Maps of Hell mw-3

by Paul Johnston

  The inhabitants of other places, those who retained some decency, resisted the unseen menace that haunted the pine forests as best they could. Initially, the disappearance of wives and offspring-the Luciferians never took whores, seeing them as fellow spirits-was put down to wild beasts. But finally the stories of the few Luciferians who broke free and survived could be ignored no longer. Parties of heavily armed men set out to confront the raiders in their base. For, rumor had spread that the town of Jasper was a sinkhole of corruption, a modern-day Sodom where the filthiest of unholy ceremonies were practiced, with victims being sacrificed on upturned crosses. With wholly justifiable rage and a less commendable desire for revenge, the true believers fell upon the abomination that Jeremiah Dodds had created. The Luciferians disappeared without trace. Jasper was burned to the ground and its name expunged from the maps. The arch blasphemer and murderer Dodds was hanged from the tallest tree, his face beaten to a pulp and his innards loosed upon the ground before his spirit went to its foul master below the earth. As a final, ironic affront, Dodds’s eyes were torn out so that he wouldn’t be able to see Lucifer’s realm. For decades, people were reluctant to go within a hundred miles of where Jasper had been, lest a fearsome creature, its blinded face twisted and its feet tangled in its own entrails, should come upon them and drag them screaming to hell.

  Such was the end of the Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant, at least as far as the civic and religious authorities were concerned-in any case, they only heard the stories months after Dodds and his congregation had been eradicated by the mob. But the truth was that there were still people who enthused over the antiGospel. Despite strict repression of the text, it had remained in existence, circulated by subsequent generations of Luciferians with extreme caution-every copy accounted for, reproduction in any form forbidden on pain of death. Recently a Bangor man by the name of Regent, who had feigned devotion to the Antichurch, started to transcribe the text onto a Web site; he had never been seen again. He became the first human sacrifice in several years, his tongue and genitals sliced off while he was still conscious. His blood was drained and drunk by the faithful before the flesh and organs were stripped from his bones and burnt on the Antichurch’s altar, beneath the obligatory inverted cross.

  The word of Jeremiah Dodds was still alive in the evergreen forests of northern Maine and it was spreading. There was even a small congregation in the town of Sparta, one attended by a recent recruit to the cause.

  “What?” I gasped. “Your mother is one of them?”

  Mary nodded, her face damp with sweat despite the cold in the pickup. “I found her diary.”

  “But aren’t you in danger? Do these lunatics have any idea that you know about them?”

  “I doubt it.” She glanced at me. “I’m not sure I’d be walking around in one piece if they did. I don’t think Mom knows, either.”

  I thought back to the wrinkled old woman. She had alarmed me enough with her shotgun threats before I knew she was a member of the local satanist coven. Then I wondered about Mary. Was she more involved with the Antichurch than she’d admitted? Had she perhaps singled me out as a potential sacrifice? I twitched my head and tried to get a grip. She was driving me away from her mother. Then again, there might have been another altar in southern Maine. No, she would hardly have told me about the Antichurch if she were a member.

  “Why are you telling me all this?” I asked.

  She bit her lip. “Because I’m frightened, Matt. I needed to share the burden.”

  I reckoned she was being straight with me. But there was something familiar about the story, something hovering on the margins of my memory…

  “How many members of this Antichurch are there?” I asked.

  “Around ten, I think.”

  “Are there any other branches?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so. They’re so paranoid about the antiGospel getting into the wrong hands that they prefer to limit their numbers.”

  “And what about Jasper? Have you any idea where that was?”

  Mary raised her shoulders. “The congregation doesn’t even know that. Mom wrote something about them asking their savior to direct them to what they call ‘the field of glory.’ I got the impression Lucifer hadn’t obliged.”

  I thought about the camp I’d escaped from. Filming a man having his throat cut by a naked woman wasn’t much different from the rituals Mary had described, but I didn’t remember any devil worship per se.

  I shook my head, wondering what I’d got myself into. Then I thought about the murders in Washington that I was supposed to have committed. Could they have some connection?

  I was so caught up in my thoughts that I hardly noticed when we crossed the state line into New Hampshire. The minor road Mary had taken wasn’t even under scrutiny. We had evaded the state troopers, but I had a feeling that the reach of the people at the camp was a lot longer than that of the Maine authorities or the FBI.

  Twenty-Six

  Peter Sebastian, perfectly turned out in a dark blue suit and striped tie, eyed the detectives on the other side of the conference table.

  “Well, gentlemen. Over eighteen hours have passed since the discovery of Abraham Singer’s body. What progress have you made?”

  “We’d be making more if you hadn’t called this meeting,” Gerard Pinker said, shaking his head hopelessly.

  “Nice,” Sebastian said, smiling icily. “Very nice. Perhaps I should call in Chief Owen.”

  Clem Simmons gave his partner a long-suffering look and then caught Dana Maltravers’s eye. He reckoned she’d have smiled if she hadn’t been so in awe of her boss.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Simmons said, flipping open his notebook. “As I’m sure you’re aware, Special Agent Maltravers attended the autopsy with me. The report’s not out yet, but the time of death isn’t going to be much different from Dr. Gilbert’s original estimate of between 9:00 and 11:00 p.m. Cause of death, major brain trauma caused by the skewers driven into each eye. There’s no evidence of any other trauma, so it’s likely the killer inserted them while the victim was still conscious.”

  “Meaning he knows what he’s doing,” Sebastian said.

  Pinker gave a wry smile. “Kinda the impression we’d got from the first two murders.”

  “Quite,” said the FBI man, holding his gaze on Simmons. “What about the significance of the M.O.?”

  “Skewers again,” Clem said.

  “And two of them again,” Dana Maltravers said. “So there’s the same symbolism of the pair.”

  “Whatever that means,” Pinker put in, smiling at her. “Maybe he just likes using both hands. Or maybe there are two murderers.”

  “I suppose that’s possible,” Sebastian said. “That’s all we need. A pair of serial killers.”

  “Maybe they’re twins,” Pinker suggested.

  The FBI man raised an eyebrow. “Let’s not lose touch with reality completely.” He glanced at Simmons. “Go on with your report, Detective.”

  “We’ve been canvassing the area. The problem is, the majority of buildings are university property, but offices rather than student accommodation, so there weren’t many people around in the evening.”

  Peter Sebastian’s expression was grim. “What you’re saying, Detective, is that no one saw the killer.”

  “If anyone did, we ain’t found ’em yet,” Pinker said. Not for the first time, he reverted to the way he talked back home in Georgia when addressing the Bureau man.

  “CSIs?” Sebastian said, looking at his notes.

  “They’re still comparing fingerprints with those we’ve taken from people who were in the professor’s room recently,” Clem Simmons said. “It’ll take some time. There are students, other professors, cleaners. Same goes for fibers.”

  “Any suggestive background on the victim?” the FBI man asked.

  “Suggestive?” Pinker repeated, smiling at Maltravers. “You mean, did he grope his students?”

  Simmons
frowned at his partner. “He was an expert in Jewish mysticism. That could be a connection with the other murders. He was studying a medieval book called De Occulta Philosophia. So-”

  “So you think the killer has it in for people who dabble in the occult?” Sebastian said dubiously.

  “That’s what the dailies are saying,” Pinker said.

  “I pay no attention to trash like that,” the Bureau man said.

  Clem Simmons raised his heavy shoulders. “We haven’t found anything else to explain the professor’s murder. He seems to have been happily married…” He gave Pinker a long-suffering look. “And he didn’t have a reputation as a groper. According to Professor Rudenstein, he wasn’t one of those academics who stir up controversy.”

  “’Course, there is another possibility,” Pinker said, eyeing each of the others in turn.

  “Enlighten us, Detective,” Sebastian said wearily.

  “He was Jewish-could have been targeted by some far-right crazy.”

  “It’s certainly a possibility.” Sebastian looked at his subordinate. “Have you alerted the Hate Crimes Unit?”

  Dana Maltravers nodded. “They’re checking it. I’ve been through the victim’s recent e-mail correspondence. There are no obvious threats. Of course, he could have deleted them. I’ve also spoken to his wife. She wasn’t aware of anything like that.”

  “All right,” Sebastian said. “Keep in touch with our people. What about the drawing?”

  “The document-analysis experts are comparing it with the others,” Maltravers replied. “There isn’t much doubt that it was done by the same hand, and with the same pen and paper.”

  “And the meaning?” Sebastian asked impatiently.

  “Um…unclear, so far.”

  “Anyone else have any ideas?”

  “Could be building up to some sort of composite,” Clem said. “The shapes are in different places on each page.”

  “True,” the FBI man said. “The problem is, if it’s not complete, then we can expect more murders.”

  Silence greeted that remark.

  “Have you gotten anywhere with background checks on Loki and Monsieur Hexie?” Dana Maltravers asked.

  “Not really,” Simmons replied. “The band members are saying as little as they can. We’ve been looking at their activities. Loki got plenty of abuse on the band’s Web site about his lyrics, but that seems normal in the circles he moved in.”

  “What about anti-Nazi and civil-rights groups?” Sebastian put in.

  “Yeah, they thought he was a piece of shit,” Pinker said, “but we haven’t found any death threats. Same for Monsieur Hexie but Clem can tell you more about him.”

  “Thanks, partner,” Simmons said. “The second vic actually seems to have been rather popular. People appreciated the stuff he sold. It made them happy.”

  “Woo-hoo for voodoo,” Pinker said, with a sardonic smile.

  Dana Maltravers looked up from her papers. “It seems he was still turning tricks, though, despite his age.”

  Simmons nodded. “From time to time. We tracked down the recent johns-Monsieur Hexie kept a client list on his computer. They were pretty upset.”

  “They had solid alibis, too,” Pinker said.

  “Could the list have been tampered with?” Sebastian asked.

  Clem Simmons shrugged. “I guess. The list was a standard Word file.”

  There was another silence.

  Gerard Pinker broke it. “What about your man Matt Wells? The CSIs haven’t found anything linking him to the latest scene.”

  Sebastian gave a tight smile. “They’re unlikely to, given that he was in Maine last night.”

  “So you failed to catch him,” Pinker said pointedly.

  The FBI man stared at him. “The fact that Wells continues to evade arrest hardly suggests he’s an innocent man.”

  “Oh, yeah? The way I hear it, the guy walked voluntarily into the state troopers’ station. He wouldn’t have done that if he was killing people, or even organizing their deaths.”

  Sebastian shook his head. “You aren’t in possession of all the facts.”

  “Is that so?” Clem Simmons said. “We’re the lead detectives on this investigation. You’re not in a position to keep information from us.”

  Peter Sebastian got to his feet. “I’m in a position to do anything I deem appropriate,” he said, picking up his notes. “Next briefing at midday tomorrow, please.” He gave Pinker a malevolent smile. “Your presence isn’t required, Detective.”

  “Right on, Dick,” Versace muttered.

  Richard Bonhoff was wearing a nondescript blue wind-breaker and a Washington Redskins cap. For the past six hours he’d been in various locations with a view of the main entrance of the Woodbridge Holdings office-outside a shoe shop, inside a cafe, behind a van. There had been no sign of Gordy Lister and now, as the light faded, his stomach was rumbling and his feet were cold. But he was used to worse in the fields back home.

  Richard knew he’d be pressed if Lister headed for the car park. He hadn’t brought the pickup after the last fiasco, and he would have to rely on a taxi passing at the right time. Short of stealing a vehicle, there was nothing else he could do. He thought of the twins and their haggard faces. What wouldn’t he do to get them back? Answer: nothing.

  Then Gordy Lister made an appearance. He stood outside the office building for a while, looking around, markedly more cautious than before. Richard made sure the collar of his coat was up and the peak of his cap pulled low. Lister eventually started walking to the right. Richard moved out of the doorway he’d been sheltering in and kept to the sidewalk on the other side of the road. There were plenty of people around at the end of the working day, and he had to take care not to knock into those walking toward him. That was why he didn’t immediately notice that Lister had company.

  The man who had suddenly taken up a position beside the newspaperman was tall and wore what looked to Richard like an expensive gray coat. He had on a hat, the kind that men wore in black-and-white detective movies, and his face was partly covered by his own raised collar. When he turned, Richard saw a prominent nose. It occurred to him that Lister’s companion was doing the same thing he was-trying to be inconspicuous. Interesting.

  The two men continued down the street, Lister occasionally glancing over his shoulder. It struck Richard that maybe there were others watching the men, security men like the gorillas he’d laid out. He checked, but saw no sign of anyone, either on foot or in slow-moving vehicles.

  When the men turned right into a side street, Richard got worried that he might lose them and ran across the road. Luckily, there was a gap in the traffic, but he warned himself to be more careful. If a driver had hit his horn, Lister’s attention would have been attracted. The two men were still in sight, deep in conversation. They stopped outside a building for a few moments, still talking, and then went in.

  Richard strode up the street, examining the building. There was a panel of buttons and names to the right-lawyers, accountants and the like. He waited until someone came out. A blonde woman, speaking into her cell phone, paid no attention when Richard slipped in past her. The two men were by the elevators, the taller of them moving his right hand up and down animatedly. Richard decided to get closer, trusting his changed appearance. Lister’s expression was tense, his eyes locked on his companion’s face.

  “…the camp,” the tall man said. “Everyone is in place. What about your people?”

  Lister’s voice was barely audible. He lowered his gaze as people came out of another elevator. Richard took out a newspaper and opened it in front of him, trying to look as if he was waiting for someone.

  “You know they’re ready.” Gordy Lister’s tone grew sharper. “But what about the killer?”

  “We can’t risk the operation by taking everyone off it.”

  Lister shook his head. “So we run the risk of being screwed by one of our own?”

  “We have no idea of who might be the next tar
get?”

  “Same as before, I reckon-there’s no shortage of occult weirdoes in this city.”

  “Gordon,” the tall man said, lowering his voice. “The company must be protected at all costs.”

  “What do you think I’m do-” Lister broke off when he saw that his companion had turned toward the street door.

  Richard heard the loud click of heels to his left. He watched as a striking woman with short brown hair approached. She was wearing a sober pantsuit.

  “Ah, there you are, my dear.” The man in the gray coat lifted his head. Richard saw that the skin on his face was tight and unnaturally smooth. “I was wondering where you’d got to.”

  “Sorry. A meeting ran late.”

  Lister pressed the call button. When the elevator came, the three of them went inside.

  Richard Bonhoff watched the doors close behind them. He couldn’t risk joining them in such an enclosed space. In the meantime, his mind was jumping hoops, trying to make sense of what he’d overheard. Gordy Lister had said people here were ready. Who? The twins? And who was the killer? Could that be the one the papers were calling the Occult Killer?

  Jesus Christ, he said to himself. What have I got myself into? And what has happened to Gwen and Randy?

  Joe Greenbaum was sitting in an interview room on the fifth floor of the MPDC building. He’d been there for half an hour and the plastic cup of thin coffee he’d been given had long gone cold. He was beginning to wonder if he’d done the right thing. He had tried to talk to one of the detectives on the Singer case over the phone, but the man had insisted Joe come to headquarters to give a statement. That was all very well, but he had work to do. The deadline for his article on high-level corruption in the U.S. automobile industry was only a week away and he hadn’t even started pulling his notes together.