Maps of Hell Read online

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I reply, staring at a middle-aged woman a couple of rows in front of us. She keeps looking round and seems to be fascinated by Lucy. “I see your mother every weekend,” I say in a lower voice.

  “Yes, and you hardly manage to say two civil words.”

  I suddenly notice that her eyes are damp. “Oh, Luce, I’m sorry. I’m doing the best I can.” Guilt crushes me. I know very well that the acrimonious divorce and the double nightmare of the White Devil and the Soul Collector have been far too much for her to cope with over the past five years. I put my arms round her. At first she resists, then she softens.

  “It’s all right, Dad,” she whispers. “Come on, let’s go to the other film.”

  I stay in my seat. “Oh, no you don’t. You wanted this movie and you’re going to sit through it to the bitter end.”

  She jabs her elbow into my ribs and smiles, then looks avidly at the screen as the lights go down.

  I lean toward her. “Be gentle if I start snoring,” I say in her ear.

  My ribs take another pounding…

  I woke up and found myself sweating beneath the heap of quilts. For a few moments, I had no idea where I was, then I remembered the cabin. I got my head clear and listened intently. There was nothing, not even any birdsong. It was obviously still night. I relaxed and started going over the dream. I knew for sure that the scene with me and the girl called Lucy, the girl who’d addressed me as Dad, had really happened. So I was a father. The realization hit me hard. I felt a tenderness well up. Now I knew there was something for me beyond the hell of the camp and the desperate chase through the forests. The idea that there was someone to stay alive for made me feel much stronger.

  I thought about other things I’d remembered. I had been married to a woman called Caroline and was now divorced. Lucy referred to a “you-know-who,” which I had the strong feeling meant some woman I was now involved with, not that I could come up with any recollection of her. Was she in the police? Was that how she could protect me? I felt a wave of desolation break over me.

  I got my breathing under control. At least I knew there was someone else in my life besides Lucy and an ex-wife. All I could hope was that my memory would work better with every day I spent away from the camp. I thought of the scene with Lucy again. The red bus. The name of the location flashed into my mind. London. I immediately knew the city was the capital of Great Britain. That was where I lived, I was also sure. But, then, what was I doing in the U.S.A.? Maybe that was just an illusion. Maybe the people in the camp had programmed me to remember things that weren’t true.

  Sitting up, I slid my hand down to my knee. It was aching dully, but I couldn’t feel any external pain. Then my right index finger gave a twinge. I remembered the trap and moved the digit gingerly. If it didn’t function as it should, I’d be at a serious disadvantage when I had to pull the trigger, as I was sure I would have to. I couldn’t see what I could do. Splinting it would mean I couldn’t fire the rifle or the pistol at all.

  I sank back into the inviting warmth and softness of the quilts and drifted back to sleep. This time I saw a man’s body peppered with bullets; a young woman hanging from the ceiling, her entrails touching the floor; an underground chamber painted to show all the horrors of hell; and a savage beast with yellow fangs leaping up at me—

  I woke with a start. It wasn’t the dream that had roused me. I had heard the unmistakable sound of an ammunition clip being pressed home. I felt for my weapons and slid silently to the edge of the loft.

  Thirteen

  Detectives Simmons and Pinker had been at the murder scene in Shaw since 2:12 a.m. They’d been contacted by a friendly MPDC dispatcher, who had thought there were potential links to the rock-singer killing they were already investigating. Before they went up to Monsieur Hexie’s apartment, they spoke to the patrolman who had discovered the body.

  “Neighbor called it in,” the heavily built, middle-aged officer told them.

  Simmons raised an eyebrow. “How’d that go, Max? Get over here quick as you can, I got a full description of the killer?”

  The uniformed officer grunted. “In your dreams, Detective. Old lady across the street, she woke up and noticed the door here half-open.”

  Pinker looked over and made out a white-haired woman next to a uniformed female officer in the back of a cruiser. He went to get a preliminary statement.

  “That it?” Simmons asked.

  “We rang the bell, Detective,” said the patrolman’s partner, a young man whose expression was avid. “No answer. So Max went up and found…”

  “And found the vic,” Max completed. “Facedown on the bed, two knife handles sticking out of his lower back.”

  “Lovely,” Clem said under his breath.

  “And that wasn’t all.” The young officer had found his voice again. “There was—”

  “Shut the fuck up, O’Donnell,” Max said. “You keep a grip on your dinner, you get to tell the story.” He turned to Simmons. “There was a piece of paper on his upper back.”

  “It had been nailed there,” Officer O’Donnell put in, his eyes wide.

  “Squares and rectangles in black?” Simmons asked.

  The patrolmen nodded.

  “Looks like you got yourselves a serial killer, Detective,” O’Donnell said.

  Simmons gave him a weary look. “According to the FBI, three victims are required before that term is applied.” He stepped closer to the young man. “You pay attention, now. Number one, we don’t know if it’s the same killer, even if the M.O.’s been repeated. Number two, nobody’s using the word serial, not if they want their balls to stay attached. Number three, the Chief of Detectives banned disclosure of the paper found on the dead rocker. Just how the hell do you know about it, Officer?”

  Simmons wasn’t expecting an answer. He watched as Max dragged his partner back to the cruiser. He didn’t think there would be any more leaks from the rookie. It didn’t surprise him that the disclosure order had been ignored—beat cops always found out stuff in record speed. But the last thing they needed right now was someone blabbing to the media.

  “Neatly done, Clem,” Pinker said from behind him. “Shall we?”

  They accepted overshoes and gloves from a CSI and went up the stairs to the dead man’s apartment, avoiding the areas flagged up for closer inspection.

  “Your kinda place, Clem,” Pinker said, taking in the voodoo mask above the bed.

  “Screw you, Vers,” the big man said, moving farther into the room. He had his eyes on the uncovered body lying facedown on the bed. Two handles protruded above the waist, one on the right and one on the left.

  “Skewers, you reckon?” Pinker said, leaning over the body.

  “Yup.” Simmons looked at the piece of paper inside a plastic file on the victim’s upper back. “You got the copy of the last one?”

  “Yup.” Pinker unfolded a sheet. “Same idea, but the shapes are in different places.”

  “If you were to put them together, would they make any sense?” Simmons asked.

  Pinker tried that. There was no obvious overlap, so it was impossible to say if the squares and rectangles were supposed to fit against each other.

  “Who knows?” the smaller man said. “Maybe numbers go in the shapes. Or letters.”

  “We got to do a crossword now?” Simmons said, with a groan. “Where are the clues?” He raised a hand. “And don’t even think about saying ‘Haven’t got a clue,’ if you want to do anything creative with your dick in the future.”

  Gerard Pinker grinned. “You sure the shapes don’t mean something in that weird religion of yours.”

  “Last time I looked, I was a Catholic,” Simmons said, looking at the black candles that surrounded the bed.

  “Not that abomination,” Pinker said. He’d been raised Southern Baptist.

  “Oh, you mean, voodoo. I told you, I’m only interested in that from an anthropological point of view.”

  Pinker’s eyes w
ere still on the victim. “Say, what?”

  “Don’t play dumb, college boy,” his partner said.

  “You think the skewers killed him right away?” Pinker asked.

  “A good question.”

  Both detectives turned to the door. Marion Gilbert was standing there, wearing a protective suit and overshoes.

  “Evening, Doctor,” Pinker said. “Or should I say morning?”

  “I notice you’ve dispensed with good.” The medical examiner put her bag down by the bed. “Is the photographer finished?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said the crime-scene supervisor from where he was dusting for prints.

  “Let me see if I can answer your question, Detective.” The M.E. set to work, measuring temperatures and filling in a checklist. Simmons and Pinker went over to the CSI.

  “Anything for us?” Pinker asked.

  The bespectacled man raised his shoulders. “Nothing very striking so far. We’re collecting traces and fibers, of course. The main light was on. There’s a dimmer switch and, assuming the beat guys didn’t touch it as they say, then it was on low. That red bedside light was on, too. And the candles.”

  “Romantic atmosphere, huh?” Simmons said. “Windows closed?”

  “And locked,” the CSI replied. “The killer left out of this door and the one on the street.”

  “Leaving the latter half-open,” Pinker said. “He was either in a state of panic or he didn’t care.”

  “Nothing here that wouldn’t belong to the vic?” Simmons asked.

  “Not obviously so.”

  “Oh, Detectives,” Dr. Gilbert called.

  “That was quick,” Pinker said, walking over to the bed.

  “A preliminary report only,” the M.E. said, with a tight smile. “To help you out.”

  “Kind of you, Doctor,” Simmons said, giving his partner a blank look. Pinker got the message and kept quiet. “Time of death?”

  “Rigor mortis has been developing for several hours. Calculating from the temperature, I’d say between six and, say, nine hours ago. As for cause, Detective Pinker, yes, the victim could well have died from his wounds. Until I see the internal damage, it’s impossible to be sure. It looks very likely that the weapons punctured his kidneys. There isn’t much blood loss, so I’d be inclined to think he died from shock.”

  “Not surprised,” Simmons muttered.

  Marion Gilbert pointed at the sheet of paper. “What’s that all about?”

  The detectives exchanged glances.

  “Haven’t a clue, Doc,” Pinker said, stepping away from his partner.

  The M.E. looked at them and shook her head in what looked like disgust. “Well, I wish you luck in finding one, gentlemen. No doubt I’ll see you at the autopsy later on today.”

  Simmons and Pinker moved to the door.

  “Asshole,” the big man said. “What’s with the clues shit? You reading Agatha Christie?”

  “No,” Pinker said, grinning. “I’d like to look for the doctor’s clue, though.”

  Simmons scowled at him. “Pussy hound. You’d better start wearing out your expensive calfskin loafers. We need witnesses. You heard the doc. Between six and nine hours takes us back to between six and nine last night. Get canvassing.”

  “What about you?” Pinker demanded.

  “I’m going to look for someone to ID the victim. But before that, I’m calling the Chief of Detectives. He is not going to be happy.”

  While interviewing a nearby shop owner, Simmons was called back to Monsieur Hexie’s apartment. He went upstairs and found a fair-haired, middle-aged man and brunette young woman talking to the CSI supervisor. “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “Peter Sebastian,” the man said, studying him dispassionately. “FBI. I’m deputy head of violent crime.”

  “…you slumming?”

  “Unfortunately not. I’ve spoken to your chief.”

  Simmons knew what that meant.

  “This is Special Agent Dana Maltravers, my assistant,” the FBI man said, glancing at the woman. She gave Simmons a tight smile. “No, Detective, we aren’t slumming. This is the second murder in D.C. in rapid succession. You can understand the Bureau’s interest, given the large number of VIPs in the district.”

  “But they’re not your problem, are they?” Simmons said. “You’re a violent-crime man.”

  Sebastian looked at him icily. “Can we have some cooperation here, please?”

  Versace chose that moment to make his entrance. “Cooperation?” he said. “That’s my middle name.”

  Dana Maltravers looked at him. “And your other names are Gerard and Pinker?”

  The detective laughed. “On the button. Give the lady a coconut.”

  The agent’s lips started to form into a smile, then she saw her superior’s expression. She ran a hand through her short brown hair and looked away.

  Peter Sebastian introduced himself and his colleague again, then turned back to Simmons. “So, Detective, about that cooperation?”

  Simmons raised his shoulders. “Sure. Tell us how this particular cooperation is going to play.”

  “Very well. You remain in primary control of the investigation into this murder and that of the rock singer, but you inform us of every development immediately.” The FBI man smiled, showing gleaming and perfectly straight teeth. “And we reserve the right to take over if and when we deem that appropriate.”

  “Oh, right,” Pinker said, stepping forward. “We do the legwork and you step in at the end to get the applause.”

  Sebastian’s gaze hardened. “Let’s face it, Detective, you and your partner haven’t exactly covered yourselves in glory so far.”

  Simmons put a hand on Pinker’s arm.

  “If you’re unhappy,” the blond man concluded, “ask your chief about the terms. He agreed to them.”

  “No need,” Simmons said. He and Versace had shown they weren’t pushovers; now they needed to get on with the investigation. “What do you need to know?”

  Sebastian inclined his head toward Maltravers.

  “Has the victim been identified yet?” she asked, looking at her clipboard.

  “Not officially,” Simmons replied. “But the CSIs found a brochure for the shop downstairs. The photo of Monsieur Hexie matches the dead man.”

  Dr. Gilbert’s initial impressions were then passed on. After hearing about their canvassing, Dana Maltravers looked at them both.

  “What are your thoughts about the modus operandi?”

  Versace shrugged. “Musta hurt something awful.”

  Clem gave a weary shake of the head. “I guess you mean the fact that both this victim and Loki were killed with two weapons?”

  “Very good, Detective,” Sebastian said. “I’m glad one of you has been paying attention.” He ignored Pinker’s glare.

  “Oh, we both noticed that, all right,” Clem said, rescuing his partner. “We’re just keeping an open mind about it.”

  “Yeah,” Versace said. “After all, most murderers have got two hands.”

  Sebastian and Maltravers looked at each other.

  “You don’t think the number two might have some symbolic meaning?” the female agent asked.

  Simmons screwed up his eyes. “You mean, some kind of binary significance? A pair, that kind of thing?”

  Maltravers shrugged. “I guess. Or maybe there were two killers.”

  Pinker glanced at Simmons. “We haven’t excluded that possibility.”

  “There were no footprints on the street at the first murder,” his partner added. “But the CSIs should be able to get prints from the rugs here.”

  “Let’s leave that for now,” Sebastian said. “We’ll leave you to your work, Detectives. Perhaps we could meet at your office, say, midday?” His tone made clear that the issue wasn’t negotiable.

  After the agents had left, Pinker nudged his partner.

  “Binary significance?” he said, ironically. “What the hell has that got to do with anything, Clem?”r />
  “Search me,” the big man replied, with a soft grin. “I just wanted to show off my lack of a college degree.” He turned away from his partner. “Now it’s time I worked on the voodoo connection.”

  Pinker gave a hollow laugh. Then he realized that Simmons was serious.

  Fourteen

  I flattened myself beneath the quilts, leaving a small space to see through. Unfortunately, my ears were still well covered, so the first sound I heard was the crash of the door being kicked open. I saw a figure in a gray uniform and beret, with a leveled assault rifle.

  “Base, unit eleven at loggers’ cabin. Door has been forced. Fugitive not present. Over.”

  I watched as his eyes moved up to the platform.

  “Base, eleven. Wait one. Checking bedding. Over.”

  The man slipped a walkie-talkie into a holder on his belt and slung the rifle over his shoulder before taking out a pistol like the one I was holding. Then he started up the rungs.

  I considered what to do. Killing the guy would be easy enough, but I was less keen on that than I had been the day before. I didn’t want to be reduced to their level. Which didn’t mean I wasn’t going to get even with the shitheads in the camp at some stage, but I needed to get away first.

  The man’s head gear appeared, then his face. I had to act quickly, while I still had the advantage of surprise. I moved forward and reared up from the bedding, head butting him squarely in the face. The contact was good and he lost his grip on the ladder and crashed to the floor. I slid down the ladder and held my pistol on him. That wasn’t necessary. He was out cold.

  The walkie-talkie squawked before I could do anything else.

  “Eleven, base. Confirm status. Over.”

  I had to answer—if I kept quiet, more people would be sent after me. At least I’d heard the unconscious man speak. I took the device from his belt.

  “Base, eleven,” I said, copying the accent as best I could. “Bedding clear. Stand by.” It suddenly occurred to me that, if I held my nerve, I could sell the bastards a dummy. I removed a leather strap holding a compass from his neck then looked cautiously out the open door. There was no one else in sight. I went out onto the veranda and decided on a direction that I wouldn’t be taking. “Tracks outside heading into forest. Bearing, thirty degrees. Over.”