The Nameless Dead Read online

  Great sobs tore from my chest. I tried to stifle them with a cushion, wishing that I could find my way back to them, the ones who had been taken from me. Then I saw another face—the imperious features of the Nazi, Heinz Rothmann. The implication was clear. I had to kill him to get Karen and Magnus back.

  ‘Hey, my friend.’ The soft voice took me by surprise and I raised myself from the sofa.

  ‘Quincy.’ I wiped my eyes with my arm. ‘I’m sorry…’

  ‘Don’t be, man,’ he said, coming up to me and putting his arm round my shoulders. ‘Jesus, you must be suffering.’

  I felt the need to sit on the sofa again to maintain that last link with Karen. I couldn’t speak for a while.

  ‘What’s this I’m hearing? They’re letting you out?’

  I nodded.

  ‘You’re gonna work?’

  ‘There isn’t anything to keep me…keep me here.’

  Quincy Jerome squatted in front of me. ‘You need to take it easy, my friend. Let it sink in. Come to terms.’

  I appreciated his words, but they were meaningless. I had a mission. Peter Sebastian might have thought he was going to use me, but he had that wrong. I was going to take him for all he was worth.

  ‘Listen, Quincy, I don’t know how much you’ve been told about—’

  ‘Jack shit,’ he interrupted. ‘All I know is you want me to watch your back. Which is fine by me, even if my CO’s ass is on fire about it. Your man Sebastian has friends in high places.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s got friends anywhere, but he gets the job done.’ I filled him in on Rothmann and his probable link to the Hitler’s Hitman killings. He’d picked up a fair amount about the latter from the media coverage. ‘I’ve got to do this, Quincy,’ I ended. ‘For…for Karen and our son.’

  ‘Count me in, my friend.’

  ‘It’ll probably be bloody.’

  ‘Sounds like that Nazi asshole deserves to lose every drop of his blood.’

  He was right about that. I got up and started to collect clothes and other stuff. I took the laptop, too. It had a wireless connection, which would be useful. Now all I needed was weapons. I mentioned that to Quincy.

  ‘I was told to go to the armory,’ he said, unzipping one of his bags.

  ‘Hey,’ I said, belatedly realizing what was different about him. ‘You’re not in uniform.’

  ‘That’s what I was told,’ he said, running his large hands over the black clothes he was wearing.

  ‘You look like a special forces operative.’

  ‘Don’t complain. I’ve got more of the same in your size.’

  It seemed Sebastian had thought of everything. Quincy started laying out weapons on the table. There was a Glock 19 semiautomatic pistol, a combat knife in a sheath, a pair of vicious-looking brass knuckles and a length of plastic-covered wire with a loop at each end.

  ‘I’ve never used a garrote,’ I said, picking it up.

  ‘It’s simple,’ the sergeant said, taking it out of my hands and whipping it round my neck before I could move. ‘See what I mean?’

  I could have buried my elbow in his belly, but I wasn’t up to brawling. My legs were still unsteady from the sedatives.

  When he’d removed the garrote, I went back to the table and picked up the Glock. ‘Where are the clips?’

  ‘I’ve got them. They told me not to hand them over to you till we’re out of the camp.’

  ‘Come on, Quincy. I’m not going to shoot anyone.’

  He studied me thoughtfully. ‘I reckon they’re worried about suicide.’

  ‘After what I told you about Rothmann? I’m going to kill that fucker. What happens after that, I don’t know.’

  Quincy took a clip from his pocket. ‘All right, man. Just don’t get me busted.’

  I checked that it was full and slapped it in.

  There was a knock on the door. It opened before I could say anything.

  Peter Sebastian walked in and immediately focused on the Glock. ‘I hope that isn’t loaded, Sergeant.’

  ‘No, sir,’ Quincy replied.

  Sebastian accepted that. I put the pistol in my belt and started gathering up the other weapons.

  ‘Thanks for having the tracking cuff taken off my ankle,’ I said.

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘You haven’t planted a bug under my skin, have you?’ Rothmann’s people had done that in the Maine camp.

  Sebastian shook his head. ‘Listen, Jerome, we need to stop using ranks when we address each other. I don’t want us to stick out like cocks in a Hamburg nightclub.’

  Quincy and I exchanged glances.

  ‘My friends call me Quincy,’ the soldier said.

  ‘Do they?’ Sebastian’s tone made it clear he didn’t see himself as one of them. ‘Those fatigues won’t exactly do for undercover work.’

  Quincy shrugged. ‘I figured you’d be taking us to the mall.’

  Sebastian ignored that. ‘Are you ready to go, Matt?’

  ‘Just about. Can you get Special Agent Simms to box up what’s left?’

  He nodded. ‘All right, let’s hit the world outside.’

  Before I went, I passed by the hi-fi and picked up the CD Karen and I had listened to. Our son would have heard Monteverdi’s Orfeo, too. I wasn’t going to leave that behind.

  Mikey Lister was in seventh heaven. Not only had the hooker brought the grass he’d asked for, but she was a stunner—Cuban, a beautiful deep bronze color, and a rack to stop the traffic. She said she was called Lucky, but he didn’t believe that for a second. After this, he was going to take that nickname himself.

  She was in the shower now, so Mikey went through her clutch bag. There wasn’t much in it—some keys, cigarettes, condoms, gum. There was a man’s billfold containing over five hundred dollars and a credit card in the name of L. Sanchez. Maybe she was called Lucky after all. He thought about lifting a couple of the fifties he’d given her, but decided against it. His brother Gordy had stepped up to the plate recently and, for the first time in his life, his bank account was healthy. Maybe losing his pins hadn’t been so bad after all. His smarmy shit-sucker of a lawyer had nailed the driver who had hit him for major damages. So a hooker a week was no big deal anymore.

  Then again, he thought, looking at the uneven stumps that protruded from his boxers, he was stuck in the chair till he croaked. He did an hour on crutches every day, but they made his arms hurt. Artificial legs were out of the question. He had too little of the real ones left. At least Lucky didn’t mind. Some of the girls could hardly disguise their horror. That made him so mad that he made them blow him, so the bitches’ faces were up close and personal with the stumps.

  ‘I leave now,’ said Lucky, emerging from the bathroom in the least clothing that the cops would let her get away with on the street. Girls in the Tallahassee area weren’t what Mikey would call shy and retiring when it came to what they wore, but this one beat them all.

  ‘See ya, doll,’ he said, sticking his finger between her legs.

  She slapped his arm. ‘We finished now, doll.’

  Mikey Lister watched her go. Had she just given him attitude? He pushed the wheel toward the door and got there before it slammed behind her. He grabbed the golf club he kept for emergencies and rolled down the driveway.

  ‘Hey, Castro quim, get a load of this!’ he yelled, closing on her spectacular rear.

  Lucía Sanchez sidestepped the chair and Mikey trundled past, bouncing onto the road. ‘Get back here, bitch!’ he yelled, swinging the club.

  ‘Screw you, gimp!’ she screamed back, as she got into her scarlet Bonneville.

  Mikey watched her accelerate away, still in the middle of the street. He looked around, but there was no one outside. Just as well, he thought. He wasn’t in the mood for whining from his tight-assed neighbors. About thirty yards away he saw a dark blue Crown Vic that looked familiar. Was it the same one that had been across the road from his place yesterday? Was he being watched?

  He pus
hed the chair to the side of the road and thought about that. He didn’t know what Gordy was up to these days, but it sure wasn’t legal. He didn’t have that paper job anymore and he’d begun calling from different places each week. He’d also told Mikey not to talk about him, not that he did. Mikey had always thought Gordy was a pathetic runt and he’d given him hell when they were kids. Maybe Gordy had someone watching him to make sure the cops weren’t doing surveillance, too. Screw that.

  Mikey Lister set off down the street, the golf club across his thighs.

  ‘Hey, peeper,’ he shouted, ‘you want some of this?’ As he got nearer, he saw the driver’s head rise from the back of the seat and heard the engine start. ‘Yeah, that’s right, get the fuck outta here!’

  The Crown Vic pulled away, leaving Mikey in the middle of the road. He stayed there until it turned the corner and disappeared.

  ‘Yeah, Mikey,’ he said. ‘Way to go!’ Maneuvering the chair, he pushed himself back toward the driveway of his building. The sun was beating down on the back of his neck and he could hear the cry of seagulls in the distance. Some place, he thought. Sunshine in the middle of winter. It sure beat the shit out of Oklahoma.

  The pickup that had turned into the street ahead of him had large chrome bull bars. Mikey pulled into the side and gave it the benefit of his professional eye. ‘Nissan Frontier,’ he said to himself. ‘2003 or 4. Those bars are new, though. Hey, is that a woman driving? Come on, bitch, take off your cap.’ He imitated the action.

  The blonde obliged. Her hair was short and she looked good. Then she jerked the wheel to the right and floored the gas pedal.

  Mikey Lister flew out of his wheelchair and headfirst into the trunk of a nearby palm tree. The last thing he saw was the set of the woman’s lips. It looked like she was in pain.

  Fifteen

  Peter Sebastian drove us to the airport outside a town called Rockford. Quincy Jerome and I were in the back of the SUV. I looked out through tinted windows at the world I’d been excluded from for what seemed like years. It was icy cold and there were few people around. The exhaust fumes from vehicles hung in the air like ghosts unable to take corporeal form. Northern Illinois did not look in any way inviting.

  ‘If you don’t mind me asking,’ Quincy said, ‘what’s the plan?’

  I flexed my fingers. ‘We find Heinz Rothmann and I get rid of him.’

  Peter Sebastian glanced into the mirror. ‘Partially correct. We need to find Rothmann, but I want him brought in, like any other felon.’

  ‘So I’m an officer of the law now, am I?’ I asked ironically.

  ‘But if you have to use extreme force to defend yourself,’ the FBI man continued, ‘then so be it.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Quincy said. ‘That applies to me as well, does it?’

  ‘You’re a soldier,’ Sebastian said. ‘You’re trained to fire back if you’re attacked, no?’

  ‘You sure this is aboveboard?’ the sergeant asked. ‘I don’t want to find myself in a court accused of murder.’

  ‘Not going to happen,’ Sebastian said emphatically. ‘As for legitimacy, I can show you an authorization signed by the Director of the FBI.’

  ‘Maybe later,’ Quincy said, glancing at me.

  I didn’t respond to his look. All I cared about was nailing Rothmann.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I asked, as we arrived at the airport.

  ‘D.C.,’ Sebastian replied, showing ID at a gate. ‘I want to review the murders. Then we’ll come up with a detailed plan.’

  I didn’t buy that. The FBI’s head of violent crime was about the most structured person I’d ever met. We wouldn’t just come up with a plan, he’d have several carefully structured strategies already.

  We were waved past the terminal building and through a gate in the security fence. Sebastian drove into a hangar and stopped next to an executive jet.

  Quincy Jerome let out a low whistle. ‘Cool. Never been on one of these babies.’

  Neither had I, but I didn’t feel any exhilaration. It was like my emotions had been streamlined—everything was directed toward finding Rothmann.

  A few minutes later, we were in the air and arcing upward through a thick cloud cover. Quincy had his eyes glued to the porthole, until a tray of food arrived from the galley. When Sebastian sat down opposite me, I leaned forward and spoke to him in a low voice.

  ‘I presume you’ve publicized the fact that I’m in circulation.’

  He shook his head. ‘We’re not telling the media anything as that would provoke a feeding frenzy. But we will pass the word to some of our informers in the criminal underworld.’

  ‘So I’m the bait.’ I gave him a cold smile. ‘Don’t worry, I can see the attractions of that idea. But what if he doesn’t come after me?’

  ‘You killed his beloved twin sister, Matt. Trust me, he’s going to come after you.’

  I sat back. ‘So why are we going to D.C.? Why don’t we go somewhere easier for him to target?’

  Sebastian thought about that. ‘Got a suggestion?’

  ‘I have, actually. You remember Mary Upson?’

  ‘The woman who got you out of Maine.’ His memory was as sharp as I had expected. ‘Her mother was involved with the Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant.’

  ‘Correct. Maybe we can kill two birds with one stone. You can interrogate the old woman about the cult and I can find out what Mary didn’t tell me.’

  ‘They were both interviewed at length after the cathedral massacre. The mother denied any involvement with either the Antichurch or Rothmann. Besides, your relationship with Mary Upson didn’t exactly end happily, Matt.’

  ‘True. I’ll try to make it up to her.’ The fact was, I was in pure manipulation mode. Rothmann would have been proud.

  Sebastian looked up from the notes he was making. ‘How do we let Rothmann know where you are?’

  ‘We won’t have to. If you give Mary’s mother a chance, she’ll find a way to get in touch with him.’

  ‘Smart, Matt. Okay, I’ll talk to the Maine State Police and find out if the women are still living there.’

  ‘Sparta, that was the name of the town.’ It was the first place I’d reached after I escaped from the Rothmanns’ camp.

  ‘I know,’ he said testily. ‘I went there to catch you.’

  I watched him as he went to the front of the cabin and picked up the phone.

  ‘I haven’t been to Washington since I was a kid,’ Quincy Jerome said, taking Sebastian’s seat.

  ‘Don’t hold your breath, big man. We’re rerouting.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Probably Maine.’

  ‘At this time of year? Shee-it.’

  ‘Even worse than Illinois, eh?’

  ‘You know where I’m from?’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Mobile, Alabama. That’s about as different from Maine as you get.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’ I feigned exhaustion and closed my eyes. I didn’t feel like talking. I liked Quincy, but often he made me laugh and I didn’t want to do that anymore. I tried to think of Karen and our son, but they wouldn’t come to me. My memory seemed to be working fine when it came to other things, but their faces—even Karen’s—had gone. If this was what grief did to you, I could do without it. I wanted to see them and weep.

  ‘Matt?’

  My shoulder was shaken and I snapped awake.

  ‘You’ve been out for over an hour,’ Peter Sebastian said. ‘Mary Upson and her mother—’

  ‘Nora Jacobsen.’

  He nodded. ‘They’ve moved to Portland—Maine. Not Oregon, fortunately. We should be there in an hour and a quarter.’

  ‘You realize there’s a serious drawback to this plan,’ I said, after I’d gulped down a bottle of water.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Sara Robbins.’

  Sebastian studied me impassively. ‘She’ll see that you’ve been released, sure. But how could she know you’re in Portland?’

  ‘Trust me, she’
ll find out. It wouldn’t even surprise me if she was working for Rothmann.’

  ‘Then we really will kill two birds with one stone.’

  Quincy Jerome leaned across the aisle. ‘Who’s Sara Robbins?’

  ‘You do not want to know,’ I replied. ‘On second thoughts, you have to know.’

  By the time I’d finished telling him about the Soul Collector, we had almost reached Portland.

  Abaddon had been given that name by her brother. As far as she was concerned, that was who she was. The family was from Atlanta, but she had lived in St. Louis for the last five years, mainly because it was centrally located and had good flight connections. She often worked on both east and west coasts, as well as plenty of places in between, so a hub was essential.

  She looked out of the window in the roof of the converted warehouse in Laclede’s Landing. The apartment had been an expensive buy because the area was a historic district, but that hadn’t been a problem. She liked the view of the Mississippi, the pair of bridges on one side and the open space around the Jefferson National Expansion Memorial on the other. She wasn’t so keen on the 630-foot-high Gateway Arch. Modern architecture and art didn’t cut it for her, and the stainless steel parabola always struck her as a monument to American vanity.

  Abaddon broke a couple of eggs into a glass, added salt, pepper and Tabasco, and drank them down. That would keep her going till dinner, which she would eat at Connolly’s, an Irish pub that did great burgers and stews. Tonight she was celebrating. Connolly’s was a young people’s hangout and if she was lucky she would find a willing guy. She corrected herself. Luck had nothing to do with it. Although she was forty, she kept herself in good shape and her hair was still black as ravens’ feathers. A man she lived with for three weeks—the most she’d ever managed—had told her that she had witchy looks. She reckoned he was right. She’d inherited her father’s dark hair and complexion, as well as other attributes. The genes behind her mother’s meekness and mousy hair had been outmuscled in a big way.

  The only problem about St. Louis was that she wasn’t close to the Antichurch down south. Sometimes she managed to attend rituals on the way to and from jobs; other times she flew down specially. She didn’t make it every week, but she’d been given a dispensation. As long as she was there at least once a fortnight her soul remained bound to Lucifer. She couldn’t imagine life without that. Then again, she hadn’t been able to conceive of life without the old man until the catastrophe happened. The family had been devastated, but had managed to keep the Antichurch going, despite the efforts of the heretic. Abaddon had done what she could to avenge the lost faithful, but the enemy had always been untouchable.