“London, England?”
“Yes.” I smiled.
“Nice,” she said, still ill at ease but smiling back at me as she slipped on her shoes. “Always wanted to visit.” She twitched her head. “Police? Yeah, there’s a state troopers’ station.”
“Maybe we should head over there,” I suggested, taking her arm.
She tugged it free gently. “I’m Mary Upson,” she said, extending her right hand. “Thanks a lot.”
“Matt,” I said, instantly feeling half-naked, since I couldn’t remember my surname.
She waited and then shrugged. “Mystery man, huh? All right, Matt, let’s go. It’s about fifty yards beyond the bar.”
I was wondering what to do about the M16. I decided that slinging it over my shoulder was the least-threatening way of carrying it. At least Mary Upson didn’t seem bothered by it. Hunters in the area probably carried rifles all the time. I glanced down at my belt. They probably didn’t carry Glocks. I slipped the pistol round to the small of my back. At least it wouldn’t look at first glance as if I was carrying out a frontal assault on the police station. Mary also didn’t seem bothered by the gray uniform.
“What about…what about them?” she asked, glancing back.
I stopped in my tracks. “Good point. Want to take any private revenge?”
She looked tempted for a few moments, then shook her head.
“Hold this,” I said, handing her the rifle. I kneeled down and unzipped the would-be rapists’ jeans. Then I pulled them off, prompting a groan from one. I managed to secure their wrists and ankles with the trouser legs. I took the cell phones, wallets and keys that I found in their pockets, as well as Billy Ray’s switchblade. No doubt the authorities would look after the valuables.
I got to my feet and turned toward the schoolteacher. For a moment I thought she was holding the rifle on me with intent to fire. Then she handed it back with a smile.
“Let’s go and see the troopers,” she said.
“Right,” I said.
We both had pretty good stories for the representatives of the law in the small town of Sparta, Maine.
Seventeen
Detectives Simmons and Pinker were on one side of the conference table on the fifth floor of the Metro Police building in Washington, D.C., FBI agents Sebastian and Maltravers on the other. Chief of Detectives Rodney Owen, thinner than the most ascetic of monks, the pale skin stretched tight over the bones of his face, sat at the head.
“Clem?” the chief said. “You want to bring us up to speed?”
Simmons nodded, then started to run through what had been done in the Monsieur Hexie case. The victim had been officially identified by the woman who cleaned the shop, a Tennessee native who didn’t seem too surprised by the murder. According to her, folks who played with fire ended up getting burned. It turned out she didn’t have anything specific in mind but, as a devout Baptist, she thought that “voodoo and all that mumbo jumbo was an offence to the Lord.” However, she was in her seventies and had cried when she saw the victim’s face. Living with a daughter who taught grade school, she wasn’t any kind of suspect.
“Canvassing hasn’t gotten us much,” Simmons went on. “You know how it is in Shaw. Nobody wants to talk to us.”
“You think maybe she saw more than she’s saying?” the chief asked.
“Doubt it, sir. But even if she did, I don’t think she’ll come out with it.”
Owen sighed. “That neighborhood is supposed to have gotten better.”
Simmons glanced at Pinker. He was tugging on his cuffs, displaying a pair of cuff links that must have cost him most of last month’s salary. Clem nudged his partner; they’d agreed beforehand that they would share the presentation.
“Yeah, right,” Gerard Pinker said, looking at the file in front of him. “You’ve all seen copies of the M.E.’s preliminary findings and what we’ve got from the CSIs so far.”
“Which doesn’t amount to much,” Peter Sebastian said, narrowing his eyes. “Would you gentlemen care to put this murder in context with that of the singer who called himself Loki? Indeed, do you have anything further to report on that case?”
Simmons leaned forward, his eyes warning Pinker off. “Apart from the skewers, the most obvious common factor is the drawings.” He paused as the others found their copies of the pages attached to the bodies. “As you can see, they’re similar in terms of the shapes, but the layout is different.”
“Is there some occult meaning, do you think?” Chief Owen asked.
“Voodoo?” Pinker said, smiling at his partner.
“Nothing strikes me,” Simmons said, shaking his head. “I’ve checked my books.”
“Do you have any inkling of what the shapes might mean?” The FBI man’s tone was almost neutral, but the hint of authority was plain enough.
“Do you?” Pinker riposted.
“We’re looking into it,” Sebastian said, glancing at his assistant.
Dana Maltravers nodded. “Copies have been passed to our Document Analysis Unit. They have a database of symbols and signs.”
“A database, eh?” Pinker said with a grin. “That’s great. When can we expect the killer’s name, address and social security number?”
“Detective,” the chief said sharply.
Pinker raised his hands.
“You bring up a significant point,” Sebastian said. “Are we right to assume the same person was responsible for both murders? There were no fingerprints at the first scene, were there?”
Simmons shook his head. “No footprints, either.”
“So even if the CSIs identify what they found at Monsieur Hexie’s—and they haven’t yet—we can’t be sure that killer also dispatched Loki.”
Maltravers looked at her boss. “Apart from the M.O.s, sir,” she said, in a low voice.
Sebastian held his gaze on Pinker. “We’ve already talked about the double murder weapons.”
“And what was the consensus?” Chief Owen asked, pen raised over his notes.
Pinker smiled. “Well, sir, Clem thinks maybe the killer has a thing about twosomes.” He grimaced as his partner’s boot struck his shin.
Dana Maltravers broke the subsequent silence. “It’s rare for two weapons to be used, particularly in successive cases.”
“It’s also rare for ears and kidneys to be pierced with such a degree of accuracy,” Owen said. “No practice cuts, no miscues.” He looked at the FBI woman. “What does your database tell you about that, Special Agent?”
“We don’t need a computer to tell us that this is a highly skilled operator,” Sebastian said. “That’s one reason why the Bureau is involved in the investigations.”
Pinker gave him a suspicious look. “What, in case the killer is some kind of prize exhibit?” He looked around the table. “Has it occurred to anyone here that maybe the significance of the number two is that the guy’s stopping after the second murder?”
There was another silence.
“That would be very gratifying,” Sebastian said, giving the detective a tight smile. “But it would still leave you with the task of catching that individual for these two murders.”
“Cool it, Vers,” Simmons said before his partner could answer.
“Very well,” the chief said, eyeing the detectives dubiously before turning to the FBI man. “Dr. Gilbert will be starting the PM shortly. Anything else we need to discuss?”
“Actually, there is, Chief Owen.” Sebastian stood up and passed a sheet of paper to each of them. “I took the liberty of sending one of our crime-scene people to Monsieur Hexie’s apartment.” He shrugged. “No reason not to make use of the Bureau’s resources. Anyway, he discovered a set of fingerprints on a candleholder under the bed.”
“You saying our people missed it?” Pinker said.
The FBI man shook his head. “I’m sure they’ll report it in due course. But I very much doubt that you will have any record of this person’s prints.”
“So who is this Mat
thew John Wells?” Simmons asked, looking up from the sheet.
“That’s where the story gets interesting,” Sebastian said.
“So, are you going to tell us?” Pinker asked, when the agent kept quiet.
Peter Sebastian frowned at him and then nodded. “Of course I’m going to give you the details. They’re already being distributed to law enforcement agencies all over the country.”
As he elaborated, the faces of Rodney Owen, Clem Simmons and Gerard Pinker took on expressions ranging from surprise to sheer disbelief.
Eighteen
When the siblings were brought to the U.S., their father said they should never forget where they came from—but also that they should never mention it. After a year of lessons at home from tutors, they were allowed to attend school. Not the local institution of learning, but a private school in up-state New York, where there were many twins. It was clear from the start that they were both exceptionally able.
In a reversal of the usual way, it was the girl who proved to be better at the sciences, while the boy excelled at the arts and, later, at business studies. By the time they left school—both in the top percentile of their year—they had decided what they wanted to do. Their father supported them in every possible way, taking them on trips to the universities they were considering, and even managing a week’s holiday that summer. The three of them spent it in Washington, D.C., visiting their adopted nation’s monuments and museums. Both twins were so enthused by the city that they vowed to set up home there someday.
In the meantime, they had their studies to pursue. The boy passed at the top of his classes in both literature and business, while his sister was declared to be one of the most promising neuroscientists to appear in years. Within a decade, the boy had established the company that was now one of the biggest media corporations in America, while the girl was a full professor at an Ivy League university.
And then the tragedy happened. They were driving home for Christmas after a weekend in the Catskills, the boy at the wheel of an Italian sports car, when he lost control on an icy mountain road. The vehicle broke through a barrier and fell over two hundred feet, before bursting into flames.
Their father took the news of the accident very badly. He buried his offspring in a cemetery in Washington, D.C., remembering how much they had loved the city. He also wanted to commemorate their lives in the capital of the nation he knew they would have brought great honor to. It was said that the twins’ badly burned bodies were found hand in hand, the bones fused by the intense heat.
The old man, already suffering from prostate cancer, passed away three months after his children. He was buried in the same plot. The gravestones did not bear the names that any of them had borne in the land of their birth.
Nineteen
As Mary Upson and I walked down the road to the troopers’ station, I felt her eyes on me.
“Is this some kind of uniform?” she asked, looking at the jacket round her shoulders.
I shrugged, unwilling to go into details with a stranger.
“All right,” she said, “try this one. Why are you toting that rifle? It looks kind of military.”
I glanced at her. “Hunting,” I said. “Just caught me a pair of Texan bushwhackers.”
Mary Upson smiled. “You English and your crazy humor,” she said. “Is there anything you’re serious about?”
The lights of the state troopers’ station were close now. I was about to get very serious indeed, but taking the rifle in with me probably wasn’t a great idea. I stopped and put it down behind a bush by the steps.
“Smart,” Mary said. “Ready?”
I nodded and went up to the door. The building was a standard wooden house that had been converted. There were bars on all the windows. I shivered, remembering the wire around the camp—and the ill-fated man who had helped me get over it.
We rang a bell and waited to be admitted. I looked up and mugged at a CCTV camera. Then the door opened.
“Evening, folks,” said a young man in uniform, a semiautomatic pistol holstered on his belt. “What can I do for you?” He took in Mary’s face and clothes. “Ms. Upson, what happened to you?”
“Hello, Stu,” she said. “I was hoping you’d be on tonight.”
The trooper’s eyes moved to me. They weren’t friendly.
“This is Matt. He helped me out.”
“Oh, right,” the trooper said. The badge on his chest proclaimed his name to be Stu Condon. He had fair hair in a crew cut and his upper arms were trying to break out of his pale yellow shirt. “Come and sit down. Tell me what happened.”
We followed him into what would have been the sitting-room. There was a scuffed leather sofa and matching armchair around a low coffee table. Mary and I took the sofa.
“I’ve just made a pot of coffee,” the young man said. “You want some?”
We both nodded. When he was out of the room, Mary drew the gray uniform jacket tighter and started to sob quietly.
“Hey,” I said, touching her hand. “It’s over. Those guys aren’t going anywhere. They certainly can’t hurt you now.”
She gradually got a hold of herself and calmed down. I looked around for the trooper, but he was still behind the security door that blocked us off from the station’s interior. There was a box of tissues on a shelf.
“Here,” I said, handing her one. “You’ll feel better when you get some coffee inside you.”
“Thanks, Matt,” she said, after she’d dried her eyes. “It’s just…it’s just, those men were so horrible. Like animals. And I’m kind of isolated up here. I don’t have any close friends.”
I thought about Billy Ray and Bobbie. They might have woken up by now. It would be a good idea if Trooper Condon picked them up before they started making a noise. But producing coffee for citizens in distress seemed to be exercising all of his talents.
In the station office, Stu Condon was examining the pages he had just printed out. He was keen about his career and he wouldn’t normally have kept people waiting outside. Before the bell had rung, he’d been going through the daily wanted notices. He always paid particular attention to those issued by the FBI, because he harbored ambitions of joining the Bureau once he had a few years’ experience. His eye had landed on the photo of Matthew John Wells. It wasn’t often that Englishmen appeared in the notices. But he hadn’t immediately realized that the man with Mary Upson was him, even when she’d introduced him as Matt. He was dirty and unshaven, his clothes scruffy. There was no doubt in his mind now, though. The question was, did he call for backup? Sergeant Johnson lived ten miles away, while Denny Morris would have swallowed the best part of a crate of beer by now. Anyway, this was exactly the kind of arrest that would get him noticed by the Bureau.
Stu was on his way to the door with a tray of coffee, when it struck him that he should call the number on the bottom of the wanted notice. He thought about it, but there was no instruction not to approach the man, as there was with escaped murderers and the like. Still, this guy was suspected of two seriously violent killings in Washington. He made up his mind. He could handle Mr. Matthew Wells no problem.
To be on the safe side, he unfastened the strap on his holster. If Mary hadn’t been there, he’d have gone in with his Glock in both hands. With any luck, there would be a chance to draw later on. His heart skipped a beat. Mary would definitely be impressed if he took in a man suspected of two murders. Mary. She was a real honey.
It was time for Stuart Bellingham Condon to show just how good a lawman he was.
The instant the trooper walked through the door, I knew he meant me no good. Although he busied himself with handing out mugs of coffee, there was something in his expression that hadn’t been there before, an almost breathless excitement. When I saw that the strap on his holster was undone, I knew my intuition was right. I took a sip of the brew—surprisingly good—then pushed my gut forward and feigned a pain in the small of my back. Slipping my right hand round, I got the fingers on the
grip of the pistol. So far, I’d only attacked people who had been a threat to me or, as with Mary, had been behaving like animals. Taking on a representative of the law was a big step.
I listened as Mary told the young man about the attempted rape. He seemed to be paying attention, but his eyes were continually flicking toward me. Mary told him that I had rescued her, so he had no reason to be suspicious. Then I thought about the gray uniform. Could the people who ran the camp have some sort of pull with the local law? I wasn’t about to take a chance on that.
Trooper Condon nodded at Mary and then turned to me.
“Care to give me your full name, sir?” he said, taking some folded papers from his breast pocket.
That was a tester. I said the first names that came to mind. “Em, Matthew James Page.”
“And where are you from, Mr…Page.”
That brief hesitation, and the glance directed at the papers he’d just unfolded, were enough to tell me that he knew more about my identity than I did. Was I a criminal? All the thoughts I’d had about my shooting and fighting abilities came back in a rush. My memory was so full of blanks that I could have assassinated the U.S. president and not been aware of it. But my survival instinct overrode all those suspicions. Whatever my previous actions, I hadn’t deserved what had been done to me in the camp—like the man at the fence hadn’t deserved execution.
Trooper Condon’s eyes opened wide as I brought the Glock to bear on him. I took a step forward and relieved him of his own weapon, sticking it in my pocket. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Mary Upson’s face. Her lips were apart, but otherwise she seemed surprisingly calm.
“Sir, I would caution you—”
“Forget it, Trooper.” I pulled the papers from his hand. There was a photo of me on the top one that stirred something in my memory. Compared with how I’d appeared in the mirror in the cabin, this image gave the impression of a well-fed, well-groomed, slightly arrogant type. The leather jacket I was wearing must have cost plenty.
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