Maps of Hell mw-3 Read online

  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 telephone 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 in
teresting 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 surprisingly 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.”

  “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, disp
laying 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.”