Maps of Hell mw-3

by Paul Johnston

  “Bad move,” I said, pressing the blade against his neck. Blood began to drip.

  The young man whispered something and I leaned forward to catch it. The first word began with f and the second with y.

  I made good progress through the forest after I’d gagged the young man and tied him to a tree with strips from his jacket. I’d buried the rifles, pistols and other equipment I’d taken from him and from Hans in a heap of needles a good distance from where he was. I wondered how long it would be before he was found, and was thinking that perhaps I’d finally got out of the zone controlled by the men in gray when I was distracted by the sudden sounds of a large animal crashing through the trees.

  A German shepherd came pounding around a tree trunk, its jaws wide and worryingly speckled with foam. I went into automatic response mode and ran straight at the dog rather than waste time trying to bring a weapon to bear. The creature blinked its eyes, but it was too late for it to alter course. With a flick of my hips, I slid past it, having a flash of performing the same maneuver on a muddy pitch with an oval ball in my hands. I kept on running till I came to a thick tree trunk and took cover behind it.

  Looking around the trunk, I saw the dog coming back in my direction. Then its ears pricked as a low voice came through the forest.

  “Prince!”

  I estimated the man to be about twenty yards to the animal’s left. It ran toward him with a yelp. I wasn’t clear whether the handler was aware of Prince’s recent engagement with the enemy. I waited where I was, finger on the trigger. It was still aching from the rat trap, but I reckoned I could take out man and dog if I had to.

  The German shepherd was leaping about, trying to make the dumb human understand what was going on. A gray uniform came into view. I stared. The handler was a woman. And she was stunning, with auburn hair in a plait beneath her cap and a full figure beneath the uniform, which fitted more tightly than did the men’s. Her voice was deep and hoarse, the kind that raises hairs on necks. Shooting her in cold blood wasn’t an attractive prospect.

  Then I heard a crackle of radio static. She had her walkie-talkie turned up loud.

  “Base, unit seventeen. Report, over.”

  She put the device to her ear. “Unit seventeen. All clear. Over.”

  “Proceed to loggers’ cabin. Unit eleven nonresponsive. Confirm. Over.”

  “Unit seventeen, confirm heading to cabin, over.”

  “Exercise extreme caution, seventeen. Remember, target is to be immobilized, not terminated. Base out.”

  I watched as the young woman left in the opposite direction. Pity. Then again, I hadn’t had to terminate her or the German shepherd. It was only after I’d been under way again for about a quarter of an hour that I remembered what had also struck me about the beautiful young woman. She bore a strong resemblance to the guy I’d dealt with in the cabin-the one called Hans.

  Something else occurred to me: I seemed to have a very well-developed sense of self-preservation.

  Two hours later, I was striding down a slope through the trees. The idea that I was leaving something important behind had filled my mind again. Although I hadn’t heard any pursuers since the woman had turned back, my mood had darkened when it should have done the opposite. I remembered Lucy, my daughter. Where was she? Could the bastards at the camp have her? I stopped in my tracks. Then I thought of the words she had used in the cinema-you-know-who. The problem was, I didn’t know who. I closed my eyes and tried to call up that mysterious individual, my assumed partner. I caught a glimpse of blond hair and-

  The roar of the engine rang through the forest. It was directly ahead of me. I immediately started running in that direction. The sound of revving continued as I got to the tree line. There were only a few yards between me and the rear of a trailer loaded with massive tree trunks.

  A bearded man in blue overalls and heavy boots was lashing the last of the ropes that secured the load. He stepped back and raised his hand to the truck at the front.

  “All right!” he yelled. “Let’s get the hell outta here!” He shifted his large frame toward the cab’s open door. I made out the words Woodbridge Holdings painted over an image of an open newspaper.

  I had only a few seconds to decide if I was going with them. I looked at the back of the trailer, then slung the rifle over my shoulder. There was an even louder noise from the engine and black exhaust streamed from the pipes behind the cab. When I heard the gears engage, I went for it. There were several ropes tied to a steel ring, so I had plenty to grab hold of. I was making a fine target for any gray-uniformed marksmen in the vicinity, but no shots rang out. As the truck bumped down the uneven muddy track, I pulled myself higher and toward the tarp covering the top of the load. With difficulty, I managed to crawl under it, the muzzle of the rifle banging against my head as the trailer rolled to the side alarmingly.

  There were two problems with the place I’d found to hide. The first: if the load overturned on the track I’d be crushed to a pulp. The second: I couldn’t see a thing from beneath the tarp. I managed to take the compass off my neck and check the bearing. Maybe-if I was very lucky-I’d be able to navigate my way back to the camp once I’d found help. I was still gripped by the feeling that I was leaving a vital part of my life behind. I caught another glimpse of blond hair, but recalled nothing else.

  Fifteen

  Richard Bonhoff woke up much later than he did on the farm. The budget hotel he’d found was in the eastern outskirts of Washington, near the beginning of the freeway. He had expected to be kept awake by the traffic noise, but he’d been exhausted when he turned in and had slept deeply. After Gordy Lister had walked out on him in the cocktail bar, he’d spent hours tramping the Mall. The nation’s grandest sights-the White House, the Washington Monument, the Capitol, the Lincoln Memorial-hadn’t impressed him much, even though they were lit up spectacularly. He kept looking at the photo of the twins he’d brought to show Lister, their smiling faces beaming up at him. That didn’t make him happy. Rather, he had struggled to contain his anger. He hadn’t even needed to show Lister the photo. He’d known who the twins where immediately, and he looked guilty as hell. Richard knew exactly what he was going to do.

  After drinking a cup of vile coffee from the machine in his room, he headed out. Now that it was charged, the temptation to check his cell phone was great, but he resisted it. There would be a string of voice messages from Mel, each nastier in tone and content than the previous one. He didn’t need the hassle. But then it struck him that the twins might have been in touch. He checked, cutting off the three messages his wife had left as soon as he heard her voice. As he’d suspected, there was nothing from Gwen and Randy.

  Richard retrieved the pickup and headed down New York Avenue to the center. He left the vehicle in a multistory lot around the corner from the newspaper office. The parking charges were killing him.

  He took a seat at a coffee-shop window and kept his eyes on the Woodbridge Holdings building. There was no sign of Lister. The place filled up and he was told he had to buy something else if he wanted to keep the table. After four hours and a selection of overpriced drinks and snacks, Richard was down to his last ten dollars in cash, but he couldn’t risk leaving to find an ATM-he couldn’t even risk going to the can. By four o’clock he was getting desperate.

  Then Gordy Lister came out of the building. He was wearing the same tan jacket, and high-heeled cowboy boots. He looked to right and left, and Richard realized the small man was nervous. Could it be that he’d spooked him by asking about the twins?

  Richard got up and headed outside when Lister went left. He felt a stabbing in his bladder, but ignored the pain. Keeping about twenty yards back, he did his best to merge into the crowd of people in expensive clothes. When his target took another left turn, it struck him that maybe he was heading for the car park where the pickup was. That was how it played out. Richard decided to make a dash for his vehicle. He had no way of knowing which level Lister had parked on, so he could only
hope they would reach the exit barrier around the same time.

  His pickup would make a very obvious tail, but there was nothing he could do. He paid the ticket, using his credit card, and gunned the engine. The suspension strained as he took the narrow corners too fast, but he was in luck. Lister, driving a dark blue BMW roadster, was only one car ahead of him at the barrier.

  Richard tried to drop back when he hit the street, provoking a horn blast from a young woman in a Japanese sports car. There was nothing for it but to keep closer to Lister than he’d have liked. He was relieved to see that the newspaper man was talking animatedly into his cell phone.

  The roadster headed north. Richard was surprised at how quickly the smart buildings of the city center were replaced by dilapidated tenements. A few minutes later, a sign told him he was in Shaw. He’d heard the name on the local TV news back at the hotel. There had been a murder here last night, some guy who ran a black-magic shop, according to the overexcited reporter.

  The traffic in the narrow streets was heavy and Lister had no chance to exercise the horsepower under his bonnet, meaning that Richard was still close behind. He was sweating, under attack from his bladder and worried that he would be spotted. He glanced around and saw a trio of young black men on the sidewalk. They were pointing at the pickup and laughing.

  The line of cars hadn’t moved much farther when Lister made a right and drove down a side street. By the time Richard had followed, the roadster had vanished. He pounded the wheel and drove on, looking desperately to right and left. Then he saw the BMW in an even narrower street to the right and slammed on the brakes.

  Richard turned, then left the pickup in the middle of the road-it was a dead end and there were no spaces at the curb. He walked toward Lister’s car, which was parked at the end of the street. When he got there, he saw it was empty but then noticed that the door of the neighboring house was ajar. He heard his target’s voice.

  “No!” Lister screamed. “Don’t hurt me!”

  Richard went to the door and listened. The screams continued. He went in and took some stairs that led downward at the end of the hall. There was a smell of fried food and dope, cut with a stink like the cattle shed back home. He made no sound as he went down. There was a single door to his left. It, too, was half-open.

  “Jesus, don’t hit me anymore.” Lister was pleading. “I’ll get the money for you, I promise.”

  There was a heavy slap, followed by a pathetic squeal.

  Richard shoved the door open and stepped into the room.

  He was instantly grabbed by two large men in white T-shirts. They had shaven heads and tattoos on their thick arms. Lister was sitting in a battered armchair, cleaning his nails with a tooth pick.

  “Hey, Iowa,” he said, looking up. “What the fuck are you doing on my ass?”

  Richard stared at him. “But…but I thought…”

  Lister laughed. “You thought? I wasn’t sure folks did that out there in Hicksville.”

  The big men laughed.

  “Give him a couple,” Lister said, casually.

  Two heavy fists smashed into Richard’s solar plexus in rapid succession. He dropped to one knee and felt a warm gush in his crotch.

  “Oh, Jesus, Gordy,” the hulk on the right said, “he’s pissed himself.”

  All three men laughed, Lister almost hysterically.

  Richard felt a blush of shame ignite on his face. He blinked hard and struggled to contain himself.

  “Pick him up,” Lister said, stepping closer. “My, my, Mr. Farmer. Your missus ain’t going to be pleased with the state of your pants.”

  The big men laughed again.

  “Let him go,” Lister said. “Iowa and me need to chew the fat.”

  Richard took a deep breath as his arms were released. Then he ducked down and crunched his elbows into the groins of Lister’s muscle men. They both keeled over. He smashed his knee into each of their faces as they dropped. Then he pulled the matte black pistol from the belt of the unconscious man on his left and racked the slide.

  Lister had retreated to the far wall at speed. He was fumbling in his waistband, but gave up when he saw Richard bearing down on him, pistol raised.

  “Put it on the floor.”

  Gordy Lister removed his snub-nosed revolver and laid it down carefully, a finger in the trigger guard. “Jeez, Iowa. Where’d you learn those moves?”

  “Marine Corps,” Richard said, picking up the revolver. He went back to the comatose forms and patted them down. He stuck the semiautomatic he found in his belt, along with Lister’s weapon.

  The newspaper man’s face was pale. “How come you pissed yourself then?”

  “I drank a gallon of coffee waiting for you, asshole.”

  “Yeah, well, if you’re gonna tail people, you wanna get another vehicle.”

  Richard gave him a frozen look. “You reckon you’re in a position to tell me what to do, dwarf?”

  Lister raised his thin shoulders. “What’s next? You gonna shoot me?”

  Richard shook his head. “Nope. At least, not yet. You’re going to tell me about my kids.” He stepped closer. “And no more bullshit.”

  Gordy Lister shook his head. “You don’t know what you’re getting into, man. I’m telling you, back off. This thing’s too big for you.”

  Richard Bonhoff glanced over his shoulder at the men on the floor. “Like they were too big for me?”

  “No, Iowa, a thousand times bigger than them.”

  “Let’s get started, then.” Richard grabbed him by the arm and dragged him out of the basement. “We’ll go in the pickup,” he said, grinning. “I wouldn’t bet on your wheels being here when you get back.”

  Lister’s expression was slack. “You’re a dead man, Iowa.”

  “I don’t take kindly to threats, Gordy.” Richard said, having a sudden glimpse of his wife. He wondered if she’d ever believe what he’d just done.

  “I mean it. They’ll do you and they’ll do your kids.”

  The ex-marine opened the passenger door and shoved Lister inside. “You’d better help me find the twins.” He jammed the pistol between the small man’s thighs. “Or I’ll give you back the voice you had when you were a kid. Free of charge.”

  Sixteen

  After an hour and a half, the trailer’s tires started to grind over gravel. According to the watch I’d stolen, it was ten to five. I had cut a small flap in the tarpaulin but, in the fading light, all I could see was pine trees. Although night had now fallen, I saw no lights and I could make out only more tree trunks ahead in the headlights. No other vehicles had passed, in either direction. The forest seemed to go on forever.

  Despite the uneven surface, I couldn’t stop myself from falling asleep. Faces flashed before me. One belonged to my friend Dave, as on the deer-hunting trip. The sight of him gave me a bad feeling, but I couldn’t fathom why. I also saw my daughter, Lucy. Then I froze as the smiling face of the Soul Collector reared up before me. Sara Robbins. I knew she had been my lover, but I couldn’t recall any details or images of that time. The only thing I was sure of was that she had sworn to kill me. Could she be involved with these people?

  There was a crunching of gears and the vehicle slowed down. I looked out from the flap and again saw nothing but trees. Then we moved onto a smoother surface. I looked at my watch. Eight twenty-two. There was still no other traffic and no house lights, but the asphalt road suggested we were at last getting nearer to civilization. I lay back down as the speed increased. At least there was less chance of the load overturning on a flat road. I closed my eyes again.

  “You-know-who” was still elusive, despite the glimpses of blond hair. Now it seemed to be tied back in some kind of clip. The impression I got was of severity. Could she have something to do with the camp?

  The road might have had a flat surface, but it wasn’t lacking in tight curves, not that the driver noticed. After a couple of sideways thrusts, the load finally shifted. I felt one of the ropes tying down the
tarp give way as the logs jolted underneath me. I scrabbled with my fingers to find a solid surface and nearly got an arm stuck between the great lengths of wood. The brakes screeched as the men in the rig realized what was happening.

  The trailer came to a halt. My heart was trying to break out of my chest, but I forced myself to concentrate. I heard the doors open upfront, and then the thump of boots as the men jumped down.

  “Shit!” one of them said. “I told you you was going too fast.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Hal,” said the driver. “Fuckin’ smart-ass.”

  They moved around to the rear of the trailer.

  “Coulda been worse.” The driver’s tone lightened. “Only one of the logs has moved. Reckon we can tie it down.”

  They were silent as they flung more ropes over the load and secured them.

  “That oughta do it,” the driver said, tugging on a rope that had come over the tarpaulin. It was tight across my chest and I could hardly breathe.

  “I don’t know, Jeff,” said the man called Hal. “Don’t look right to me. What if we spill the load on the highway? We could kill someone.”

  “We could kill someone,” the driver repeated scornfully. “Shut the fuck up, you crybaby.”

  “Screw you,” Hal said. I felt the rope tighten again, and then the log beneath me quiver. He had climbed up.

  I watched through the flap as he approached, his flashlight illuminating parts of the tarp. Then I saw the long-barreled revolver in his other hand. I wondered if that was normal for a driver’s mate and decided it wasn’t likely. These guys had some connection with the camp. I was sure of it, even if they weren’t wearing the gray uniform. I struggled hard to get a hand free and grip my pistol. It was useless. I kept still as he got nearer.

  The light blazed in my eyes.

  “Hey, Jeff, you notice a tear in the tarp?” Hal called.

  “No, I didn’t notice a tear in the tarp,” the driver replied, his tone still derisive. “What do you fuckin’ care, Hal? You didn’t pay for it.”