Maps of Hell mw-3

by Paul Johnston

  …I’m on a hillside in the rain, my head down in the bracken and my hands gripping a rifle.

  “Don’t make any rapid movements,” whispers the man in the waterproof jacket who is lying next to me. “In fact, don’t even blink.”

  We wait there, motionless, as the big stag chews away. He lowers his head to the ground and then raises it quickly. He’s seen men with guns often enough to be extremely wary. But the wind is blowing into our faces, so he can’t smell us.

  “Right, line him up,” my companion says under his breath. “Remember where?”

  “Chest…above the foreleg,” I gasp, my heart racing. I’m suddenly seized by horror at the prospect of killing the magnificent creature.

  I look through the sights and zero in on the stag, then pause.

  “What are you waiting for?” the man whispers, his eyes wide. “He’ll bolt any second.”

  I take a deep breath and hold it, then tighten my finger on the trigger. I have a vision of the great animal coughing up a lungful of blood, his head with the great array of the antlers dropping as his front legs collapse.

  “I can’t do it,” I say, letting the rifle sink into the vegetation. That movement is enough to alert the stag. He leaps away, kicking his hind legs high, and disappears over the ridge.

  “Sorry,” I hear myself say feebly. “I…”

  “Pillock,” my companion says. “It took us three hours to get up here and you blow it just like that.”

  “Sorry, Dave. I just-”

  “You chickened out, didn’t you?” He gets up and wipes drops of water from his trousers. Some of them land on my face. “It cost us a bleeding fortune, this weekend. Flights to Inverness, hiring the Land Rover, paying the estate an arm and a leg for the privilege of doing their culling for them. And you can’t even fire one shot in anger.”

  I stand up and take in the enraged face. Dave Cummings. Ex-paratrooper, former SAS man, amateur rugby league player-my best friend and tutor in extreme outdoor activities. It was his idea to spend a weekend deer-hunting in the Scottish Highlands. And now I’ve wasted my shot.

  “At least I got the practice rounds in,” I say, avoiding his eyes. The day before, Dave and I had taken a rifle up on the moors and blazed away at targets. “At least I know how to handle a rifle now.”

  “Oh, you do, do you?” Dave says, grabbing the weapon. He’s been up here numerous times over the years and can hunt as well as any expert. Then again, he does have a talent for anything to do with weaponry and sudden death. “That’s your problem, you know. A few hours and you reckon you’re a professional. Jesus, killing isn’t as easy as you think.” He breaks off and grins. “Then again, you just found that out, didn’t you, Matt?”

  I came to with a start. Matt. That was my name. I had a vague memory of a blanket lying on a cell floor. I had remembered before, but I must have lost it. My name was Matt, short for…Matthew. That flashed back to me, too. But nothing more. I thought about the deer-hunting scene. Dave. My friend Dave. The recollection of him was strong, in the sense that I was convinced I’d known a Dave, that he had been close to me. But there was nothing else, apart from the facts that he’d been a soldier and had instructed me in rifle-shooting. I thought again. He’d been a rugby player, too. We’d been on the same team. I suddenly remembered the scarring on my knee. Fortunately, although I felt a dull ache, my leg had stood up to the pressure of all the running I’d done.

  I was strangely glad to find that the scene had stayed in my memory. Dave had often talked about us going to the Scottish Highlands. Where from? I tried to bring back where I lived, where I’d been born and brought up, but there was no response from my damaged memory. Scottish. What did that mean? Scotland came to mind. A country. But it wasn’t my home, even though it was connected in some way I couldn’t put my finger on.

  At least I knew my name. Matt. But I had the feeling I had other names. I wasn’t just patient L24 from the camp. But Matt what? Matthew what? Again, my memory failed. Whatever had been done to me in the camp was restricting me to only a few glimpses of my past. I could only hope there would be more. In the meantime, where was I? I thought back to the hillside in the rain. I had the distinct feeling I wasn’t in Scotland, even though I could remember pine trees alongside the fern-covered slopes where we’d tracked the deer. But they were much smaller than the ones I had so recently run through, and there was no way I could have spent the night halfway up one of those small Scottish pines. So where was I? And who was I? Matt, with no other names and no memories of other people except Dave, wasn’t enough for me.

  Eventually I dropped into a dreamless sleep, and woke to the sound of birdsong. There was a stripe of gray over the ridge that must have been to the east. Dawn was breaking. I surveyed the country from my high position and took in vast slopes covered in trees and mountain ridges running between isolated summits. I felt lost, not just geographically but spiritually. This was not my home. How had I got here? How was I to get back to civilization without food to sustain me? It looked like no one lived anywhere nearby. Besides, I couldn’t trust anyone-perhaps the people who ran the camp owned the land and any towns on it.

  I listened intently for a few minutes, but heard no indications of the armed men. Unstrapping myself and stretching stiff limbs, I clambered down to ground level. I drank most of the water in my bottle, leaving a few mouthfuls in case there were no more streams in the vicinity. Ahead, I saw a narrow gap between the slopes of two mountains and decided to head for it. Perhaps there would be a road there, a way out of the wilderness. I set off and was immediately aware of my stomach-the water had obviously woken it up. I stopped and ate the rest of the bread, aware that I might have been making a big mistake. Then I saw the rabbit.

  I raised the rifle slowly to my shoulder. I was about to squeeze the trigger-with no compunction this time-when I realized that firing would give my location away. I watched helplessly as the rabbit hopped back into the undergrowth. I swore quietly. Even though I’d have had to eat the flesh raw, it would have given me some much needed protein. I decided I’d risk the shot. I was waiting for the animal to reappear when I heard the unmistakable sound of a dry branch cracking. Either there were larger creatures in these mountains or my pursuers had caught up with me.

  I considered running, but from the sounds I could tell they were too close. I had to choose a position and make a stand. But not on the ground-I had to assume there would be more than one of them. I looked around for a suitable tree and found one with a larger than average trunk. I pulled myself up until I was just below the cover provided by the top of a shorter tree before me. Then I pushed my head slowly through the pine needles and scanned the area.

  At first there was no movement apart from small birds. Then I saw a figure in gray emerge slowly about fifty yards to my right. Shortly afterward, another man appeared, this one to my left. Both were carrying assault rifles like the one I had. I was relieved that there was no sign of the dog. A third man came into the open almost directly in front of me. I’d chosen my spot well. All three would have to cross the open area between the trees. I slipped the safety catch off my rifle and brought the stock up to my right shoulder. Then, looking down at the men, I saw something that made my stomach clench.

  The man in the center was looking at a small device and making hand movements to the others. Those movements were directing them right toward me. How did he know…? Then I understood-there must have been a bug somewhere on me. I ran a hand over the rifle, but found nothing obvious. Shit. The bug could have been anywhere, given that I’d stolen everything I had. I considered stripping and leaving it all behind, but quickly dismissed that idea. They were close enough to hear me move. If I didn’t act soon, they’d be so close they couldn’t help but discover me.

  I brought the rifle up and trained it on the man with the receiver. He had to be dealt with first. Before I pulled the trigger, a vision of Dave flashed before me. He was smiling. I felt myself smile back, and then I fired. I missed th
e device, but hit the man’s wrist. The receiver flew up in the air as he dropped to his knees. I turned to the man on my right. He had stopped halfway across the dead ground. I flicked the rifle to automatic and let off a burst that peppered the ground in front of him. He turned tail and ran, leaving his rifle on the ground. I shifted my aim to the third guy. He was already heading back into the tree cover. I went back to single fire and let him have one a foot behind him to send him on his way.

  Slipping down the tree as fast as I could, I hit the ground and started running. I had probably bought myself half an hour at most. I needed to stretch that and then find a place to hole up. My next priority was to locate the bug.

  After about half an hour of uninterrupted running, I slowed to a walk and looked at the rifle, pistol and water bottle again. Nothing out of the ordinary caught my eye. I ran my fingers over my clothes. Again, nothing was obvious. That left my boots. I stopped briefly to check the soles. They appeared normal, though there could easily have been something hidden deep down.

  As I picked up my pace again through the pine trunks, an unpleasant thought struck me. Maybe the bug wasn’t in my boots or clothing at all. Maybe it was under my skin.

  Nine

  Richard Bonhoff was in gridlock on the Beltway. It was late afternoon and the low autumn sun was giving extra color to the already spectacular leaves on both sides of the freeway. Richard briefly thought of the more subdued shades in the fields back in Iowa, then concentrated on making the next exit for central D.C. He’d already missed one. The battered pickup stuck out like a Model-T among the pristine limos and SUVs that the capital’s inhabitants drove. Not for the first time, the farmer asked himself what the hell he was doing. He’d considered flying, even though he hated the dry air and unexpected bumps and bangs, but he wasn’t sure if his credit cards would have accepted the charge. At least with gas he could spread the cost around different bits of plastic.

  This time he saw the sign for the exit well in advance and had no trouble getting off the Beltway. Now the fun would really start. Richard had never been comfortable driving in unfamiliar towns. When they went into Des Moines, Melissa usually took the wheel-she had no problem imposing herself on other drivers. Even the twins were more confident than their father was, not that he let them sit at the wheel often. Randy had bent the pickup’s fender several times, while Gwen always drove like she was drunk. Richard shook his head as he remembered the twins, then set his jaw. He needed to concentrate on what he had come to do in Washington. The twins. He glanced at his watch. It was a quarter after four. He still had time to make a start today.

  To his surprise, he made it downtown without any problem. He was heading for Mount Vernon Square. He found a parking lot and left the pickup there, astounded at the rates he’d seen at the entrance. No wonder the politicians needed unofficial contributions to their income-then again, they no doubt got recompensed for their parking charges. He went onto the street and walked quickly down to New York Avenue. The newspaper office was only a few minutes away, perfect since it was nearly five o’clock. He was presuming they closed at that hour though, for all he knew, D.C. folks might work longer hours than people did back home.

  Richard stopped outside a large office block. The sign above the entrance said Woodbridge Holdings, which meant nothing to him. He went closer and examined the list of companies in the group. The Star Reporter was there. He was at the right place after all. As he was walking toward the glass doors, he saw his reflection. For sure, he was the only person within a mile wearing a plaid shirt, faded jeans and yellow work boots. Not to mention a faded John Deere cap. He took that off as he went inside. The security guards scrutinized him as he went through the metal detector. Then he felt the receptionist’s eyes on him as he approached the desk.

  “Can I help you, sir?” the young black woman asked, a smile playing across her lips.

  “I’d like to see Mr. Lister, please,” Richard said, his cheeks reddening. “Mr. Gordon Lister.”

  The receptionist nodded and looked at her computer screen. “Your name, sir?”

  “My…my name?” Richard stammered. He hadn’t expected that he would have to identify himself so soon.

  “Yes, sir. You do have an appointment, don’t you?”

  Richard made out that he was even more confused than he felt. He preferred not to give Lister any advance warning, catch him cold. Playing the hick out of his depth might just get the job done.

  “Can you…can you ask him if he’ll see me without an appointment?” he said, with a certain country drawl. “I’ve driven all the way from Iowa.”

  The receptionist gave him a puzzled look. It was obvious she had little idea how far away his home state was but, after a sigh, she tapped her keyboard and spoke into the microphone of her headset.

  “Mr. Lister, there’s a gentleman to see you. He says he’s from Iowa.” She paused. “All right, I’ll tell him.” She looked up at Richard. “He’s just leaving, sir. If you wait here in the lobby, he can give you a few minutes.”

  Richard nodded his thanks and retreated to a nearby sofa. There was a selection of newspapers and magazines spread across a glass table. He picked up the Star Reporter and read the latest about the murder of the rock singer in D.C. It seemed the Metro Police hadn’t much idea who had done it, though the guy wasn’t exactly an upstanding citizen. There were grainy photos of the dead man’s chest and back, taken from some thrash-metal Web site. Even though his own great-grandparents had emigrated from Munich, Richard didn’t have any time for neo-Nazis.

  “He was quite a piece of work, wasn’t he?”

  Richard looked up and took in a small man in a tan leather jacket and an open-necked denim shirt. He’d been expecting an expensive suit and tie.

  “Mr. Lister?”

  “Yeah. You the guy from Iowa?”

  Richard nodded. This time he gave his name. It didn’t seem to be familiar to Lister.

  “All right. How about a drink?”

  Richard shrugged. This was more in line with what he knew about people who worked in the capital: work hard, play hard.

  “If you like,” he said, without much enthusiasm. He wasn’t teetotal like Melissa, but he rarely drank alcohol. It made his head throb.

  Lister was already heading rapidly for the exit. The heels of his cowboy boots clicked on the marble floor. It struck Richard that the guy would pass for a local back home. Weird. He caught up with him outside.

  “There’s a place just around the corner,” Lister said, turning to the right. “So, first trip to Washington?”

  “Yes.”

  “Seen much of the sights?”

  “I just got here.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Lister went down the steps beneath a sign for Amberson’s Cocktail Bar.

  Richard immediately felt out of place in the watering hole’s plush surroundings, even though no one paid him any attention.

  Lister sat on a stool at the bar. “The usual, Tom.” He turned to Richard. “What’s yours?”

  Richard thought it would be better to join in. “I’ll have a beer. A Bud.”

  When the drinks came, Lister picked the olive out of the cocktail glass and popped it in his mouth.

  “The classic Martini,” he said, grinning to show dazzling teeth. “A decent slug of gin and no more than a drop of Martini.”

  Richard had never had anything in a glass that shape. He sipped his beer and managed not to grimace.

  “So, what brings you to me, Iowa?” Lister ran his hand over his thinning fair hair. It was hard to tell how old he was. There were dark rings round his blue eyes, though his face was unlined and almost babyish.

  Richard took a deep breath. He’d thought hard about how to handle this and meeting Lister had only made him more certain. He wasn’t the sort of guy who would react well to being strong-armed.

  “Mr. Lister-”

  “Call me Gordy,” the other man said, signaling to the barman for another. “Your beer okay?”

  R
ichard nodded. “Gordy,” he said, uncomfortable with the strange name. “Last November, you were involved with a competition in the Star Reporter.”

  “I oversee competitions for all Woodbridge Holdings publications. Which particular one are you talking about?”

  “One about pop music-twins who had hits. And you had to write a line saying-”

  “Why you love the Star Reporter,” Lister said. “That’s standard.”

  “Oh, I get you. In this case, the prize was a trip to Washington.”

  “Usually is.” Lister tapped his nose. “I’ve set up a good deal with one of the hotels.”

  Richard was beginning to realize that Gordy Lister was an operator. “Well,” he said, “my kids won and you looked after them when they were here.”

  “Really?” the small man said. “Can’t say I remember. What was your last name again, Richard?”

  “Bonhoff. I think you might recall them, Gordy. They’re twins themselves. Randy and Gwen?”

  Lister looked blank. “Randy and Gwen,” he repeated, peering into his almost-empty glass. Then he raised his eyes. “Yeah, I remember. Real lookers, the both of them. Nice kids, too.” He swallowed the last of his drink.