“Sir—”
“I said forget it. Get hold of your cuffs.”
“What?” The trooper was either playing dumb or had been gripped by fear.
“Your handcuffs.” I moved the Glock nearer to his chest. “Slowly, Stu.”
“Right,” he said, moving one hand round his belt.
“Put one on.” I waited till he’d complied, then took his arm and pulled him across to the wall. There was a heating unit there. I hooked the other cuff around a pipe and closed it. Then I patted his pockets and removed his phone and a set of keys. “You want me to hit you?” I asked.
“Huh?”
I smiled. “So it doesn’t look so bad to your superiors.”
The look he gave me could have felled a buffalo. “You’re forgetting something, Mr. Wells,” he said slowly. “Mary here’s a witness.”
He was right. I hadn’t considered what to do about her. “Stay here,” I said to her. “Let me have as long as you think I deserve.” I knew that was a risk, but I had the feeling she’d give me a break—at least for the time it would take me to find some transport.
Mary Upson didn’t respond. She held her eyes on me, gaze unwavering. I couldn’t tell what she felt about me. It was a risk cutting her loose, but I didn’t want to make the evening even worse for her.
“Take care of yourself,” I said, smiling.
Then I turned and headed for the door.
I picked up the rifle outside and ran down the deserted street, discarding the Texans’ phones and other gear. There were cars and pickups outside the nearest houses, but I wanted to put some distance between myself and the station first—if Condon didn’t know which vehicle I’d taken, it would buy me some time. As I ran, I glanced down at the page with my photo. Beneath it was printed a name. Matthew John Wells. Wells. That was my surname. I still didn’t remember it, but it seemed to fit. Matt Wells. Yes, I was sure that was who I was. Then I saw the reason I was wanted—suspicion of a murder committed in Washington, D.C., on October 29, 2009. The notification had been issued by the violent-crime unit of the FBI. I slowed to a jog. Jesus. Assuming the date was recent, and it squared with the autumn climate and conditions, I was in the clear. Then again, the only people who could vouch for me wore gray uniforms and killed people. What the hell was going on?
Suddenly, in front and to my right, there came the roar of an engine and the shriek of tires. A dark green sedan shot out of a side road and slid to a halt. The passenger door swung open.
“Get in!” Mary Upson yelled.
Something whistled past my head, then I heard a loud boom. I looked back down the road and saw the trooper. He’d got free and armed himself with a rifle. Another shot whizzed past as I threw myself into the car.
“Bloody hell!” I gasped.
Mary had her foot to the floor. She laughed as she glanced in the mirror. “That what you English say when you’re under fire?”
I had my head as far down the seat as I could get, waiting for the rear windscreen to explode. To my relief, it didn’t. A few seconds later, the road went left and we were out of the town center.
“You can sit up now,” she said, a slack smile on her lips.
“How did the Lone Ranger get free?” I asked, stowing the rifle in front of the backseat.
“Search me. I left not long after you.”
I looked at her. “So you’re in the shit, as well.”
Mary Upson shrugged. “Never did like that scumbag Condon. He came on to me once in the bar and wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
I reckoned that was a pretty weak reason for helping a wanted man, but I didn’t have any alternative means of escape right now.
“What does it say in those papers he had?”
I told her about the murder in Washington.
Mary glanced at me quizzically. “When did it happen? Yesterday night? You get the early morning flight up here?”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence. As a matter of fact, I wasn’t in Washington yesterday.”
“That’s a relief,” she said, grinning. “I’d hate to think I was on the road with a killer.”
I looked at her. “Why are you helping me, Mary?”
She met my gaze briefly. “Because you helped me.”
“Simple as that?”
“Sure. What you did wasn’t a small thing, Matt. Those Texan shitheads would have raped me, might have killed me. You saw the knife.”
I nodded. “Which is why we went to the state troopers.”
She shot me another glance. “Which is why I went to the troopers. Why did you go? And don’t say you—”
“Shit,” I interrupted. “The Texans are still tied up.”
“Like I give a flying fuck. Do you?”
For some reason, I did. Then I thought of all I had been through in the forest and let that concern go.
“You can let me out anywhere you like,” I said. “You can tell the trooper I threatened you.”
She laughed. “Yeah, he’ll buy that. I left the station on my own and I picked you up on my own. What kind of threat are you supposed to have made? Bring your car or I’ll shoot up the bar?”
I glanced at the pines lining the highway. “That would do. It rhymes, too.” I gave her a serious look. “Come on, Mary. Go back while you still can.”
“Ah, screw it,” she said with a wild laugh. “I could do with a vacation.” Then her expression got more serious. “Besides,” she said, catching my eye. “You’re no killer. You could have hurt those Texans much worse than you did. You could have shot Stu Condon, too. Plus, you wouldn’t have come with me to the station if you were on the run.” She laughed again, this time more softly. “Looks like I’ve got myself a genuine lost cause. Want to tell me what’s going on?”
I considered that and decided that, given the risk she was taking with her liberty, she deserved some kind of an explanation. Then again, what good would it do? In addition to the people from the camp, I had the FBI after me. I should surrender myself to the representatives of federal law, but no way was I going to do that. Someone was framing me and I intended to find out who. Then a thought struck me. What if my memory was playing games with me and I really had killed those people in Washington? What if I was a killer with no awareness of my actions?
Eventually I concentrated on telling Mary Upson my story, basically just the part about the cabin. I was still confused about the camp and was hoping I’d remember more details soon, so I avoided that subject. I also avoided mentioning my limited recall of my past, and that glimpses of memory came and went.
“What is that uniform, anyway?” Mary Upson asked.
I had been watching her face surreptitiously. So far there had been no indication that she was playing a part. Ever since she’d picked me up, I’d been wondering about her motivation. Could the people who ran the camp have people working for them as far away as Sparta? Could she be one of the bastards?
“I’m not sure,” I said. “Have you ever heard of the North American National Revival?” She was still wearing the jacket I’d given her. I touched her shoulder.
She shook her head. “What is that? Some kind of militia?”
“They’re certainly keen on bearing arms.”
Mary Upson glanced in the mirror and then took a right turn. Almost immediately we were deep in woodland.
“What’s going on?” I asked, my hand immediately on the grip of my pistol.
“Time for a change of vehicle.”
We came into a clearing, the moon shining through thin clouds. I could see a low building in the headlights. Mary pulled up in front of the house and opened her door. “Coming?” she said.
I got out, holding the pistol against my thigh.
Then a figure holding a shotgun appeared at the side of the house to my right. The weapon was at the person’s shoulder before I could do anything with mine.
Twenty
“You really sure you wanna go through with this, Iowa?”
Richard Bonho
ff stared at Gordy Lister, and then nodded. They were in the pickup, outside a dilapidated warehouse in southeast Washington. The newspaperman had made several phone calls, saying it was better if Richard didn’t listen in. The upshot was that he’d managed to locate the twins—or so he said.
“This isn’t far from where that Loki singer was murdered, is it?” Richard said.
“True enough,” Lister said. “We’re about a mile away.” He nudged Richard. “Hey, did you read about that in the Star Reporter? We did a big story.”
Richard glowered at him. “I never read that rag,” he said, deciding not to admit that he’d seen the story there.
“It was good enough for your kids, Iowa,” Lister replied, grinning.
“Yeah, that’s where their problems started. What exactly are we doing here?”
“You want to see the twins, don’t you? Hold on. They’ll be out soon.”
“They in there?” Richard peered at the building. “Why can’t we go in?”
“Because it isn’t safe.”
“How come you know where they are?” All Richard’s various suspicions of Gordy Lister surfaced at once. He grabbed the smaller man by the throat. “Are you using them? Are you making money off them?”
Lister struggled free and gave Richard a scandalized look. “Of course not. I used my contacts to find them, that’s all.”
The farmer wasn’t convinced, but he had no other leads.
“Here we go.” Lister pointed and they watched as a door opened wide. A head appeared, scanning the vicinity. The pickup was scrutinized.
“Whatever you do, don’t get out, Iowa. They won’t talk to you—I guarantee it.”
Richard’s heart was thundering. He watched as young people came out of the warehouse. Most were black, dressed in the uniform of the street—basketball shoes, loose jeans hung low, oversize T-shirts. But the clothes were torn and dirty, and the kids didn’t look healthy.
“Who are these people?”
Lister raised a hand. “Wait,” he hissed.
And then Richard saw them. He strained forward as Randy came out. Gwen was right behind him. They both looked terrible, their faces drawn and their hair, longer than when he’d last seen them, lank and tangled.
“What’s happened to them?” he said desperately.
Gordy Lister snorted. “What do you fucking think has happened to them, Iowa? They’re junkies.”
Richard grabbed the door handle and got out. He started to run toward the twins, shouting their names. They looked around, their eyes wide. As he got closer, it was the eyes that got to him most—the pupils were yellowed and bloodshot, the overall effect as icy and empty as the sky in winter.
“Gwen! Randy!” he called. “Let me talk to you.”
But the twins looked away, linking hands. Richard saw that their arms were bruised and pockmarked. Then he doubled up as one of the black youths drove a fist into his midriff.
“Get away, old man!” the boy screeched. “Ain’t no place for daddies here.”
Richard raised his head and saw the twins walking away. He screamed their names again, and then took a heavy punch to the side of his head. He keeled over and the kicking started. He tried to shout, but soon he couldn’t raise a sound. He could only mouth his children’s names as a final blow to the head sent him lurching into the dark.
He woke up with his head pounding, unclear where he was.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Iowa.”
Richard blinked and took in Gordy Lister’s face. There was a weak smile on the newspaperman’s lips.
“Wha…?” He sank back. He opened his eyes again and realized that he was in the passenger seat of his pickup.
“Where are you staying?” Lister asked, starting the engine.
The name of his hotel swam up to the surface of Richard’s mind. He managed to whisper it.
The pickup moved off, gears crashing. “Jesus, you actually drove all the way from Iowa in this?”
“Stop!” Richard gasped, remembering the twins. “I need to talk to my kids.”
“Forget it,” Lister said. “You saw the crowd they’re with. You want to get yourself killed?”
“What’s it to you?”
“What’s it to me?” Lister said, shaking his head. “Exactly what do you think I am? Some kind of animal?”
Richard didn’t reply. He was wondering if he had the strength to open the door and roll out when the pickup was still moving.
“Look, Iowa,” the newspaperman went on, glancing at his passenger. “Let me level with you. I feel bad about what’s happened to your kids. I liked them, really I did. I even tried to set them up with some advertising work.”
“Yeah,” Richard mumbled, “there’s always a market for good-looking twins.”
Gordy Lister looked at him again. “That’s right. You know more than I thought.” He raised his narrow shoulders. “But they got sucked into the drug scene. I’ve seen it happen before with kids from Hicksville. No offense.”
“Fuck you,” Richard said to himself. A thought struck him. “Take me to the police, will you?”
There was a sharp intake of breath from Lister. “Whoa, man. What do you think the cops are gonna do? The twins are twenty-one, they’re adults. The cops will just give you the brush-off.”
Richard sat up slowly, looking out at the lights of the city. For someone who supposedly had only known the kids for a few days, and that months ago, Gordy Lister was very specific about their age. Richard decided against insisting. Tomorrow, he’d go to the cops alone.
At the hotel, Lister put a hand on his arm. “You all right, Iowa? Need any help getting to your room?”
Richard pulled his arm away, the small man’s touch burning like a snake bite. “Get the hell out of my pickup.”
“Okay, okay,” Lister said, opening the driver’s door. “Sorry I asked.” He turned back and caught Richard’s eye. “There’s nothing you can do here. You have a good trip home, you hear, Iowa?”
The farmer watched him walk away, then hail a passing cab. For all the fake concern, Richard knew for sure that the newspaperman had a serious interest in the twins.
Twenty-One
“Drop it!” The voice was high and harsh.
I glanced at Mary. She raised her shoulders. I let the pistol slide out of my hand and fall to the gravel.
“Now step away!”
I complied again. The figure came nearer and I realized it was an elderly woman, her white hair pulled back to reveal a heavily wrinkled face.
“You all right, Mary?” the woman asked.
“Yes, Mom. It’s okay—he’s with me.”
I turned to the woman next to me. “This is your mother?”
She nodded with a sweet smile.
“What’s he doing with a semiautomatic pistol in his hand?” the old woman demanded.
“You might have told me,” I protested.
“She took me by surprise, too. She used to be a pretty good shot, but I’m not sure that still applies.”
“You mind your mouth, girl,” her mother said, lowering the shotgun. “I’ll have you know I killed three crows yesterday.”
Mary raised her hands. “All right, Mom, I believe you.” She came round to my side of the car. “This is Matt.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I said, extending my hand.
The old woman took it after a pause, her pale blue eyes scrutinizing me. “Where you from?” she demanded.
“London, England. All right if I pick up my gun now, Mrs. Upson?”
She leveled the shotgun. “I’m watching you. And don’t call me that—I’m not an Upson.”
“Ms. Jacobsen,” Mary whispered.
“Mary’s father upped and left me for one of his fancy women when she was six,” the old woman said, allowing her daughter to take her weapon to my relief. “Beats me why she uses his name.”
Mary shrugged. “Whatever he did, he’s still my father.” She took her mother by the arm. “Come in. Let’
s get you inside. It’s a cold night.”
She was right. I had only the uniform shirt on my upper body and I was shivering. I followed them inside. We went into a cozy sitting room where the wallpaper was faded and the paint flaking, but it was clean. And it wasn’t a concrete cell.
“You sit here, Mom. Matt and I need to sort out the cars. All right if I borrow yours?” She headed for the door without waiting for a reply.
“You do what you want, girl,” her mother said. “You always did.”
I went back outside and helped Mary.
Although her mother’s dark green Ford pickup must have been over a decade old, it was in good shape and it started the first time. I drove it out of a ramshackle shed and watched as Mary drove her car in.
“Now we’re as anonymous as you like,” she said when she’d finished. “It’ll take the cops some time to link me to this place. Mom’s only been here a couple of months.”
I looked at her. “Why are you doing this, Mary?”
She returned my gaze, her eyes wide. “Can’t a girl do what she can for an innocent man?” The doubt I was feeling about myself must have been obvious. “You are innocent, aren’t you?”
“I think so.”
“You think so?” She laughed. “That makes me feel a whole lot better.”
I grasped her forearm. “Look, I’m in deep shit and I have no idea why. You should steer well clear of me.”
Mary’s lips twitched. “Too late, Matt. Once I’ve bitten the hook, I don’t let go.”
That struck me as a strange way of putting things but she headed back inside before I could comment.
“Anything to eat, Mom?” she asked, back in the sitting room.
“You’re in luck, girl. I made a pot roast today, your favorite.” The old woman’s face was split by an unexpectedly sweet smile.
Mary smiled. “Okay, I’ll get things ready.”
“Want any help?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Nope. You chat with Mom.” She smiled mischievously. “Tell her what you’ve been up to in the woods.”
Maps of Hell Page 13
