“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.”
I screwed up my eyes as the tip of a boot poked into my groin. The flashlight was no longer in my eyes, but I saw plenty of bright lights. At least I managed not to cry out. The pressure remained as Hal kept up his examination. At last the boot was pulled back and I felt heavy steps moving away. Tears had filled my eyes.
Soon afterward, we got moving again. Jeff was a bit more careful with his speed, but the load still canted slightly on curves, which was enough to increase the pressure on my chest enormously. My ribs were being crushed and I began to panic. Then I remembered the combat knife. It was in its sheath on my belt. My right hand was close to it, but I could hardly move my arm. I felt the trailer edge back to the horizontal and waited for the pressure to lessen. It didn’t. The load hadn’t shifted back.
Now I really lost my cool. Mustering all the strength I could, I drove my arm downward. The tips of my fingers touched the haft. I shoved against the rope again and got hold of the knife, but I still had to pull it from the sheath. My ribs were about to shatter and I was gasping for breath. For the first time since I’d escaped from the camp, I really thought I wasn’t going to make it.
Then I saw her face. The blonde woman was less severe now. She was looking straight at me, her red lips forming into a smile. I still couldn’t remember her name, but that didn’t matter. I knew that she loved me and I her. That was enough.
I heaved my arm free and stabbed the knife upward through the tarpaulin, then dragged the blade toward my face. It stopped when it reached the rope. The pressure was still intense. I started sawing through the fibers, desperately forcing breath into my compressed lungs. The rope gave way and my ribs sprang outward; it was a few minutes before I got my heart rate back to something approaching normal.
I made longer cuts in the tarp and got myself out into the open air. The timber hadn’t moved while I was cutting the rope. I could only hope it wouldn’t do so at the next corner. Whatever happened, I wasn’t going to let myself be tied down again. If I had to take on Hal and Jeff, so be it.
The truck and trailer moved on through the night. I could see all around me now, but that didn’t help much. The road was still lined by pine trees and there was no sign of life. I glanced at my watch. It was coming up to nine in the evening. Maybe everyone went to bed early around here. Then again, I hadn’t even seen any houses yet. There were tel
ephone poles alongside the road, and the idea that at least there was a phone system gave me some encouragement. I lay back down, this time on top of the tarp, and tried to recall the woman who had inspired me. What was her name? I said my own aloud, trying to hear how we would have been as a couple. Matt and… Matt and his partner… Matt and his wife…? Nothing. At least I could still see the face, with its prominent cheekbones and gray eyes. She seemed to have a habitually serious expression. When it softened, the eyes remained intense. I heard the thrum of the engine fade and the wind on my face weaken. Suddenly I found myself in a place I couldn’t immediately identify, an area of rolling hills and deciduous trees, an idyllic safe haven….
…birds are singing and a light breeze is blowing over the surrounding slopes. We’ve driven through picturesque small towns, and past prosperous farms, old stone houses and outbuildings. There are the peaks of numerous hills to the left of the road, the trees on their flanks covered by leaves in shades of yellow, red and brown. We stop at several overlooks, as the guidebook calls them. We are in the Shenandoah Valley in Virginia: valleys, cliffs, banks of cloud rising up the slopes to reveal cone-shaped summits, rocky peaks, even a waterfall.
We find a parking place and take the picnic basket we’ve brought, following a path through the trees until we come to a meadow. There seems to be no one else around. We throw the blanket onto grass that the midday sun has dried, but the bite in the air means we keep on our fleece jackets.
“Isn’t this a paradise on earth, Matt?” the woman says, sipping chilled wine from the plastic cup I passed her.
“Better than Washington any day.”
She nods. “Too much work.”
“Speak for yourself.” I laugh and take the plate she hands over.
“I thought you were working, too,” she says, raising an eyebrow.
“I am,” I assure her, suddenly on the defensive. “I told you, Joe Greenbaum’s giving me a lot of useful stuff.”
“Good,” she says. “I wouldn’t like to think you’re taking a holiday while I’m slaving away with the FBI.”
We eat smoked ham, cheese and fresh bread that we bought in one of the pretty towns. There’s fruit, too, and the pale brown pancakes I can never resist. When we finish, we clear away the plates and stretch out on the rug.
She takes my hand. “You know, Matt, I could almost give up work and come to live here.”
“According to the book, it’s a tourist trap every weekend and all summer.”
She digs her elbow into my ribs. “Typical. Can’t you let a girl dream?”
I laugh. “How long would you last without a juicy case to get your teeth into?”
“Work isn’t everything, you know,” she says, raising herself up on one elbow.
“Is that right?” I lean over to kiss her on the lips. “I’ll try to remember that.” I get up. “Excuse me while I go and look for the little boys’ tree.”
She laughs. “Keep an eye out for the little girls’ equivalent, will you?”
I make a carefree skip as I head for the nearby glade.
“And, Matt?” she calls.
I turn to look at her.
“I’m ashamed to say it in the open, but I love you.”
I grin. “And so you should be.”
“Is that it?” she says, as I keep walking.
“I’m desperate,” I say, over my shoulder.
“You’re not kidding,” she shouts.
I relent as I reach the tree line. “I love you, too,” I shout back.
She raises her hand.
When I walk back across the meadow, I can’t see her. At first I assume she’s lying down, but as I get closer I see that she isn’t there. The rug is as I left it, the bag of paper plates and garbage beyond undisturbed.
I see myself from above, shouting her name and running about like a deranged animal. I look at the grass around the blanket, I call her number on my cell phone, I sink to my knees and beat the ground in anguish.
That’s the last time I see her.
I go back to the spot several times, with uniformed men and with people in plain clothes. Other times I return on my own.
None of us finds the slightest trace.
I was back on the load of timber, trying to make sense of what I’d remembered. The woman, what had happened to her? What had we been doing in Washington, when I had understood that I lived in London, Great Britain? And this Joe Greenbaum? What was it he had been giving me? I couldn’t bring him to mind at all. I remembered the FBI, though. Why was the woman I loved working with the Federal Bureau of Investigation? Was she a police officer? A lawyer?
Then the engine revved and the truck and trailer slowed. I looked ahead and saw lights. Civilization. I had made it. I would be able to find help. I shouldered the rifle and crawled to the rear.
I took in a sign by the roadside. Sparta, Maine, it read. Population 2,360. Elevation 673 feet. If I was lucky, there might even be a police station. At least I had an idea of where Maine was—up by the Canadian border. What the hell was I doing up here? As far as I remembered, it wasn’t anywhere near Washington, never mind Virginia. I needed to get hold of a map.
The truck reduced speed even more, and then slowed into a petrol station. There was a kiosk selling food and drink, but I still had some supplies and I needed to find someone in authority. I lowered myself toward the ground and took cover behind a garbage container. There wasn’t much sign of life, but I was still hesitant about walking down the road with the assault rifle over my shoulder. Maybe I’d be taken for a hunter. Then again, I was wearing the gray uniform of the North American National Revival. It would be interesting to see how the locals reacted. What if the camp had people in Sparta? What if this whole town belonged to the NANR?
I compromised by taking off the jacket and draping it over the rifle. Although the night was cold, I’d been through worse recently. I started to walk toward the center of the town and some bright lights up ahead. Clapboard houses lined both sides of the road, some in decent shape and some not. The cars and pickups outside each place matched the building’s condition. There wasn’t much money being made in Sparta.
I could hear muted sounds of music, the sentimental country laments beloved of truckers. But before I got there, I heard a different sound from behind a derelict, unlit house to my right. I knew immediately that the anguished moan came from a woman in distress. The fact that it was cut off abruptly made me pull the jacket off my rifle and move into the shadows.
“Stop your crying, bitch.” The loud whisper was followed by a dull slap.
“Yeah,” came another voice. “You’ll have your mouth full soon enough.”
I got to the edge of the wall and looked around it cautiously. In the dimly lit area at the end of an overgrown path I made out a figure sprawled on the ground, bare white legs splayed. Two men bent over the woman, pulling at the remains of her clothing. There was a tearing sound and the upper part of her body was exposed.
“Shit, Billy Ray, she ain’t wearing no bra,” said one of the assailants with a cackle.
“Well, get your lips on those titties, man.”
“Don’t even think about it,” I said, walking round the corner and holding the rifle on them. “Hands in the air.”
They turned toward me and stared. When they saw the weapon, they complied, slowly.
“Look what we got here, Bobbie,” said one of them, licking his lips and giving me a slack smile.
“Feels like we’re back in Texas, Billy Ray. Ain’t that a M16?”
I stopped about five yards in front of them. I wasn’t too keen on firing the weapon in town and reckoned I could take them whatever they tried.
“You guys from Texas?” I asked.
They nodded. They were both heavily built and red faced, and substantially the worse for drink.
“Thought I smelled cow shit.” I grinned at them. “You fancied swinging your tiny dicks at a woman for a change, uh?”
They came at me surprising
ly fast. I turned the rifle sideways and raised it like a weight lifter pumping the bar. One of them got the muzzle in his throat, the other the butt. They hit the ground, gasping feebly.
“All done?” I asked.
The one called Billy Ray suddenly had a switchblade in his hand. I clubbed him with the rifle stock and then followed through to make contact with the other man’s head. They went down again. This time they were unconscious.
I moved to the woman. She was sitting up, and wearing only socks and panties.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
She nodded. One of her eyes had already started swelling.
“Just a second.” I ran back and picked up my jacket, then put it round her shoulders. “Can you get up?”
“Yes.” Her voice was faint.
I held her under one arm and she got to her feet without too much difficulty.
I looked at her face and saw that she was fairly young, probably in her late twenties. Her short blond hair was mussed and her face was dirty, but I could still make out that she was a looker. She was holding one arm over her breasts.
“Who are you?” she said, looking at me intently.
I could smell that she’d been drinking, too.
“Just passing through,” I answered. “You meet these fools in the bar?”
“They were in there, but I didn’t talk to them. Guess they must have followed me out.” She touched the skin around her eye and winced.
“Did you get hit anywhere else?”
She shook her head. “No, the assholes didn’t get that far.”
I picked up what was left of her clothing. “Don’t know if this is much use.”
She threw away a badly ripped shirt and pulled on her jeans. There was a tear under the waistband and dirt on the legs.
“Do you live here?” I asked.
She nodded. “Schoolteacher. But I’m from Portland. This hellhole is my first job.”
“Is there a police station?”
She looked at me curiously. “Where are you from?”
“London.”
Maps of Hell Page 11
