Maps of Hell mw-3

by Paul Johnston

  “No… Doesn’t surprise me that you did what you could, though.”

  “Yeah, well…” He looked away, embarrassed. “’Course, I had to do the same thing when you didn’t show for our usual late breakfast. You must have been snatched somewhere between your hotel and my place. We were using it as base camp for our investigation-the Feds were getting nowhere fast.”

  “What about the local cops in Virginia?”

  “Oh, they did all they could. I used a contact of mine in the Bureau to kick ass down there.”

  “Then you had to cope with me vanishing, too.”

  He nodded. “It was the same story as with Karen. I kept them at it, but there was nothing-no witnesses, no messages, no ransom demand. I even wrote an article about you both for the Washington Post. They stuck it on page twelve, so who knows how many people noticed. That was ten days ago. The story’s died a death since then.”

  I gave an ironic laugh. “And I nearly died several more times in the camp and on my way here.”

  “Certainly sounds like the people in that camp were very unhappy that you’d gotten away. I wonder…” He broke off, for once not raising his glass to his lips.

  “What?”

  “Nah, it’s just my suspicious mind. I was thinking that maybe those assholes in the gray uniforms have got some pull with the Bureau. I mean, I was always sure you weren’t behind any of these occult killings, despite your prints at one of the scenes. Someone’s gone to a lot of trouble to frame you, my friend.”

  “That much I’d worked out for myself, Joe. The question is, who?”

  A spectacular waitress brought a fresh pitcher and Joe filled our glasses.

  “Someone who had access to the scene, obviously.”

  “Which means either the killer or someone who knew his or her movements. Or, alternatively, one or more of the investigators.”

  He nodded. “The latter being the patrol cops first on the scene, the CSIs, the D.C. detectives on the case or the FBI-take your pick.”

  “How come the FBI was involved?”

  Joe put his hand over his mouth and burped. “Because it’s D.C. and there are so many VIPs around. That’ll no doubt be behind the Bureau pulling rank and kicking the MPDC team off the case today.”

  I watched as the waitress brought another platter of food, then I picked up a buffalo wing. “So what’s your line on the murders, Joe?”

  “My line? Well, apart from the fact that no one seems to have a clue what’s going on, I reckon that the occult shit is just a distraction from the real deal.”

  “Which is?”

  “Come on, Matt. It shouldn’t be too hard for a crime novelist like you to spot.”

  Joe stared at me. “Yeah. Jesus, Matt, you hadn’t forgotten you were one of those, had you?”

  “Em, no…it just hasn’t seemed very important recently.”

  “No, I guess it hasn’t. On the other hand, you’ve been right in the middle of a prime example of what I’m talking about.”

  “Of a…shit storm?”

  Joe grinned. “Well, yeah, that. But what I’m getting at begins with a c and has four syllables.”

  I shrugged, being far from in the mood for word games.

  “Come on, man,” Joe said, spreading his arms wide. “This is the world capital of-”

  “Conspiracies,” I said, in a flash of enlightenment.

  “You got it, Matt. And I know just the man to help us nail the fuckers behind this one.”

  That made me feel better, but not a whole lot. I had the feeling that time very much wasn’t on my side, or on Karen’s-if she was even still alive.

  After I’d eaten and drunk enough to feel human again, we decided to go back to Joe’s place. The fact that we hadn’t seen a tail earlier suggested there probably wasn’t surveillance on him. To be certain, we went the back way into his apartment, climbing over the fences between small yards. Joe said his neighbors used that route all the time for dope deals.

  We made a plan for the next day and Joe went to crash, claiming that he’d overdone the beer. I sat at his desk with great heaps of printouts and files all around me, and logged on to the Internet-one of the things that my unpredictable memory seemed to have retained was how to operate a computer. I checked the reports of the D.C. occult killings in the American Press and brought myself up to speed. Then I checked the U.K. papers. I was glad to see that my own rag, the Daily Independent, had been suitably shocked by the disappearance of its crime columnist, though the story had quickly gone cold. There had been a degree of outrage when I became a murder suspect, though it was hard for my colleagues to argue against the fingerprint evidence. No doubt it would have helped if I got in touch with them, but I wasn’t going to do so-at least not yet. Joe and I had agreed it was better that I kept my head down for the time being.

  I looked at references to Karen in the Web pages, too. There was much indignation about the disappearance of a senior Metropolitan Police detective, but even that story had lost the news editors’ interest after a couple of weeks. I leaned back in Joe’s oversize chair and looked at the ceiling. It was so cracked that the people upstairs must have been ardent punk fans, though thankfully they weren’t pogoing right now. I was thinking about Karen-the way her face turned from stern to amused to loving in the space of a few seconds; the way that, in the weeks before her disappearance, she had started to rest her hand on her belly… God, how I missed her…

  …and I’m in a luxurious hotel suite, watching CNN on a vast plasma TV attached to the wall.

  “Matt,” Karen says from the bedroom, “come and see.”

  I tear myself away from a story about Mormon marriages and go through, my legs still numb from the transatlantic flight. Karen is in the bathroom. It’s twice the size of mine back in London, and I reckon I have one of the bigger bathrooms in that city. The fittings probably aren’t real solid gold, though I couldn’t be 100 percent sure. And, miracle of miracles, there’s a normal-height bath in an American hotel.

  “Neat, eh?” Karen says, laying her toiletries out on the marble runway behind the taps.

  “Neat, yeah,” I reply. “Can you leave room for my toothbrush and razor?”

  She hits me with her toilet bag and that leads to a tussle, which leads to one of the beds. I am told to be careful. Strangely, that instruction, as well as the emperor-size bed, add a certain frisson to our lovemaking. If I’m not careful, she’ll be wanting to be pregnant on a permanent basis.

  “Is he all right?” I ask, resting a hand on her belly.

  “Loving it,” she says, her voice deep. “Apparently fetuses are stimulated by their parents doing it.”

  I find that vaguely disturbing, but don’t say so. Shortly afterward Karen, being Karen, starts to talk about her big case. To be fair, she has a meeting at the Justice Department tomorrow and she wants to have all the facts straight.

  “…nail that bastard Gavin Burdett,” she says, her eyes flashing. “God, he makes me sick.”

  I smile at her. “Aren’t police officers supposed to remain impartial and dispassionate?”

  I get an elbow in my stomach for that.

  “Take my word for it, he’s a complete scumbag.”

  I remember the time I tailed Gavin Burdett to the occult supplies store in the East End. I still haven’t told Karen about that, not least because I don’t know what to read into it. Burdett is the kind of highly focused investment pirate who doesn’t waste his time on anything that doesn’t make him money.

  “In fact,” Karen continues, in an unusually forthcoming mood, “when he’s in Washington, which he is at least once a month to meet with the thieving money men over here, he stays at a private house in Georgetown, near the university.” She turns to me, an expression of disgust on her face. “Do you know what he does there?”

  I’m tempted to reply that he summons up the devil, but hold myself back. “Do tell,” I say sweetly.

  “He has whores sent round. According to the FBI, they all look
underage…”

  “Why haven’t they arrested him, then?”

  She looks at me as if I’m an idiot. “Because he’ll get off in half an hour with the lawyers he can afford. Besides, his hide is mine.”

  “You’ve been reading my Western phrase book again.” I can no longer resist the urge to needle her. “And just how are you going to get the Justice Department to sign off on that?”

  “Simple,” she replies. “I’ll ask them for everything they have on Burdett, and at the same time insist I have a right to arrest a British citizen back home.”

  “And you think they’ll buy that?”

  Karen gives me her most seductive smile. “Undoubtedly,” she says, getting off the bed. “I’m going for a bath.”

  “Mind you don’t drown under the weight of your own…the weight of my son,” I say. When she’s safely ensconced in two feet of warm water, I go over to the expansive dressing table. Typical Karen. Instead of facial unguents and hairstyling equipment, she’s laid out her case files under the mirror. I cast a practiced eye over them and find the one on Gavin Burdett. The thing is, I’m going to have plenty of free time when Karen’s at meetings. I’ve acquired a taste for tailing Gavin Burdett and it would be a challenge to do so in a foreign city. I find the relevant FBI report and note down the address of a house in Georgetown.

  Thirty-Two

  Joe Greenbaum was sitting on a bench in Rock Creek Park in northwest D.C. I was watching from behind the tree line through a pair of his binoculars, the midmorning air still chilly enough to make my nose twitch. We were about a hundred yards from the nearest road but, given time, it wouldn’t have been hard for the cops to set up an ambush. So Joe had called Detective Simmons only half an hour ago and insisted on meeting immediately. He hadn’t mentioned me.

  When a heavily built black man came into sight, I scanned the area behind him, and to his left and right. It was a weekday, so there weren’t many people in the vicinity. A female jogger passed Joe, but she was wearing skintight gear-no place to hide a weapon. Besides, she disappeared round the corner rapidly.

  The cop approached Joe and, after shaking hands, sat next to him. I watched his face. It was rugged, with a slightly world-weary expression. He looked competent and, more to the point, reasonable. I gave them a few minutes, scanned the paths and woods one last time, and then broke cover. I had one of the Glocks and the combat knife under my belt in the small of my back. No doubt Detective Simmons was armed, too, but I wasn’t going to let myself be locked up again, no matter what happened.

  I joined the track about twenty yards behind them and started walking. Joe didn’t turn round, and neither did Simmons, until I was almost on them.

  “Jesus, Matt!” Joe said in surprise, as I sat down. I hadn’t told him how furtive I could be. He looked at the detective. “Like I say, just hear the man out.”

  “Mr. Wells,” the detective said, leaning forward and extending a hand. “Welcome back to D.C. I’m Clem Simmons.”

  I shook his great paw. He seemed friendly enough and not particularly interested in arresting me. “Call me Matt,” I said. “Clem.”

  He smiled. “Okay, Matt. Joe here says you’ve got things to tell me. You’ve got to understand, I can’t offer you any kind of assurance that I won’t take you in.” Furrows appeared on his forehead. “But, as you know, I’m not investigating the killings anymore.”

  I nodded. “But you don’t think I’m guilty of them.”

  “It’s up to you to convince me of that. Tell me, you got an interest in black magic, that kind of stuff?”

  I raised my shoulders. “Interest, no. Involvement, yes. In the past I was chased by a pair of killers who played around with satanic names and imagery.”

  “The White Devil and the Soul Collector. I read about them. Seems you’re pretty good at looking after yourself.”

  “I took precautions,” I said, and then told him something about the training I’d undergone with Dave. Then I got on to the camp and my escape from it.

  When I’d finished, Simmons glanced at Joe and shook his head. “Is this guy for real?”

  Joe and I laughed, then saw the serious look on his face.

  “It ever occur to you that the Soul Collector could be behind these murders, Matt?” Simmons asked. “I mean, she’s bound to have your fingerprints, isn’t she?”

  “Yup,” I said. “But if she is, I’ve no idea how to nail her, especially off my home ground.”

  “She couldn’t have got herself involved with this Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant, could she?” Joe asked.

  I didn’t mention that they were at the camp-I didn’t know him well enough to spill my guts completely. “Sara’s capable of anything,” I said. “But we’d be better off tracking the Antichurch itself.”

  The detective shook his head. “The FBI has got their Hate Crimes people involved.”

  “Any reason why you can’t run a check, as well?” I asked.

  “Apart from the fact that I’m off the case?” Simmons shrugged. “I guess I can do that.”

  I nodded. I liked the man, but he wasn’t exactly buzzing with solutions to my problems. Karen was as lost as ever, while I was still suspect number one.

  “Yeah,” Simmons said, “I can check the Antichurch out, at least here in D.C., but that won’t keep you out of jail down the line, my friend. And I’ve got other cases now.”

  “What about the latest victim?” Joe asked. “Any ID yet?”

  The detective shook his head. “Not that I’ve heard of. The Feds won’t be telling me anything, though.”

  “But he is another occult killing,” I said.

  “You tell me, Matt,” Simmons said. “Personally, I’m not convinced. Could be a copycat.”

  “Oh, great,” Joe said, with a groan. “Now we’ve got two crazies terrorizing the capital of the world?”

  The detective caught my eye. “So, what are you going to do?”

  I smiled. “You sure you want to know?”

  “Probably not.” He looked at Joe. “I’m trusting you to keep me informed.”

  Joe nodded. “Anything helpful you want to drop our way?”

  Clem Simmons checked the area. There was no one near us. He slid his hand inside his coat and handed a brown envelope to Joe. “I must be out of my mind,” he said morosely. “You didn’t get these from me. The press doesn’t know about them. Every victim’s body except the last had a drawing pinned to it. See if you can figure out what these mean before the assholes in the Bureau do. And make sure you tell me first.” He walked away at surprising speed for such a bulky man.

  Joe and I looked at the photocopies. The names of the relevant victim had been printed on each sheet, along with an arrow pointing upward. I examined the different arrays of geometric shapes, but couldn’t make a meaningful pattern out of them.

  “Doesn’t look particularly occult to me,” Joe said.

  “No,” I agreed. “Then again, the Antichurch of Lucifer Lunatic notwithstanding, we don’t think the murders really have too much to do with the black arts, do we?”

  He shook his head. “In which case, what is this shit?”

  “Joseph, I don’t have the faintest idea.”

  We split up before we reached the paved road.

  Clem Simmons was looking out of the office window. He didn’t register the walls of the neighboring buildings or the pale blue autumn sky above. Instead, he was watching himself as he would soon be-a man in late middle age without a job or, most likely, a pension. Although he’d considered what to do carefully before the meet, after the event his thought processes seemed pathetically flawed. He’d been sure that slipping information to Joe Greenbaum would be an agreeable way of sticking it to the Feds, and perhaps garner some new insight. He had contacts that Clem could only dream about. But the reporter had blind-sided him with Matt Wells. And, even more surprisingly, Clem had been convinced by the Englishman’s crazy story.

  He shook his head. Ever since the cancer had taken Ni
na, he’d been struggling. Until the occult killings, he hadn’t really cared whether he and Vers caught murderers. The only thing he’d wanted was to get back to the house he and his wife had shared for twenty-four years, to take in her scent before it finally faded from her clothes. But these cases were different. He had a burning need to find the killer, no matter the cost. Perhaps it was because a voodoo believer had been murdered, but he thought it was more than that. If he could crack this case, if he could solve it before the Feds, he could retire happy. And now it was more likely he’d be sent packing without a penny to his name.

  Gerard Pinker came up. “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded. “I got so bored waiting I went down to the coffee shop to check out the girls in uniform.”

  Clem Simmons handed him a sheaf of pages, each one in a transparent cover.

  “What’s this?”

  “New information, a letter addressed to me by the guy in the Anacostia River.”

  “What?”

  “Keep your voice down. We’re off the case, remember?”

  “Wait a minute.” Pinker looked at his partner apprehensively. “You mean, you haven’t shown this to Chief Owen?”

  “Nope. He’d have to pass it to the Feds.”

  “What are we going to do with it?”

  “Follow it up, of course. You’d better read it first.”

  Gerard Pinker went through the text, taking in the photocopied photographs that had been attached. When he’d finished, he dragged his chair over and slumped into it. “Christmas has come early for us this year.”

  Clem Simmons finished writing. “Could be… Okay, here are the main points as I see them. The first photo confirms this is the dead man, right?”

  Pinker nodded. “Hold up. Where did the letter come from?”

  “The owner of the Travel Happy Motel brought it in. The maid found it on the bed this morning. The envelope was marked ‘Urgent.’”

  “He must have seen you on the TV.”