Maps of Hell

by Paul Johnston

  “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?”

  Richard 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.

  “I was just wondering…” Richard broke off, a sudden wave of emotion crashing over him. He took a deep breath. “I…I was wondering if…if you’d seen them or heard from them.”

  Gordy Lister’s face took on a serious expression. “What do you mean?”

  “Mr. Lister, Randy and Gwen left home three months ago and we haven’t seen them since. To tell you the truth, they were never the same after they got back from Washington.”

  Lister gave a sympathetic smile. “Kids, huh?” he said, getting to his feet. “I’m very sorry, Richard. I don’t have any idea where your kids are. They certainly haven’t been in touch with me.” He glanced at his watch. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s somewhere I have to be.” He extended his hand. “So long, friend. Hope you get to see some of the sights before you head back home.” He dropped some bills on the bar and stepped toward the door, his hand raised in farewell.

  Richard stayed where he was for some time. He was thinking about what had just happened. Something about Gordy Lister’s manner wasn’t anywhere near being right. He had no idea who Randy and Gwen were at the outset yet, after he’d recalled them, he immediately knew they hadn’t been in touch with him. It was too slick. And his departure had been sudden.

  Richard might have been a farmer from the Midwest, but he knew when he’d been given the brush-off. So much for the soft approach. He wouldn’t be making that mistake again.

  Ten

  It started to rain, not heavily, but enough to mess with my vision. Blinking every few seconds, I kept going for what I estimated was well over an hour. Then I came to a break in the trees. There was an outcrop of rock and an overhanging section that I took cover beneath, stripping off all my clothing. I examined everything that I removed, from boots to jacket, but found nothing that resembled a tracking device. I was still dubious about the interior of the boot soles, but I couldn’t see any sign that they’d been detached or tampered with. So I concentrated on myself.

  I ran my fingers over my feet and legs. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was looking for, but I presumed I’d recognize a foreign object—unless they’d somehow buried a bug deep inside my brain. I wasn’t inclined to discount that possibility, given the activities I witnessed back at the camp. I wondered why they hadn’t managed to track me down when I was still inside the building. Perhaps the device didn’t work underground.

  I felt my chest and abdomen. Nothing. Then I ran my fingers down my left arm; about an inch beneath the armpit, on the inside of the upper arm, there was a small raised area. I pressed it with a fingertip and
felt something hard and definitely foreign. It was about the size of a small insect. The question now was, what could I do about it? I had nothing sharp in my possession. I tried to puncture the skin with my fingernails, but they had been cut short. Those people thought of everything. Short of shooting myself, I was screwed.

  I stared out into the drizzle. Beneath the green foliage, I saw rows of thorns on the thin branches. I went over to them and managed to break a stem off. Taking it back to the rock overhang, I pried off thorns until there were only four left toward the end of the piece of twig. They were very sharp and it struck me that the bush might have poisonous sap. Too bad: this was my only option.

  I took a deep breath, then jabbed one of the thorns into the skin alongside the raised section. I bit my lip and started to dig around. It wasn’t easy and I used up three thorns, but eventually I managed to remove a small metal capsule. I was about to smash it with the pistol butt when I had a better idea. Some snails had come out on to the wet rock. I picked one up and gently crushed the shell. Then I removed the slimy flesh and used the last thorn to cut into it. I put the bug into the hole I’d made and placed the unprotected snail body on the highest rock. If I was lucky, a bird would swallow the whole thing and lead my pursuers a merry chase away from where I was headed.

  I got dressed and checked the rounds in the rifle’s clip. There were only four left—I had used more than I’d realized. At least I hadn’t made any inroads into the pistol ammunition. I set off at medium pace as my knee was giving me occasional shafts of pain. They grew less frequent while I was running, so I didn’t stop apart from once, at a narrow stream where I refilled my canteen and immersed my knee. The rain was heavier now, and I had to rely on whatever innate sense of direction I had, since the mountain peak I’d been navigating by what was now invisible. It was clear to me that I’d done this kind of exercise before, but whether as army training or as a sport remained hidden in the depths of my unreliable memory. I tried to prompt images from the past to flash up, as had happened with the deer-hunting and Dave, but nothing appeared.

  At least, nothing I was expecting. I was running up a gentle slope, feeling the breath catch in my throat and trying to ignore the growing pain in my leg, when I suddenly remembered another tight spot that I’d been in….

  …I push against the ropes, but there’s no give in them. I try to speak, but the gag allows my tongue no movement. I can only moan and groan.

  “You’re wasting your strength, Matt,” the woman in a blue police uniform says. She comes over to the chair I’m in and lowers her face to mine. “But I’ll play fair.” She laughs ironically. “Besides, no one can hear you.” She raises a large knife with a partially serrated blade to within an inch of my left eye, then lowers it slightly and cuts the tape round my mouth. She smiles and rips it off my cheeks.

  “Jesus!” I yell. “To hell with you, Sara!”

  Instantly the knife is back at my eye. “We don’t use the names of the underworld deities lightly, Matt,” she says icily, then nicks the skin between eye and eyebrow. The drops of blood make me blink.

  “No,” I say, bitterly. “Not now that you’re the famous Soul Collector. Self-appointed, of course.”

  She looks down at me, a smile on her lips that from another person would have been comforting, even loving. But her brown eyes are cold and unwavering.

  “You didn’t really think you’d escape me, did you, Matt?” she says, moving the blade down to my throat. “You must have always known that one day it would end like this.”

  She’s right; deep down I’ve always been convinced. She was my lover and now she would be my death. I blink hard and get a grip on myself. Whatever else she does, she isn’t going to break me.

  “It can’t be very satisfying,” I say.

  She looks puzzled; I’ve succeeded in breaking the patina of confidence.

  “I mean,” I continue, “after all the spectacular killings you’ve pulled off, cutting me to pieces while I’m tied up isn’t much of a test for your skills, is it?”

  Sara is far too smart to be fooled completely, but even a slight distraction may be enough for me.

  “What do you suggest, Matt?” she says, bringing her lips close to my ear. “You want to play games?”

  I have a flash of when we were lovers—her wrists tied to the head of the bed and her backside in the air… I thought we’d been as close as any couple could be, but she betrayed me, handed me over to the White Devil. I twitch my head and banish the image of the heartless murderer who had been my first tormentor. I have to stay focused.

  “Give me a chance to get away,” I say. “Make it a fair contest.”

  She laughs, the sound as empty as the grave. “According to the headlines, I’m a psycho killer, Matt. But I’m not a congenital idiot.” Then she stands up straight and looks around the room. “All right, I’ll give you a chance.” She leans over me again and jabs the knife into my right knee.

  I yell over and over as the blade is twisted around, and then slowly withdrawn. Ropes fall from my ankles, stomach and wrists and I try to get up. I collapse onto the floor.

  “How’s that?” she asks. “Let’s say, if you make it to the door, I’ll let you go. Fair?”

  I force my thoughts into some kind of order, telling myself that I’ve had pain on the rugby field often enough. I bite my lower lip till my chin is slick with blood. The only thing I can think of is to make it appear that I’ve lost my nerve.

  “No,” I sob, “please, Sara…don’t do this.”

  She steps back, out of the light.

  “Go on, Matt. I’m not in your way.”

  “No,” I squeal. “I can’t…I can’t move. My knee…”

  She loses her patience and stamps over. Then I see her boot heading toward my injured leg. I scream the instant it makes contact and keep screaming.

  “Shut the fuck up, you pathetic shit,” she says.

  I disobey the order, keeping my voice as high as I can.

  Sara’s face looms over me, but she keeps too far away for me to strike at her. “No one can hear you. All you’re doing is pissing away what’s left of your strength.” She bends nearer. “Strong man,” she says with bitter irony, launching spit onto my face.

  I let out a long moan, then close my eyes and do the best impression I can of fainting. She doesn’t buy it and lands her boot in my gut. I expel air rapidly, but stay supposedly comatose.

  “Asshole,” she says, her breath on my cheek.

  I reckon she’s as close as she’s going to get. I think of the training I had from Dave. He always said, “Decide on a course of action and follow it through—no hesitation.” Without looking, I whip my head forward and hear a crunch as my forehead smashes into her nose. I don’t risk getting up but grab the knife that drops from Sara’s hand and start crawling to the door. When I get there, I look back and see her trying to get to her feet, blood trickling between the fingers of the hand covering her nose. I should go back and finish her, but I’m committed to getting away.

  In agony from my knee, I find an elevator at the end of a long corridor. I press the button, but before the doors close I see Sara coming toward me, her nose still fountaining blood. She empties the small pistol in her right hand into the elevator. I’m on the floor as the bullets narrowly miss my head. At last the doors close and I head down. When it stops, I haul myself up and stagger to the exit door. I find myself on a city street, all the buildings around as derelict as the one I’ve just left. But, amazingly, there’s a taxi approaching. I stumble out into the road and force the driver to stop. He’s wearing a turban.

  “My God, sir,” he says, after I’ve told him to take me to the nearest police station, “what is it you have been doing?”

  I’m struggling to catch my breath. “Fighting…fighting with my girl,” I say, stowing the combat knife in my pocket. Then there’s another stab of pain in my knee. I wonder if I should go to a hospital first, but decide against it. The police need to know where the Soul
Collector is, though she’s probably already on her way out of the place.

  I look out the window and catch a glimpse of an immensely tall building covered in silver light, an elegant needle pointing to the night sky….

  It comes to me that this encounter with my former lover took place in New York City and she was dressed as a member of the New York Police Department…

  I reached the top of the tree-covered incline and stopped behind a pine. The forest continued down the slope on the other side, and the narrow valley between the mountains wasn’t far ahead now. My foot was aching, but I could bear it. The injuries that Sara had given me must have been several months back, if not more. I tried to remember more about the scene I’d just relived. What had I been doing in New York City? Where was New York City? I had the feeling it wasn’t in the country that I lived in, nor was it in Scotland. I kicked the ground in frustration. I had been hoping that the longer I was out of the camp, the more frequently memories would return. That was happening, but it was taking too long. I needed more information about what had happened to me if I was to stay free.

  I drank from the canteen and listened out for sounds of pursuit. The rain was heavier now and it was hard to distinguish individual noises. If the transmitter had been consumed by a bird or animal, maybe I really was on my own. I should have been encouraged by that thought, but instead I felt a terrible sense of isolation. The forests and mountains were huge and I was on my own against a ruthless enemy whose numbers I didn’t know. If I failed to find food and shelter soon, I’d be easier prey than the snail I’d unshelled.

  I moved off and achieved a reasonable speed going downhill. The trees thinned and I came to a track of sorts. The wheel ruts were covered in grass, so there obviously hadn’t been any traffic along recently. I decided to risk using it—the day was almost over and I wanted to find shelter before the light faded completely. I jogged along the side of the track, prepared to dive into the undergrowth should anyone appear. I knew I was making a target of myself, but the trees on both sides were fairly high. Besides, my strength was almost drained. Taking risks was the only option.