, a serial killer was on the loose. The last murder, the good-looking professor in Philadelphia, was under the microscope. He had written about Mussolini in less than flattering terms. Did that means no academic specializing in extreme-right politics was safe? Dr. Jack had been a ladies’ man, as confirmed by students and faculty members. Did the previous victims have significant sex lives? Research was ongoing. He had been killed ritualistically. According to what rite? No one was clear about that, but there was no shortage of so-called experts with opinions-certain tribes of American Indians had dispatched their victims that way; the Nazis treated traitors in such a fashion, an idea strengthened by the apparent presence of Nazi slogans and symbols, unconfirmed by the various police departments; the killer wasn’t interested in politics, he was a zombie controlled by a powerful Voodoo priestess, proclaimed one supermarket tabloid.
Sara took a sip from the cup that the waitress had laid on the table with a fake smile. There were even a few reporters who had connected the murders to the Occult Killings in Washington at the beginning of the autumn. Much of it was imaginative guesswork. She knew for a fact, a costly fact, that the Justice Department had restricted the flow of information about those deaths. Still, she didn’t know exactly how Matt Wells was involved in the Rothmann conspiracy, but his subsequent disappearance, and that of his partner Karen Oaten, suggested they were working with the FBI, not least because the Bureau had denied all knowledge of their whereabouts. From what she’d been able to discover, Heinz Rothmann was the son of a Nazi and he was committed to reviving the aberrant German ideology. That made him a major suspect for the recent killings.
‘Hey, doll, is this seat taken?’
Sara watched as the thin, dark-skinned Hispanic slid down opposite her. ‘You’re late,’ she said, frowning.
‘My mother told me never to apologize.’ The man smiled, displaying teeth even whiter than her costly crowns.
‘I’ll bet she did. Still, it could have been worse.’
He looked up from the menu. ‘Meaning?’
She returned the smile, but hers was icy. ‘I could have ripped your eyes out, Havi.’
Xavier Marias ran a shaky hand over his shav
en head. ‘Calm down, pretty lady.’ He raised a hand to the waitress. ‘Hey, over here. Margarita, no salt.’
‘It’s ten in the morning,’ Sara observed.
‘What do you expect? You scare me shitless.’
‘Good.’
‘What’s this about, anyway?’ He took his cell from a pocket in his tan leather jacket. ‘I prefer to spend my Saturday mornings in bed with Elena.’ He caught her gaze. ‘I also prefer not to meet my clients in person. Even when they fail to carry out instructions.’
‘Relax, Havi. We’re just two friends chilling out.’
‘Uh-huh.’ He leaned forward. ‘So, are you going to tell me?’
The Soul Collector smiled. ‘Tell you what?’
He sighed. ‘Why you didn’t terminate your last commission.’
‘Oh, that. Come on, Havi, it wasn’t fair. The guy deserved a chance to make things right.’
‘Are you out of your fucking mind? Have you any idea how much shit I’ve had to eat over this?’
‘You’re looking very good on it.’
‘Ha. I ought to drop your ass in the river.’
‘But you’re not going to do that.’
The broker saw the change in her-suddenly his client was a wild animal ready to pounce. ‘Eh, no. No, I’m not. But don’t you ever pull a stunt like that again, okay?’
The Soul Collector held his gaze. ‘Don’t give me bullshit contracts again.’
Havi took a hit from the margarita that had been placed in front of him. ‘Hey, are you okay? You look…I dunno…kind of shitty.’
