Maps of Hell mw-3

by Paul Johnston

  “Yeah, that press conference after Monsieur Hexie was found.” Simmons looked back at his notes. “So, the floater is Richard Bonhoff, a forty-three-year-old farmer from Iowa. He came to D.C. a week ago to find Gwen and Randy, his twenty-one-year-old twin children.”

  Pinker sat up straight. “Who won a competition in the Star Reporter last December that brought them here, and they were looked after by our friend Gordy Lister. No wonder that fucker looked shifty yesterday.”

  “According to the dead man, Lister tried to scare him off with a couple of heavies and Bonhoff, ex-marine that he was, dealt with them as only marines can. Then Lister took him to see his kids. They’ve apparently become junkies. When he went back to find them later, there was no one around.”

  Pinker stared at his partner. “What do you reckon? Gordy Lister’s into dope? Or maybe he’s running some kind of white slave ring.”

  “You reckon Lister’s up to that, Vers?”

  “Hell, yeah. That little prick would sell his mother if the price was right.”

  Simmons nodded. “Yeah, he probably would. But I think there’s more to it than Gordy running a solo scam. I think there might be something in what Bonhoff says about Woodbridge Holdings being involved.”

  “Could be. They own the Star Reporter, so they aren’t exactly scoring high in the ethical business chart. What else are they into?”

  “I’m about to start working on that.”

  Pinker stood up. “So what do we do? Haul in Lister?”

  “We could do.” Simmons smiled wickedly.

  “Oh-oh,” his partner said, suddenly the apprehensive one for a change. “What have you got in mind, Clem?”

  The big man stood up and moved close to Pinker. “Well, I was just thinking, we’re off the case anyway, so why don’t we keep this unofficial.”

  “This being?”

  “We tail Gordy Lister.”

  The small man raised an eyebrow. “You forgetting what happened to this Bonhoff guy when he did that?”

  “Um, we’re cops, remember?” Clem Simmons took the pages back from Pinker. “By the way, there’s something else I’ve got to tell you.”

  His partner’s face went white as his partner described his meeting with Joe Greenbaum and Matt Wells. And Clem thought Pinker’s eyes bulged like an impaled octopus’s when he heard that the official prime suspect had been handed copies of the killer’s diagrams.

  Joe had made a prepaid Internet reservation for me in a cheap hotel on the other side of the Potomac. We reckoned that would keep me away from prying eyes, not that I was planning on doing anything except sleeping there. Joe also gave me five hundred dollars. I used a couple of hundred to buy some jeans, shirts and a thick jacket. No doubt the New York State police would have circulated a description detailing the clothes that Mary Upson had given me.

  I took a shower and changed into my new outfit. The hotel was near the Rosslyn Metro station, within walking distance of Georgetown. I was about to set off when I felt a sudden pulse of pain in my head and staggered to the bed. Images flashed before me in rapid succession-a wire between the camp and the pine trees; a flat machine covered in wires and flashing lights lowering over me like the lid of a coffin; an explosion of sound from the line of soldiers with rifles to their shoulders…

  I shook my head, trying to rid myself of the visions. I was sweating heavily and my hands shook. Then everything went blank and I felt the rough bedcover against my cheek. I gradually got my breathing under control and opened my eyes. The roar of the traffic on the freeways filled my ears and I sat up. What was going on? I had thought that as time passed the effect of whatever was done to me would wear off. My memory was getting better, even though there were still plenty of gaps. But I wasn’t free of the place-there were still invisible chains tying me to it. That machine, its lights and the hum of sophisticated electronics, the things I’d been forced to see and hear-I couldn’t recall them in detail, but I felt their weight. It was like a worm with sharp teeth wriggled in my brain, endowed with the power to extinguish my thoughts and personality at any time. I was going to have to be very careful when it came to making important decisions.

  I stuck one of the Glocks out of sight under my belt, leaving the other one in the wardrobe safe. Worried about my erratic memory, I wrote the code on my forearm. In my pocket, I had a piece of paper with the address of the house in Georgetown that Gavin Burdett stayed in when he was in D.C. Although I’d remembered it once, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to do so again.

  It was a clear autumn day, the colors of the trees in the distance and the gray-blue water beneath the sky making the place feel more like a sparsely populated rural town than a great city. As I crossed the bridge, I looked at the gray walls and slate roofs of the university. When I’d attended the crime-writing conference in D.C., a seriously dull criminologist had given a lecture there. The only laugh was provided by a local detective who said that criminology was as much use in law enforcement as a liquorice night stick. I wondered if Clem Simmons knew him. What were his motives in sharing information with Joe and me? He must have been desperate to solve the cases he’d been taken off-or maybe he just hated the FBI. The latter wasn’t exactly my favorite organization right now, either.

  The diagrams-if that was what they were-flashed into my mind. I’d left the hard copies I’d made in the safe. There was something about them, something hovering on the margins of my consciousness. They had some esoteric meaning, even though they remained nothing more than collections of squares and rectangles. Random was the one thing they weren’t-I was sure of that. But their significance continued to elude me. Could there be something mathematical about them, a code in the lengths and angles?

  The bridge crossed a busy freeway and led down to M Street. The address I wanted was a few streets to the north. I found it easily-a well-maintained row house with a heavy black door and solid-looking windows. Even under cover of darkness, it would be hard to break in unnoticed. On the other hand, standing on the street for any length of time would attract attention, too. I was going to have to come up with a plan pretty soon-and I wasn’t even sure that Gavin Burdett was on this side of the Atlantic. I walked back to Wisconsin Avenue, then went down to M Street and found a cell-phone shop. With a prepaid phone I went back outside and called Joe.

  “Yeah, it’s me,” I said. “Any news?”

  “Not much. I’m still looking at that Antichurch, but no hot leads yet. Oh, and the FBI’s violent-crimes unit’s giving a press conference about the murders at three o’clock. I’ll be there. What about you?”

  “I’ve located the house. No sign of G.B. I’m going to check the back.”

  “All right, man. Make sure your phone’s on vibrate.”

  I heard a guffaw as I ended the call.

  Walking farther down the street, I found a hardware store. I bought a collection of basic tools and a plastic safety helmet, so now I looked reasonably official. I headed back to the house, this time turning onto the street behind. I had counted my steps so that I ended up behind the right place. There was a large tree between two houses, its leaves an iridescent blend of red, yellow and green. More to the point, there was a narrow driveway leading inward. I walked confidently down it.

  There were a couple of garages on the right and a high stone wall blocking my way ahead. I looked around. There were trees behind me, so I was pretty well obscured from the houses I’d passed. I considered the situation. If I was challenged, I would say I was a contractor. If the worse came to the worst, I had the Glock. I was thinking about Karen. Even if Burdett wasn’t staying in the house, I might find evidence tying him or the owners to her-even to her disappearance, if I was really lucky. Maybe she was even in there. I had to go for it, but first I would check the front again. It would be dumb to break in from the back and find someone had recently arrived.

  I retraced my steps. About fifty yards before I got to the house, a black limousine swept past me and stopped outside it. I slowed down and s
tarted rummaging in my toolbox. I looked up when I heard a door slam. A figure in a dark blue coat had got out of the car and was walking to the front door. When he got there, he looked round and nodded to the waiting chauffeur before going inside.

  I recognized him immediately. It was Gavin Burdett.

  Thirty-Three

  Peter Sebastian glared at his subordinate. “When does the Marine Corps think its database will be operative again?” he demanded.

  Special Agent Maltravers tried to smooth talk him. “It shouldn’t be long. Not more than another two hours.”

  The blond man looked at his watch. “But that takes us to after three o’clock. What am I supposed to announce to the gathered press? That the victim was in the marines, but we don’t know who he is?”

  “You could always put the blame on the marines.”

  Sebastian looked at her unbelievingly. “Are you out of your mind, Dana? You don’t fuck with the Marine Corps.”

  “Or alternatively, you could say that we’re informing next of kin.”

  The anger faded from his features. “That’s more like it. What else have we got?”

  The young woman looked at her notes. “Not a great deal. No witnesses to the body being dumped in the river, no reports of anyone being beaten. Then again, the scene’s location is hardly the safest in D.C.”

  “Nor are the residents likely to talk to us. Are we getting full cooperation from the MPDC since we took the occult cases from them?”

  Dana Maltravers shrugged. “I guess. The dispatch commander gave us access to all reported incidents. Nothing’s squared with our man.”

  “No missing-persons reports that match?” Sebastian asked hopefully.

  Maltravers shook her head. “I’m having them all checked.”

  “Shit. I’m walking into a bullring with no pants on.”

  His subordinate swallowed a smile. “Sir,” she said tentatively, “are you quite sure that the man in the river is connected with the occult killings?”

  Peter Sebastian looked at her thoughtfully. “Any particular reason why I shouldn’t be?”

  “Well, for a start, there was no diagram.”

  “Go on.”

  “I’m concerned by the lack of a specific locus. The other three victims were all killed in places where they worked.”

  “If you count Loki’s van as a workplace.”

  “I think we can. The point is, the killer went to great trouble to study his victims and identify a time of attack. The guy in the water looks more like a straightforward homicide. Maybe he was just caught up in a gang scrap.”

  Sebastian’s eyes moved off her. “Maybe… But the quickest way I could get control of the cases was by including the latest one in the series. The press doesn’t know about the diagrams, anyway.”

  “You’re going to maintain that policy?”

  “I think so.” He looked at the file in front of him. “What are the document-analysis people saying?”

  “Still nothing. They’re inclined to think that the killer’s playing what they call ‘diversionary games.’”

  “They’re just hedging their bets. Hate Crimes?”

  “Still waiting.”

  Sebastian’s eyes opened wide. “What? I sent the assholes a formal request.” He grabbed his phone. “Christ, if you want anything done around here, you have to do it yourself.”

  Dana Maltravers backed out of her boss’s office. When he was in that kind of mood, he was impossible to handle.

  I gave Gavin Burdett some time to settle in. A minute seemed long enough. Then I went up to the door and gave the bell a long push. There was a security camera above the top left corner. I made sure the safety helmet covered the upper part of my face. It was possible Burdett knew what I looked like-my photo appeared at the head of my newspaper column every Thursday.

  The door was opened on the chain.

  “You gotta problem with your icebox,” I said, laying on an American accent.

  “What?”

  “Your icebox,” I repeated, sounding as irritated as possible to put him on the back foot. “Excuse me, could we move this along? I got five more customers waiting.”

  “Oh, very well.”

  I heard the chain being removed. As soon as the door opened, I brushed past him. By the time he’d closed it again, I had the muzzle of the Glock against the back of his head.

  “If that feels like a semiautomatic pistol,” I said softly, “it’s because it is one.” I glanced around. There seemed to be no one else in the vicinity.

  Burdett was swaying slightly, but was otherwise motionless.

  “Right, then, Gavin,” I said, dispensing with the accent, “let’s be having you.”

  I grabbed him under the arm and threw him across the black-and-white tiled floor of the elegant hallway. He cannoned into the wall, shock on his face.

  “You…you know my name,” he said, kicking his legs as he tried to get up.

  “Oh, yes. Don’t you recognize me?” I took off my hat and smiled, but kept the gun on him.

  “Wells,” he said, clearly puzzled. “Matt Wells. What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He sounded like the archetypal Brit abroad, appalled at the way he was being treated-except I was a Brit, too, and he hadn’t seen anything yet.

  “Empty your pockets,” I said.

  “You’re joking, aren’t you?”

  I went over and kicked him on the knee.

  His face twisted in agony. “Bastard! What was that for?”

  “Your pockets,” I repeated, glaring at him. It wasn’t just that he was an arrogant piece of shit-I was sure he knew things about Karen.

  Keeping one hand on his knee, he started pulling things from his jacket and trousers. I took his BlackBerry to examine later and glanced through the rest-keys, small change, wallet with several platinum cards, a gold fountain pen and so on. Changing hands, he emptied the remaining pockets-cigarettes, an expensive-looking lighter, chewing gum and an open packet of condoms. I remembered from the files that Burdett was married. Unless his wife was hiding upstairs, I had the feeling he was once again planning on sampling what D.C. had to offer in the underage flesh department.

  “Up,” I ordered, then pushed him roughly into a sitting room full of antique furniture. Whoever owned the place wasn’t short of money or taste. There was an escritoire in the far corner with a wooden chair in front of it. I glanced at the windows. White net curtains obscured us from prying eyes. The main curtains, of an excessive floral design, were tied back with golden ropes. I wrenched the latter free and used them to tie my captive to the chair, then flipped him onto his back, making sure the telephone was well out of his range.

  “Don’t bother shouting. You’ll no doubt have noticed that the windows are double glazed.”

  “This isn’t the first time I’ve stayed here,” Gavin Burdett said contemptuously.

  “Congratulations. I’m going for a look around. If I hear even a squeak out of you, I’ll take my boot to your other knee.”

  He stared at me with barely contained anger and then nodded curtly.

  I checked the other rooms on the ground floor. There was a superbly appointed kitchen, with a heavy door that I guessed led to the backyard. There was also a dining room that would have done an English stately home proud. Upstairs there were three bedrooms, furnished in degrees of opulence that ranged from regal to imperial, each with its own bathroom. I checked the wardrobes and cupboards: no one.

  Back downstairs, Burdett was coming nicely to the boil.

  “Look here, Wells. You can’t just assault me and tie me up like this.”

  “Is that right?” I asked, stepping closer to his undamaged knee. That shut him up. I looked at the painting above the fireplace. I reckoned it could have been a genuine Corot, but my memory was having a blank about nineteenth-century art. It was doing okay on Burdett, though.

  “Is this your place?”

  “None of your business,” he replied, then watched my foot draw back from
his knee. “No, it isn’t. Associates of mine let me use it when I’m in town.”

  “Very decent of them,” I said, wondering how close these associates were. Close enough to be listening to our conversation? I hadn’t noticed any microphones, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any. It was time to hurry things up.

  “Where is she?” I swung the muzzle of the Glock round so it was trained on the banker’s face.

  “Where is who?”

  If he’d managed to keep his eyes on me when he spoke, I might have considered believing he was ignorant. As it was, he’d condemned himself as a poor liar-hard to believe for someone who was in international finance.

  I kicked his good knee. That produced a gratifyingly high-pitched yelp.

  “You know who I’m talking about, Burdett,” I said, pressing the muzzle of the Glock into his temple. “Stop pissing about. You also know what happened to me, don’t you?”

  He tried to twitch his head to the side, but that was even less convincing.

  “You piece of shit,” I hissed. “Karen was getting close to you and your criminal friends, so you had her grabbed. Me, too, when I wouldn’t let the dust settle. Where is she?”

  “I…I don’t…” Gavin Burdett broke off when I raised my foot over his groin. “I…they said-”

  The sound of the key in the front door was almost inaudible. Curiously, despite thousands of hours listening to loud music, my hearing was still acute. I went out to the hall at speed and saw the door open slightly. I lowered my shoulder and charged into it, then slid on the heavy-duty chain. I’d made a mistake by omitting to do that earlier, but this was no time to court-martial myself.

  “What the fuck…” came a deep voice from outside. “Hey, Mr. Burdett, you okay?”

  I headed for the kitchen and unbolted the back door. Ahead was a stretch of paving stones surrounded by low bushes; beyond that was the wall I’d seen from the other side. I looked over my shoulder and saw a pair of bolt-cutters gripping the chain. Burdett’s friends had certainly come fully equipped.

  I sprinted down the yard and hit the wall. It must have been eight-feet high. I managed to get the toe of my boot into a gap in the mortar and drive myself up until my hands reached the top of the wall. Mistake. What I hadn’t noticed from outside was a single strand of barbed wire alongside the touch pads of the alarm system. A loud honking started from the house. I gritted my teeth and hauled myself upward, feeling blood on my hands. Looking round, I saw two men in black suits spill from the back door. Both were carrying silenced pistols and raised them at me. I propelled myself over the wall and crashed onto the lane beyond. My knees took the brunt of the fall. They weren’t in as bad a state as Burdett’s, but they still hurt like hell. I ran down the lane and made it to the street. No one tried to stop me. I turned right.