“Do you think the Gestapo had a monopoly on extreme methods of torture?” I was thinking of Joe again, and of Karen. I told myself again that she hadn’t been the woman I’d seen sacrificed; I willed myself to believe that was the case.
“She’s hurt,” Fraulein Rothmann said, more animated now. “You can’t—”
She broke off when I touched my groin. “Good-looking woman, your daughter,” I said, licking my lips ostentatiously. “I’m looking forward to giving her everything I’ve got.” I was not proud of this strategy.
“You’re disgusting,” Fraulein Rothmann said, spittle flying from her lips. “There are policemen downstairs. You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me. Have you see any warrants? This is hardly an official operation.” I got up and headed for the door.
“Stop!” she said, stretching out her bound hands. “Please! Leave Dana alone!”
“All right,” I said, going back to the bed. “But I won’t hesitate if I think you’re lying.”
She kept her eyes off me as I sat down next to her and picked up the gun.
“Where’s Karen Oaten?” I asked, my heart suddenly thundering. “I hope for your sake she’s still alive.”
“I don’t know.”
“But you do know who I’m talking about.”
“Of course.”
“I suppose you just saw the news reports of her disappearance.”
Her eyes burned into mine. “Don’t be ridiculous. She was in the camp, the same as you. I don’t know where she is now.”
I rocked back at the unexpected admission.
“Why was she there?”
“For the same reason you were. To learn the error of her ways.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” I demanded—I wanted her to spell out what she and her brother were doing.
Irma Rothmann sighed. “She was getting too close to an associate of Woodbridge Holdings.”
“Gavin Burdett.”
“If you know, why do you waste time asking?”
I let that go. “Has something been done to Karen’s memory?”
“Oh, I think so,” she said, with a tight smile. “Don’t you?”
I forced myself to move on. “The occult murders. Who’s the killer?”
“What makes you imagine I know?”
It was my turn to sigh. “We know of Woodbridge Holdings’s links to the North American Nazi Revival and the Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant. You decided to make examples of occult people you didn’t approve of, didn’t you?”
She gave a harsh laugh. “Oh, come now.”
“Loki was an embarrassment to your puritanical movement. He made Nazism ridiculous.”
She pursed her lips.
“And Monsieur Hexie was black, Professor Singer was a Jew and Crystal Vileda was a Hispanic. Untermenschen, all of them.”
“I cannot argue with that characterization.”
“So who killed them?”
“I’m not sure,” she said, looking away.
She wasn’t sure, but she obviously had suspicions. The murderer had to have some relation to the Rothmann twins and their activities—the pairs of murder weapons, the choice of victims, the way I’d been framed as soon as I left the camp, Woodbridge Holdings’s timber and newspaper businesses—everything was connected.
Then I thought of the diagrams that had been attached to the victims: squares and rectangles in four different arrays—what did they mean? Lights flashed before me and I heard an echo of martial music; something I’d seen when I was under the machine in the camp, something that had started as shots of fences and guard towers, a gate with German words above it, rows and rows of huts…and then was mapped from above, into a composite picture…a familiar map of hell:
“Auschwitz,” I said, my voice faint.
A smile spread across the woman’s thin lips. “Ah, the maps,” she said slowly. “You understand them…. Bravo.”
I kept silent, my mind in a frenzy. Why had the killer deliberately left clues pointing to a Nazi link?
“You aren’t in complete control of the killer, are you?” I said at last.
“You’re not as clever as you think, Matt Wells. You have overlooked something much more important.”
The tone of her voice warned me that I was in danger, but I didn’t know how to react.
Before I could do anything, she screamed, “Barbarossa! The policemen! Barbarossa!”
She said the words twice before I got a hand over her mouth. As I restrained her, I felt a strange mix of emotions—shock at the virulence of her screams, but also a pressure that was being brought to bear on me and an urge, frightening in its intensity, to comply with some immutable authority.
Then the rational part of my mind kicked in. Barbarossa: it was the code name for the Nazi invasion of the Soviet Union—the greatest act of aggression in human history. I realized that it was a trigger and pushed myself away from Irma Rothmann. As I crashed down the stairs, images cascaded before me—twin weapons puncturing flesh and organs; twin weapons, held by the hands of twin murderers; twins from a farm on Iowa, whose father had died trying to bring them home; twins who had now been ordered to attack.
Gavin Burdett was sitting in front of the TV in a house on the outskirts of Baltimore, his trousers and boxers round his ankles. Despite the pair of muscle-bound guards downstairs and the open door, he had been zapping between porn channels. There was a bevy of women pretending to be lesbians that almost got him going, but then he had found a spoof horror movie that featured a zombie orgy. It was one of the best climaxes he’d had in months.
After he cleaned himself up, he surfed the normal channels. A cold stiletto of fear had entered his gut when he saw Karen Oaten getting out of a helicopter. What was the bitch doing free? Larry had promised him she’d never be seen again.
Burdett got up, stretched for his cell phone and was brought down by the clothes round his ankles. He finally reached the device and called Thomson’s private number.
“What the fuck’s going on?” he screamed. “Oaten’s free.”
“Of course she is.”
“But…but you told me she was finished. What about the case against me?”
“Oh, Gavin, how can you be so selfish?”
“What do you mean? If I go down, so do you.”
Larry Thomson laughed. “That’s not exactly true, you know,” he said smoothly. “There are other eventualities.”
The connection was broken.
Gavin Burdett threw the phone down and caught sight of the men in the doorway. The one in front was carrying a length of rope with a noose at one end.
The last thing the investment banker thought of was the tarot card depicting the hanged man. He knew more than he should have of the occult world, and now he was paying the price. The hanged man meant relinquishing control, different priorities and readjustment. But, as he was only too well aware, it also pointed to a necessary sacrifice.
By the time I got to the dining-room door, the twins had already struck. Clem and Versace were both motionless on the floor; a table knife protruded from Pinker’s bloody chest. Nearer to me, Gwen was sawing frantically at the plastic ties on Dana Maltravers’s wrists and Randy was turning my way with Clem’s pistol. I had already racked the slide on the FBI woman’s weapon and I got a shot off before he did. Randy took it in the upper abdomen and crashed backward into the empty fireplace.
His sister shrieked and turned the knife on me. I brought my free hand down hard on her forearm. The knife carved an arc through the air and landed on the opposite side of the table, out of Maltravers’s reach. The agent stood up and charged at me with her head down. I was driven into the door frame, but I managed to keep a grip on the gun. The blow stunned me and I could hardly move, but something else was holding me back, a force I couldn’t resist…
“Leave him,” I heard Irma Rothmann say from the hall. “He won’t harm us now. I can drive. I cut myself free with these nail scissors—we’ll free you in the ca
r, Dana.”
The FBI woman slammed both her elbows into my belly and then stumbled out. Gwen went with her, eyes wide. Then I threw up on to the carpet and tried to get a grip on myself as the pressure in my mind lessened.
I saw Clem Simmons’s head. It was lying in a pool of blood. I let out a roar and crawled into the hall, my vision clouded. The front door was open and I saw Clem’s car being reversed onto the street. Lying flat and trying to hold my hand steady, I fired at the car until the clip was empty.
The vehicle slewed into a bush and stayed there. Its horn was blasting repeatedly as I dragged myself up and staggered outside. Steam was rising from the bonnet and the front windscreen had shattered. My gun was empty, but I kept going—it had occurred to me that the fuel tank might explode. Then I got to the front door and looked in.
Irma Rothmann was lying back against the headrest, blood coming in gouts from a hole above her right eye. Her daughter Dana was unconscious and I hauled her out, feeling her shallow breath against my arm. She had taken a bullet in the right side of her chest. I got her clear and went back for Gwen. I found the back door on the other side of the car open—no sign of her, no blood on the seat. By the time I looked again, there was no spurting from Irma Rothmann’s entry wound. She was no longer alive, but I didn’t have it in me to care.
As I got back to the house, I heard the sound of sirens between the horn blasts. I checked Clem and found a pulse after rolling him on to his side. Versace was alive, too—just. Randy was still breathing. They would all have a chance, assuming paramedics were on the way. I picked up Versace’s gun and cell phone. There was a number in there that I’d be needing. Staying on-site was not an option.
I headed toward the back of the house. As I went through the sitting-room, I thought I was dreaming. The TV was on and there was breaking news coverage showing pictures of Karen, my Karen, stepping out of an executive jet. She was smiling and looked in good health. I felt a surge of joy, but it was short-lived. I was turning tail, leaving the cops who had been helping me in critical condition—but I couldn’t stay, even though it meant not watching Karen. Perhaps I’d never see her again, but she was well. That was all that mattered.
Meanwhile, I had to finish things with the surviving twin from Auschwitz.
Forty-Two
The lights of central Washington stretched out beneath the window of Karen Oaten’s suite in what she assumed was the highest and most luxurious hotel in the city. There was an FBI agent on guard duty outside and a team patrolling the building, but she was alone with her thoughts on an antique sofa, her legs drawn up beneath her.
So far, everything was going smoothly. The deputy director of the FBI had been taken aback by her insistence that she resume meetings immediately. He had assumed she would go straight to the hospital for a thorough checkup, but she assured him that would not be necessary and that she would arrange things herself with the British Embassy doctor.
After eating a late dinner from room service, Karen had taken a shower and settled down to review her case files. At her request, they had been brought over from FBI headquarters. The Gavin Burdett investigation would come to nothing now. She’d had a brief conversation with her boss in London. He told her that she would be all over the morning papers and that numerous journalists would want to interview her. She wasn’t planning on giving any of them access, at least not yet.
Sipping chamomile tea, Karen leaned back and took in the view again.
America, she thought, land of the free. Or rather, land of the corrupt, the pleasure obsessed and the spiritually vacant. Its people needed discipline, a new set of ideals, just as they did back in Americanized Europe. Now that her eyes had been opened, she knew there was another way.
Matt Wells’s face flickered before her, like that of a fading ghost. It had been amusing how difficult the supposedly hardened FBI men had found it to bring up his alleged crimes. She hadn’t been surprised when she’d first been told of them at the camp. Matt had shown signs in the past of unbridled fury and had trained himself well to become a murderer, even though he’d made out that he was only interested in self-defense. She hadn’t realized how close he’d come to stepping over the line throughout their relationship. Her disappearance must have made him leap into the abyss. He had certainly seen enough violent crime firsthand to be fatally tempted. The irony was unavoidable. After standing up to the worst the White Devil and the Soul Collector had thrown at him, he had become one of their number. Earlier tonight, she’d learned, he had been responsible for the death of yet another person and the wounding of several more. He wouldn’t be at liberty for long. It was just as well—her son would never know his father.
Karen didn’t feel tired, but she knew she should lie down. Although she was in perfect physical condition, her body needed attention because of the cargo she was carrying. The day that would soon be dawning was set to be the most momentous of her life: a new beginning for her and the whole world.
The last thing Karen did before she went to bed was to check her briefcase.
Everything was in order, including what she had brought on her person from the camp.
I found a taxi on a main road about half a mile from the house where I’d left Clem and the others, and directed the driver to Georgetown. There was blood on my clothing, but I’d taken off my jacket and turned it inside out, and was holding it over the other stains. I had Dana Maltravers’s, Clem’s and Versace’s guns under there, too. I was a walking armory, but I had the feeling I would need every round.
The news came on the radio and I asked the driver to turn up the volume. The top story was about Karen and how she’d appeared at a state troopers’ station near Buffalo. She was said to be unharmed and had been brought to Washington by FBI helicopter and jet. Deep down I’d never believed she had been the sacrificial victim, but I was relieved—enormously so—to have that confirmed. But I was also frustrated—I wanted to see her, I wanted to make sure that she was as well as she looked and that our son had not been adversely affected, but I had to stay free until I laid hands on Larry Thomson. Without him, I was a fugitive, a suspect for at least two of the occult killings and—if Clem and Versace didn’t come round—a suspect for the mayhem tonight. But the alternative was worse: as long as Thomson, or Rothmann as he’d been born, was free, Karen and I would never be safe—and neither would our son.
I got out of the cab on M Street and slipped into the back streets before crossing the bridge to Rosslyn. I stopped on the corner before my hotel and checked for surveillance. Nobody knew I was staying there, but I couldn’t be sure of anything anymore. After waiting for five minutes, I walked down the street and into the hotel. The night porter nodded at me with indifference as I went to the elevators. I had my hand on one of the pistols all the way to my room. This time, I needn’t have bothered.
After holding my head under the cold tap, I took Versace’s phone out of my pocket and clicked into Contacts. Assuming the entry “GL” was Gordy Lister, I called that number. It rang for a long time before he answered.
“Talk to me, whoever you are.”
“This is Matt Wells.”
There was a pause. “What d’you want?”
“Get this, asshole. Those twins you gave us attacked Detectives Pinker and Simmons, maybe fatally. If you want me to keep your name out of it, do exactly what I tell you.”
“Shit! All right, man. Shit!”
“Larry Thomson—I need to meet him before daybreak. He can name the place.”
“He…he won’t come alone.”
“I don’t care if he comes with a division of the SS. Fix it and call me back on this number. Oh, and Gordy?”
“Yeah.”
“Tell him I shot his sister. Dead.”
“What?” Lister’s voice was suddenly higher than a schoolboy’s.
“You heard me. I killed Irma Rothmann. And her daughter Dana’s badly hurt, too.”
“Jesus, man, he’s gonna rip your heart out.”
�
��You reckon? Just make the call.”
I broke the connection, my palms damp with sweat. Sounding tough on the phone was all very well. Now I had to work out a way to get Larry Thomson away from his bodyguards on his turf. Killing him would be easier, but that would mean sacrificing myself, and I had reasons to live now that Karen and the child she was carrying were safe. I needed to bring Thomson in if I was to have any chance of clearing my name. There was only one thing in my favor. He would be enraged by the news of his twin sister’s death. Unless he had a heart colder than the thickest glacier in Antarctica, that meant he’d be desperate to nail me. And desperation, as my friend Dave used to say, caused people to take their eye off the ball. Then again, Gwen Bonhoff was at large. She would be gunning for me, too, given that I’d shot her brother. If she showed up at the meet with Thomson, it really would be the O.K. Corral all over again.
Peter Sebastian was standing by Clem Simmons’s hospital bed. There were machines beeping and numerous tubes coming out of the detective, and he was conscious. Gerard Pinker was not; he was in intensive care.
“So you’re saying it was Matt Wells who shot this Irma Rothmann, as well as Dana Maltravers?” the FBI man asked, trying to keep the disbelief from his face.
“Yeah,” Simmons croaked. “Had to be. And the boy Randy. I don’t know what happened to his sister, Gwen.”
“There’s no sign of her. Randy’s in surgery.”
“How about Maltravers?”
“Took a bullet to the chest, but she’ll live.”
“You know your princess is dirty?”
Sebastian frowned. “So I’m beginning to understand. The twins, Randy and Gwen, you think they did the occult murders?”
Clem Simmons coughed and then winced. “Seems a distinct possibility.”
“What about Matt Wells’s prints at the scenes?”
“Think about it.”
After a few moments, the FBI man’s eyes widened. “Dana?”
Maps of Hell Page 31
