Maps of Hell Page 8

  I made it to the beginning of the narrow pass, rock faces rising up sheer to my right and left. I drank the last of my water and looked around. I didn’t see or hear much apart from the fading light and the sunset song of the birds—my eyes were continually wet with rainwater. I had to hope that my pursuers hadn’t gotten ahead of me. Maybe they had gone around the mountains by some other way. I took the rifle in both hands and stepped on down the track.

  Heart pounding, I made it to the far end of the defile. There was an outcrop of rock on the left and I dropped down behind it. Wiping the rain from my eyes, I looked around the edge at the country ahead. The ground opened out from the narrow pass and sloped downward more gradually than on the other side. There were still plenty of trees, but I made out gaps between them. Then I blinked and stared. About a mile ahead, at the side of a clearing in the forest, was a low wooden building. There was no sign of activity in the vicinity and no smoke from the chimney. It was too good to be true. I told myself to be even more careful and set off again, following the line of trees and ready to slip between them.

  After about half an hour, I made it to within three hundred yards of the building. It looked like a hunting cabin or the like, the eaves of the roof covering a railed veranda at the front. The windows were shuttered, which was a good sign. I waited for as long as I could in the wet, but saw no other signs of occupation. I had to go for it.

  At the edge of the clearing around the hut, I turned to the right and approached from the rear. I leaned against the log wall and listened. Nothing. Creeping around to the far side, I checked that no one had been lurking out of my view. It was clear. At the front of the building, I saw tire tracks that were hard to date. They definitely hadn’t been made in the last day or so, as the muddy surface caused by the rain wasn’t churned up. I looked up at the sky. The light was almost gone, the clouds low and black, and I was shivering. It was time I got inside.

  The door was locked, a heavy padlock fastening it to the frame. I smashed the rifle butt against it, but it held fast. I could have shot it out, but that might have attracted attention. Arms aching, I pounded away. Eventually cracks appeared around the metal panel the padlock was attached to. I slid the barrel of the rifle in and wrenched the panel away. It sheared off with a crack, leaving a patch of wood that was more lightly colored than the rest of the door.

  I put my shoulder to the door. There was a loud crack and then I was in. I slumped to the floor, panting for breath. I was soaked, cold, exhausted, starving and on the run. Surely things couldn’t get any worse.

  Eleven

  The shop wasn’t much more than a five-minute walk north from the U Street-Cardozo Station in northwest D.C. When talking on the phone to potential customers Monsieur Hexie played up his proximity to the hip bars and clubs on U Street, omitting to mention that his own street was less then safe after sunset. Not that he’d ever had a complaint. After all, he was in the business of selling supernatural power.

  Monsieur Hexie’s Voodoo Supplies had been in Shaw since 1977. Before that, the owner had gone by his given name, Francois Robiche. His parents had originated in New Orleans and later had worked themselves to early death in the kitchens of the capital’s tourist hotels. In his teens, Francine had been a street hustler, his exotic looks and lithe body getting plenty of work. Eventually he saved enough to set himself up in the shop. He’d always been interested in what his maman called “les pouvoirs secrets”—the secret powers—and all he’d needed to do was read a few books to know more than his customers. A talent for self-advertisement had helped and soon Monsieur Hexie became a local character. The shop was in several D.C. guidebooks, as he’d paid the compilers under the table.

  He sat at the back of the shop in the early evening, having closed up early.

  Wednesday wasn’t usually his day for private business, but this client had been insistent—as well as amenable to the inflated price he’d quoted. Even though he was now sixty, Monsieur Hexie was still powerfully attractive and his involvement in the occult was an extra turn-on for many johns.

  There was still half an hour before he had to shower and prepare himself. He spent that time reviewing inventory. His Monsieur Hexie dolls were doing well, as usual—the wax men and women, both black and white, came with a set of long, sharp pins. Candles were always a good sell, too, especially the ones in red wax. And, of course, the traditional herbs that he concocted into his own mixtures were trusted by many customers to solve problems of a sexual nature. All in all, things were going well, despite the prevailing financial climate. He had paid off the loan on the shop years ago and lived in the small apartment above, so he didn’t have many expenses. His only regret was that he’d never found a lover to settle down with, but he lived in hope.

  Shooing away the stray black cat he’d named Satan—how the customers loved it when he called to the animal in the shop—Monsieur Hexie went to get ready. The apartment upstairs was cramped because a king-size bed took up much of the main room’s space. It was surrounded by black candles and incense jars, and above the pillows hung an expressionless face mask. Men got a big thrill from screwing beneath the zombie’s glassy-eyed stare. On the table by the window was the head of a moray eel that he’d had preserved. The fleshy jaws were wide apart. Monsieur Hexie slipped the wad of bills he’d removed from the till between them. It would take a brave thief to run the gauntlet of those needle-sharp teeth.

  Sitting naked on the bed, Monsieur Hexie rubbed aromatic oil all over himself. The aroma was sweet and cloying, with a hint of rotten leaves. He knew from experience that johns couldn’t resist burying their noses in it, so he made sure that there was plenty on his chest and lower abdomen.

  Monsieur Hexie glanced at the clock in the shape of New Orleans. He had timed things perfectly. The chime from the street door rang out. He told people it was the repeated clang of the single-note bell that sounded at the beginning of the voodoo service to raise the zombie king. The electrician had been instructed to set the device to keep ringing while visitors climbed the narrow stair to the apartment. The snake skeletons and goat skulls on the walls of the stairway were all part of the trip; they also made sure that the advantage was Monsieur Hexie’s, a state of affairs he did everything to sustain. More than once, Monsieur Hexie had been confronted by trembling men who had lost their nerve.

  He slipped on an almost transparent silk robe over his sequined briefs and put on his high priest’s headdress: three black ostrich feathers attached to a snake skin that circled his head twice. Then he went to the spy hole in the door. It had been a long time since anyone had dared lay a rough hand on him, but he was too smart to take unnecessary risks. The white guy he peered out at looked normal enough. He was probably in his thirties and of average height, brown hair, possibly dyed, a face that was smooth and rather girlish. His leather jacket and the pale green shirt were smart enough, even if at odds with the john’s mild-mannered expression. If pressed, Monsieur Hexie would have said he was an office worker—an accountant or bank employee—trying to look cool in his free time.

  He opened the door and extended a long leg. “Well, good evening, honey,” he said in his most come-hither tone. “Ready for the trip of your life?”

  The john looked at his bare thigh with a show of interest. As he moved a hand toward it, Monsieur Hexie stepped back.

  “What’s your name, darling?” he asked, smiling.

  “Um…Pete,” came the unconvincing reply.

  “Uh-huh,” Monsieur Hexie said. He grabbed his shirt-front and pulled him close. “And would you like a drink to warm you up on this chill evening, Pete?”

  “Um…yeah.” The guy looked at him and then cast a glance around the room. He seemed less impressed than most johns by what he was wearing, and the crocodile heads didn’t make his eyes open wide, either. As for Satan, sitting on a cushion with his eyes half-closed, well…Pete was ignoring him completely. Monsieur Hexie wasn’t concerned. The liqueur he made from rum and herbs had never been known to
fail. He handed the john a generous measure in a heavy crystal glass.

  “To the powers of darkness,” he said, raising his glass.

  The man stared at him like he was some kind of freak and eventually chinked glasses.

  “Drink, child,” Monsieur Hexie said, licking his lips. “It’ll make you last all night.”

  Pete lifted the glass to his thin lips and took a sip. “Nice,” he said, screwing his eyes up.

  Cold fish, Monsieur Hexie thought. Sounds different to what he did on the telephone. Much less eager. He stepped close and started to unfasten the john’s shirt buttons. He then shivered terminally as two sharp points pierced the skin of his back and ran through each of his kidneys.

  The last thing Monsieur Hexie heard was a loud hiss from Satan as he scurried under the bed.

  Twelve

  Inside the gloom of the hut, I could make out very little. I felt around for a light switch before realizing there wouldn’t be power lines in the middle of the forest. My head bumped into a metal object. I stretched up, feeling a stab of pain from the wound I’d made in my upper arm, and found a hurricane lamp. I shook it and heard the splash of liquid inside. Now all I needed was a match.

  After I’d banged my shins against a heavy wooden chair, I thought about opening a shutter to let in the last of the daylight. I stopped myself before I got to the nearest window. I couldn’t risk attracting attention. So instead, I started running my hands over all the surfaces, eventually finding matches in a wall holder. Putting a flame to the lamp’s wick, I looked around the single room that composed the ground floor. There was a kitchen on the rear wall—gas stove, plate holders, no fridge. There was also a waist-high cupboard. I strode over and pulled it open. Bingo. The shelves were stacked with cans and packets. I reached a hand down.

  The sudden crack made me jump backward, and I yelped at the sudden pain. I held my right hand under the lamp. The index finger was in a trap, the size of which suggested that rats rather than mice were the local pest. I pried the spring-loaded wires apart and examined the livid welt across the finger. It hurt even more when I bent it, but I didn’t think it was broken. Then I remembered what I’d thought about things not getting any worse.

  My stomach clenched and I realized I had to eat before I did anything else. Then I saw the wooden ladder that led up to a platform in the back half of the cabin. I clambered up it, my finger throbbing. A mattress covered most of the surface, and it was piled with discolored pillows, quilts and blankets. I dragged two blankets over and let them drop to the floor below. Although there was a fireplace with a pile of chopped wood next to it, I couldn’t risk lighting a fire. The only way I was going to get warm was by wrapping up well.

  I pulled off the outer layers of rain-soaked clothing and hung it across chairs, then wrapped one blanket around me and the other over my shoulders. Fortunately, the material was thick and the shivers that had plagued me since I’d stopped running gradually disappeared. I went back to the food cupboard and rummaged around: canned tuna, chili and several different kinds of beans. I found a can opener in a drawer and settled down to a cold feast. It was one of the best meals I’d ever eaten. After I’d finished, I looked for something to drink. There were cans of beer and a bottle of whiskey. They were no use to me as I couldn’t risk blurring my senses. Then I found some sodas. I got through a couple before it occurred to me to examine them.

  I checked the cans and bottles. The whiskey was from somewhere called Lynchburg, Tennessee, the tuna had been canned in Fort Lauderdale, FL, and the beans were from Pittsburgh, PA. I looked at the whiskey again. It was Jack Daniel’s. The black label and name rang a bell deep in my memory. I opened the bottle and took a sniff. A subtle aroma flooded my nostrils and suddenly I retched. I remembered—I had got horribly drunk on Jack Daniel’s, and I knew where. In a bar with a view of a great storied building with colonnades and a high dome. The name of the city flashed into my mind. Washington. Washington, D.C. Capital of the United States of America.

  I rocked back on my heels and tried to come up with more. I caught glimpses of a scene in a bar, people laughing and cheering. But I couldn’t think who they were, or what I had been doing there. The only thing I knew for sure was that the bar was in Washington, near the seat of government. Did that mean I was in the United States now? I looked at the cans I’d emptied. Fort Lauderdale, FL. I sounded the letters FL together and immediately thought of the name Florida. Pittsburgh, PA, didn’t register, but the letters on some other products I took from the cupboard prompted names—IL, Illinois. CA, California. It wasn’t overwhelming proof that I was in the U.S.A., but it certainly seemed likely.

  I stood up, feeling twinges in my knee. I needed rest badly. As I was heading for the ladder, I caught sight of a newspaper under the table. I picked it up and looked at the front page. It was a tabloid—that word popped into my brain instantly to describe the small newsprint pages—called the Star Reporter. The paper was dated May 12, 2008. I wasn’t sure if that was recent, but I had a feeling it was. A photo took up most of the front page, showing an underdressed woman standing by a horse. The headline was Senator Bares All to Stallion. According to the story, the forty-nine-year-old politician had been seen riding naked on a ranch in New Mexico, an allegation she strongly denied. I flicked through the paper. It was full of what I suspected were either invented or hugely exaggerated scandals.

  I put the newspaper back where I’d found it and unhooked the oil lamp. As I headed for the ladder, I caught sight of my face in a small cracked mirror on the wall. My hair was cut short, under an inch in length. It was mainly black, but when I looked closer I saw some white hairs. My face was haggard, the skin tight over the cheekbones. I tried a smile and saw straight white teeth. I tried to imagine how an unbiased observer would have described my appearance. The best I could come up with was craggy.

  I scrambled up the ladder, gripping the lamp’s wire handle in my teeth, and buried myself in the quilts. At last real warmth returned to my body, but it didn’t make me much happier. It wasn’t just that I was on the run from armed men, but the fact that I felt so alone. If I was in the U.S., as seemed likely, I was in a foreign country—I knew without being able to say why that I wasn’t American. I didn’t know if I had any friends here. Why had I been in the camp? What had been done to me?

  I was a man without a past, running into a future I couldn’t predict—far from home, on my own, in despair. I put the lamp out and laid the pistol on the bare wooden floor. If I’d been more in control of myself, I’d have gone back down the ladder and opened the door. That would have given the impression that I’d been and gone—no one in their senses would have stayed in a cabin with the door ajar when the rain was pouring down and the temperature was low. But I couldn’t make myself get out of the warm cocoon.

  Soon I fell into an uneasy and haunted sleep….

  …The dark-haired girl is laughing.

  “Come on, Dad,” she says, pulling my hand. “We’ll miss the film.” She starts running down the street and I’m forced to follow, shortening my stride so I don’t crash into her. We cross the road after a red double-decker bus passes. The cinema is lit up, people crowding the entrance. There are posters up for three screens.

  I laugh.

  “What?” the girl says, giving me a stern look.

  “Nothing, Lucy,” I say. “It’s just that there are two Hollywood blockbusters on here and you want to see the Slovenian art-house film.”

  “So?” she says, her cheeks suddenly on fire. “Not every thirteen-year-old wants to sit through rubbish.”

  “You’re the world’s only such exception,” I say, and buy the tickets. We are directed up narrow stairs to a small screen that was obviously an afterthought. There must be all of three other patrons. As it turns out, there are five minutes before the program starts.

  “How’s school?” I ask, offering her some chocolate-covered raisins.

  “All right, I suppose.” She twists her lips. “The others don
’t take it seriously enough.”

  “You’re turning into a real little bluestocking.” I dig a finger into the flesh behind her knee.

  “Stop it, Dad,” she says, pushing me away. “I’m too old for that.” She looks around in embarrassment. “Especially in public.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, suddenly solemn. “I’ll put in a call to the Metropolitan Police and have myself arrested.”

  “Ha-ha.” She isn’t able to resist the raisins. “Anyway, you know everyone who counts in the police. You’d just get off, like you always do.”

  I laugh. “Like I always do?”

  “You-know-who looks after you,” she says, smirking.

  I change the subject rapidly. “What’s so great about this film, anyway?”

  Lucy puts on the horn-rimmed glasses she insisted on—the truth is, she loves the bluestocking look—and takes out a notepad and pen. “Well, it’s supposed to be a penetrating examination of peasant life in contemporary Slovenia and—”

  I fake a yawn. “Oh, great. Listen, I’ll double your pocket money this week if we can change to the Tom Cruise film.”

  “No,” she says firmly. “You watch far too many cop films. You need some proper culture.”

  I fumble for a response. “How’s your mother?”

  She looks away. “As if you care.”

  “That’s not fair, Luce,” I say. “You don’t know everything that I feel about Caroline.”

  “Oh, I do beg your pardon,” she says, giving me a superior glance. “Deep down you still love her, do you?” She snorts angrily. “The only time you show any concern about her is when we get targeted by one of the killers who keep chasing you.”