The FBI man stared at him. “The fact that Wells continues to evade arrest hardly suggests he’s an innocent man.”
“Oh, yeah? The way I hear it, the guy walked voluntarily into the state troopers’ station. He wouldn’t have done that if he was killing people, or even organizing their deaths.”
Sebastian shook his head. “You aren’t in possession of all the facts.”
“Is that so?” Clem Simmons said. “We’re the lead detectives on this investigation. You’re not in a position to keep information from us.”
Peter Sebastian got to his feet. “I’m in a position to do anything I deem appropriate,” he said, picking up his notes. “Next briefing at midday tomorrow, please.” He gave Pinker a malevolent smile. “Your presence isn’t required, Detective.”
“Right on, Dick,” Versace muttered.
Richard Bonhoff was wearing a nondescript blue wind-breaker and a Washington Redskins cap. For the past six hours he’d been in various locations with a view of the main entrance of the Woodbridge Holdings office—outside a shoe shop, inside a café, behind a van. There had been no sign of Gordy Lister and now, as the light faded, his stomach was rumbling and his feet were cold. But he was used to worse in the fields back home.
Richard knew he’d be pressed if Lister headed for the car park. He hadn’t brought the pickup after the last fiasco, and he would have to rely on a taxi passing at the right time. Short of stealing a vehicle, there was nothing else he could do. He thought of the twins and their haggard faces. What wouldn’t he do to get them back? Answer: nothing.
Then Gordy Lister made an appearance. He stood outside the office building for a while, looking around, markedly more cautious than before. Richard made sure the collar of his coat was up and the peak of his cap pulled low. Lister eventually started walking to the right. Richard moved out of the doorway he’d been sheltering in and kept to the sidewalk on the other side of the road. There were plenty of people around at the end of the working day, and he had to take care not to knock into those walking toward him. That was why he didn’t immediately notice that Lister had company.
The man who had suddenly taken up a position beside the newspaperman was tall and wore what looked to Richard like an expensive gray coat. He had on a hat, the kind that men wore in black-and-white detective movies, and his face was partly covered by his own raised collar. When he turned, Richard saw a prominent nose. It occurred to him that Lister’s companion was doing the same thing he was—trying to be inconspicuous. Interesting.
The two men continued down the street, Lister occasionally glancing over his shoulder. It struck Richard that maybe there were others watching the men, security men like the gorillas he’d laid out. He checked, but saw no sign of anyone, either on foot or in slow-moving vehicles.
When the men turned right into a side street, Richard got worried that he might lose them and ran across the road. Luckily, there was a gap in the traffic, but he warned himself to be more careful. If a driver had hit his horn, Lister’s attention would have been attracted. The two men were still in sight, deep in conversation. They stopped outside a building for a few moments, still talking, and then went in.
Richard strode up the street, examining the building. There was a panel of buttons and names to the right—lawyers, accountants and the like. He waited until someone came out. A blonde woman, speaking into her cell phone, paid no attention when Richard slipped in past her. The two men were by the elevators, the taller of them moving his right hand up and down animatedly. Richard decided to get closer, trusting his changed appearance. Lister’s expression was tense, his eyes locked on his companion’s face.
“…the camp,” the tall man said. “Everyone is in place. What about your people?”
Lister’s voice was barely audible. He lowered his gaze as people came out of another elevator. Richard took out a newspaper and opened it in front of him, trying to look as if he was waiting for someone.
“You know they’re ready.” Gordy Lister’s tone grew sharper. “But what about the killer?”
“We can’t risk the operation by taking everyone off it.”
Lister shook his head. “So we run the risk of being screwed by one of our own?”
“We have no idea of who might be the next target?”
“Same as before, I reckon—there’s no shortage of occult weirdoes in this city.”
“Gordon,” the tall man said, lowering his voice. “The company must be protected at all costs.”
“What do you think I’m do—” Lister broke off when he saw that his companion had turned toward the street door.
Richard heard the loud click of heels to his left. He watched as a striking woman with short brown hair approached. She was wearing a sober pantsuit.
“Ah, there you are, my dear.” The man in the gray coat lifted his head. Richard saw that the skin on his face was tight and unnaturally smooth. “I was wondering where you’d got to.”
“Sorry. A meeting ran late.”
Lister pressed the call button. When the elevator came, the three of them went inside.
Richard Bonhoff watched the doors close behind them. He couldn’t risk joining them in such an enclosed space. In the meantime, his mind was jumping hoops, trying to make sense of what he’d overheard. Gordy Lister had said people here were ready. Who? The twins? And who was the killer? Could that be the one the papers were calling the Occult Killer?
Jesus Christ, he said to himself. What have I got myself into? And what has happened to Gwen and Randy?
Joe Greenbaum was sitting in an interview room on the fifth floor of the MPDC building. He’d been there for half an hour and the plastic cup of thin coffee he’d been given had long gone cold. He was beginning to wonder if he’d done the right thing. He had tried to talk to one of the detectives on the Singer case over the phone, but the man had insisted Joe come to headquarters to give a statement. That was all very well, but he had work to do. The deadline for his article on high-level corruption in the U.S. automobile industry was only a week away and he hadn’t even started pulling his notes together.
The door opened and a heavily built black man came in.
“Mr. Greenbaum? I’m sorry to keep you waiting.” He sat down opposite Joe and eyed the untouched cup of coffee. “I’ve gotten used to it over the years. The good lord knows what it’s done to my innards.”
“Probably killed off all the bugs from the burgers in the cafeteria.”
Clem Simmons laughed. “You eaten down there?”
“No, but I’ve heard stories.”
Simmons’s expression became more severe. “So, you’ve got some information on the Singer murder.”
Joe Greenbaum raised his shoulders. “Information? I suppose you could call it that. It’s just background, I’d say.”
The detective opened his notebook. “I’ll take anything you’ve got.”
“First of all, I want to ask you about Matt Wells.” Greenbaum shifted his bulk on the chair and grimaced. “Is this thing an instrument of torture?”
Simmons smiled briefly and looked at him with more interest. “What about Matt Wells?”
“He can’t really be a suspect like they’re saying in the papers. It’s ridiculous.”
“Why’s that, sir?”
“Come on, Detective. I know Matt Wells. No way would he have killed that poor man.”
“You know Matt Wells.”
“Sure. I saw him several times in the weeks before he disappeared.”
Clem Simmons kept his tone neutral. “You a friend of his?”
Joe Greenbaum smiled. “Yeah. I first met him at a crime-writing conference here a few years back. He can drink almost as much as I can.”
Simmons narrowed his eyes. “Excuse me, sir. What exactly is it you do?”
“Freelance journalist. I specialize in corporate and organized crime.” He could see what the detective thought about that. Journalists were only a few rungs up the ladder from mass murderers.
; “So when you saw Matt Wells, was it business or pleasure?”
“Oh, both, I’d say.” Greenbaum stretched backward and the chair creaked ominously. “We have similar interests. He writes a crime column for a British daily.”
Simmons already knew that—he’d done an Internet search after Wells first became a suspect for the Monsieur Hexie murder. “Why are you so sure he’s innocent? His fingerprints were found at the scene.”
“Give me a break, Detective. We both know prints can be transferred. It’s obvious that Matt’s being framed. I mean, there’s no evidence tying him to the other so-called occult murders, is there?”
“I can’t confirm or deny that,” Simmons said.
Joe Greenbaum smiled. “That’s okay, Detective. I can see that you’re not exactly sold on Matt’s guilt. Is it true that he was spotted in Maine yesterday?”
“That’s way outside my jurisdiction.”
“All right.” The reporter’s expression grew more serious. “Listen to me now. Matt Wells’s life has been under threat for three years. Have you heard about the Soul Collector?”
“His ex-girlfriend? Yeah, I read the reports.”
“Okay. So you know she’s gunning for him. I’d say you should be trying to nail her for these murders. She’s been involved in that kind of thing before in the U.K. and she’s likely to have samples of his fingerprints.”
Clem Simmons chewed the end of his pen. He had wondered about the woman called Sara Robbins. The problem was, absolutely no evidence pointed to her involvement.
“It wouldn’t surprise me if she was behind the disappearance of Matt and his policewoman lover,” Greenbaum went on. “I know, there’s no proof. But she’s definitely capable of killing savagely and with the utmost precision.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve got any leads on her.”
The reporter rubbed his unshaven cheek. “It’s not really my area. I’m asking around, though. You can be sure I’ll pass on anything I hear.”
Simmons nodded. “All right, sir. Now, what about Professor Singer?”
“Oh, yeah. Well, it’s nothing concrete, like I said, but you should check his e-mail correspondence from around a year ago.”
“Why’s that?”
Greenbaum’s tone suddenly grew sharper. “Because some far-right assholes started threatening him and his family.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because Abraham asked me to look into it, see if I could track the fuckers down. We weren’t so close, but he was a friend of my old man—they were both professors at Columbia. We used to meet for a drink occasionally after he moved down here. He was a funny man—I mean, in the humorous way. He wasn’t your typical dull-as-dust academic.” He shook his head. “Fuck, Abraham didn’t deserve to die like that.”
Simmons noted the reporter’s fury. “And did you find out anything about the people who threatened him?”
Greenbaum took a deep breath. “They weren’t the usual boneheaded racist gorillas, I can tell you that. They called themselves the Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant. I ran a check and found that they were founded back in the 1840s. Up in Maine, now I think of it—I wonder if that could tie in with Matt. They were supposedly wiped out ten years later, but it seems they’ve resurrected themselves recently. They spouted the usual crap about the Jews—how they’re ripe for sacrifice, that Hitler was right, shame he isn’t still alive. You know the kind of thing.”
“What did you do with that material?”
“Passed it to the FBI. I know a guy in the Hate Crimes Unit, name of Harry Slater.”
Simmons felt an icy finger run up his spine. He’d already wondered why Special Agent Maltravers hadn’t mentioned the threats; he’d assumed the professor had deleted them. Now he was hearing that the FBI had received the information after all. What the hell were Sebastian and his sidekick playing at?
Joe Greenbaum shrugged. “I never heard anything and, since the threats dried up, Abraham and I decided to let it go.” He raised a thick-fingered hand to his brow. “I’ll never forgive myself.”
Simmons gave him a few seconds. “Anything else, sir?”
“Yeah, just one thing. The original Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant was run by a lunatic called Jeremiah Dodds. He wrote a text called the antiGospel of Lucifer, which has never been found. There were strong but unsubstantiated rumors that people were sacrificed and their blood consumed.” Joe Greenbaum looked up at the detective. “It was also said that, later in the process, they were blinded.”
Clem Simmons blinked to dispel an image of the professor’s mutilated face.
Twenty-Seven
I took a spell at the wheel as we followed the back roads through New Hampshire and New York. We didn’t come across any roadblocks and the farther we got from Maine, the more relaxed I felt. After we stopped for fuel and to eat, Mary slipped into the driver’s seat again, insisting she wasn’t tired. The welt on her forehead wasn’t as bad as mine. My need to sleep was suddenly overwhelming.
But what I got was hardly restful. I found myself in a wheelchair, my arms and legs bound. I was wearing weird clothes that seemed to be made of paper, and was in a long hall full of naked people, who were wailing in ecstasy. The walls were hung with animal corpses, bones showing through tattered skins. At the front I saw an upturned cross. A demonic pair was holding sway; a naked man with a hyena’s head and erect penis whipped a terrified woman past a cloaked figure, whose ruined features were those of a terrifying gargoyle. Other naked men and women, none much more than college age, tied the woman to the inverted cross, her hands above her head. Her body was discolored with bruises and blood was running from cuts all over. She let out a long scream before a gag was pushed into her mouth. The congregation was chanting now. “Lucifer, Lucifer, Lucifer Triumphant.” Then the gargoyle used a long knife to cut the sacrificial victim’s throat, letting her blood spray onto the dark cloak. Her eyes were stabbed out. And then I recognized the woman hanging there lifeless. Her hair was blonde and she had been my lover—I had been on the plane to Washington with her….
I woke up with a jerk, my body drenched with sweat.
“Jesus, Matt,” Mary said, her eyes wide. “What is it?”
I struggled to get control of myself. “Bad dream,” I gasped eventually, settling back in the seat and feigning sleep. I didn’t want to tell Mary what I’d seen. The Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant was at the camp. Had I really seen that horror? It seemed real enough; I recalled a firing squad that had shot blanks at me. Why had they been messing with my mind? And still I couldn’t remember my lover’s name. I felt myself falling into the abyss again….
She was before me, the blonde woman, her expression one of wistful regret. It was as if she was forgiving me for failing to save her. But before I could reach out, her face disappeared and was replaced by one I was much less eager to see—that of Sara Robbins, the Soul Collector….
…I am in a well-lit place that I sense is home. My apartment is in London, on a new block in Chelsea Harbour, next to the river. The main room is big enough to play cricket in, something that my male friends and I have occasionally done when strong drink is consumed. Because of the threats that Sara Robbins made, I’m used to living in a state of siege. I’ve set up a daily reporting schedule with my friends and family—if I don’t get the right form of words from them every morning, I press the panic button. It doesn’t happen often, but Sara has struck in the past. That cost me one of my closest friends, but I can’t…I can’t remember his name. Months have passed, but I don’t think she’s forgotten me.
Then the Soul Collector strikes exactly at the least predictable moment. I’m in bed with my lover, the blonde woman whose name escapes me. I have finished giving her a massage and things are moving slowly to what will be a glorious climax.
“What was that?” she murmurs, opening her eyes.
On top of her, I stop moving. I also heard something, a faint but unmistakable thud. Even though the alarm system in the apar
tment is the most sophisticated on the market, I’m not taking any chances. I roll off the bed. There’s a fully loaded, silenced Glock in a hidden floor safe in my walk-in wardrobe, but my senior policewoman lover doesn’t know about that—there’s a limit to what she will sanction, and handguns are seriously illegal in the U.K. So I’m reduced to grabbing the antique swordstick that I keep beneath the bed. She thinks it’s only a walking stick.
“Stay here,” I say after I’ve pulled on a pair of boxer shorts. I kill the lights and slowly open the bedroom door.
For some time, I hear nothing. I look cautiously round the chair and see that the heavy chain is still on the front door. There are three locks on it and all seem to be engaged normally. I breathe out slowly. That’s good news. I brace myself and then crawl on all fours across the parquet floor, my feet slipping on the polished surface. When I get to the bar that separates the kitchen from the living area, I pause and take stock. There’s no sight of anyone. That leaves the spare bedroom and bathroom beyond the kitchen. It’s as I am heading there, still on my hands and knees, that I hear another thud, this one much more distinct. It comes from the spare bedroom. Jesus.
I scuttle across the floor and stand up by the full-length window. Then I press the switch and watch the blinds slowly roll up.
The bang on the glass is much louder at close range, and it startles me. Then I realize what it is and stare in amazement. A large white bird—a seagull by the looks of the cruel beak—has been suspended against the window, its wings outspread and its head downward. The wind catches the carcass again and bangs it against the glass. Then I look closer. A red ribbon has been tied round the dead bird’s neck. There’s a label attached and on it are written the words Death Flies by Night.
Then mayhem breaks out. The floor shakes as an explosion comes from the front door. I dash toward it, into the cloud of dust that has immediately risen. My ears seem to be muffled and I put a hand over my mouth against the dust. I see a pair of figures moving quickly towards the bedroom. I shout. One of them stops and turns. A motorbike helmet is covering the head. That instantly brings to mind the last time Sara Robbins concerned herself with me—she rode a high-powered bike between the murders she committed.
Maps of Hell Page 18
