Maps of Hell mw-3 Page 18

  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 je
rk, 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 apartment 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.

  The figure, which I now see is dressed completely in black, levels a compact machine-pistol at me and empties the magazine in a burst of sound. My dive behind the kitchen bar saves me, though I feel a heavy blow on one of legs. Then I see a round object bounce off the surface of the bar and drop by my legs. Grenade. I grab it and toss it back. There is a loud explosion and more dust comes over me in a wave. My ears are ringing. All I know is that my lover is in the bedroom and at least one of the intruders will also be there by now. I grab my blade and go round the end of the bar. A badly mutilated body is motionless on the floor. I don’t waste time with the helmet and keep going.

  But before I reach my bedroom door, a figure in black backs out, hands in the air. When the point of the swordstick pierces the leather biker’s jacket, the intruder stops abruptly. I look beyond and see my blonde lover. She’s naked and is holding a a ridiculously small pair of nail scissors.

  I stare at her, my hearing gradually returning.

  “What’s that, Matt?” she asks, catching sight of my blade.

  “I could ask you the same question.” I slip the catch from the strap on the figure’s neck and wrestle the helmet off. The intruder is a shaven-headed black man whom I don’t recognize. I hear police sirens coming near. The occupants of my block aren’t used to explosions at night.

  “Watch him,” I say to my lover. I go back to the prone figure and pull off the helmet. Another man, this one white and very dead.

  “Who put you on us?” I shout to the other guy.

  He doesn’t reply. I know he won’t ever reply. The Soul Collector will have made very clear what she’ll do to his family if he talks. She’ll also have deposited a large sum in a secret account for when he gets out of jail.

  Afterward, when the police have finally gone, I sit with my arm around my lover’s shoulders. We’re drinking twelve-year-old malt whiskey, but it isn’t doing much to fill the emptiness we’re feeling. Sara Robbins will never let us live an ordinary life. Sooner or later I’ll have to get her off my back for good.

  Although my ears are still ringing, I can hear the seagull knocking from time to time on the spare bedroom window.

  Death has flown away by night. But I know she’ll be back…

  When I came round, I insisted that I do some more driving. I’d had enough of what my memory had been dredging up, not least because I couldn’t be sure how much of it to believe. I preferred to concentrate on the road.

  Mary fell asleep and I carried on southward. I didn’t know how long she was out.

  “Where are we?” she said, yawning.

  “Southern New York, not too far from New Jersey. I just saw a sign to West Point.”

  She smiled. “Did that mean anything to you, Mr. Englishman?”

  Strangely enough, it did-one of the seemingly irrelevant pieces of knowledge my haphazard memory had clung on to. I must have watched too many trashy war films.

  “Listen, Matt,” Mary said, “you really need to get some sleep.”

  I nodded. My arms were tight and I was having trouble keeping my eyes open.

  “It’ll be dark in an hour or so. We should be able to find an out-of-the-way motel.” She smiled at me. “We can make an early start in the morning.”

  “We don’t have to do anything,” I said. “I can hitch to Washington from here easily enough. You should get back to Sparta.”

  She gave a bitter laugh. “No, thanks. I’ve had enough shit from the law.”

  That caught my attention. “Really? That sounds a bit unusual for a primary schoolteacher.”

  Mary shot me a chilly look. “Curiosity killed the cat and all her kittens, Matt.”

  “Pardon me. I was just trying to get to know you better.”

  “And what would be the point of that?” she demanded. “You’re making it very clear that you don’t want me around.”

  I sighed. “It isn’t
that, Mary. This is going to get dangerous.”

  “Like it hasn’t been already. Those weren’t blanks Stu was firing at us.”

  “All right, all right,” I said, raising a hand. “We’ll talk about it when we stop.”

  An uneasy silence prevailed. It was Mary who broke it.

  “If you must know, those Texan assholes weren’t the first men to take me around the back of the houses.” She kept her eyes away from mine.

  I recalled what Mary’s mother had said about her daughter’s emotional fragility.

  “I’m…I’m not good at…at relationships,” she said. “But sometimes I have…needs. I go to the bar and get hit on. I like it till it gets to the point where I have to…I have to get to it…then I can’t go through with it.” She let out a long sob.

  I stretched out my hand, but all that did was make her cry even more desperately.

  “You see?” she stammered. “You’re no different from the others. I suppose you think I’m just some screwed-up neurotic.”

  I touched her shoulder. “No, I don’t. I couldn’t have got away without your help. Why should I have negative thoughts about you?” I framed what I said as carefully as I could. “Look, we need to break the journey. Let’s find somewhere to sleep soon. We’ll both feel better in the morning. Then we can decide what we’re going to do.”

  The sobbing stopped and Mary looked across at me, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. She smiled weakly. “Thank you, Matt. I knew as soon as I saw you that you were different from the others.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. It would have been amazing if she’d ever encountered a partial amnesiac toting an assault rifle and two Glocks before. But I needed to be careful and not encourage her too much.

  There was a sign for a motel not long afterward. The place was set back from the road with dense trees to the rear and not many vehicles parked outside.

  “You’d better stay here,” Mary said, rummaging in her bag. “I’ll see if they can live without ID and pay in advance by cash.”