Maps of Hell (9 page)

D
etectives 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 were 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?”

“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.

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.”

“Roger, eleven. Return to RZ point Charlie. Confirm. Over.”

“RZ Charlie confirmed. Over and out.”

I waited for a response, wondering if I’d said anything wrong.

“Roger, base out.”

I exhaled hard, then looked down at the man by my feet. He hadn’t moved, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I checked the guy’s belt. There was a sheathed combat knife at the rear. I pulled off his jacket and hacked it into strips. Tying his wrists, I ran the material round the top of the heavy table and secured it. After binding his ankles, I reckoned he was there for the duration. I took the watch from his left wrist. The time was seven forty-one, but there was no date or month display. The cold at night and the relatively short days, along with the yellowing leaves on the occasional deciduous tree, suggested it was autumn.

I removed a couple of full ammunition clips from the young man’s belt and pulled on my jacket. After I’d laced my boots, hung the compass round my neck and stuffed my jacket pockets with cans of food and drink, I was ready to leave. I took the man’s rifle and pistol with me, as well as my own. They would be stashed in the forest where no one would ever find them. Finally, I dropped the walkie-talkie to the floor and crushed it with my boot—after the bug in my arm, I wasn’t taking any more chances of being located than I had to.

Going to the door, I had another look around, and then set off. From the heights the day before, I’d seen an area where the forest seemed less dense. If there was any civilization in this godforsaken land, it was that way. The bearing was 170 degrees, well away from where I’d sent my pursuers. I ran across the open ground at medium pace. Sprinting might have attracted attention and, besides, I didn’t want to put too much pressure on my suspect knee. I had an anxious minute before I made the tree line—I was panting more from apprehension than fatigue.

When I was about fifty yards inside the forest, I stopped and buried the second rifle and pistol under a thick layer of pine needles. I was on my knees with my head bent when I heard the male voice.

“Keep very still or I’ll drill you a new asshole.”

I did as I was told, cursing myself. The man I knocked out had identified himself as “unit eleven.” A unit consisted of more than one person. The best I could hope for was that there weren’t more than two.

“Get your hands up! High!”

“All right,” I said, my tone as reasonable as I could manage while I slipped the combat knife from my belt.

“Shut up or you’re dead!”

I considered pointing out that his superiors might not want me dead, but decided against riling him further.

“Stay on your knees and turn around. Slowly!”

I obeyed, feeling the forest mulch soak my trousers. The first thing I noticed was that my captor didn’t have a walkie-talkie or a compass, at least not anywhere obvious. The second was that he was very young, his face dotted with pimples.

“What did you do to Hans?”

I played dumb. “I don’t know any Hans,” I said, the knife now up my sleeve.

“A guy dressed like me?” His tone was less aggressive. He took a step forward. “What’s that you were burying?”

I ran through the permutations quickly. He obviously hadn’t seen me at the cabin or with his partner, assuming Hans was the guy I’d jumped. If he hadn’t seen the rifle and pistol, he must just have come upon me by chance.

“Shit,” I said apologetically. “No, really. I always go early in the morning.”

He stared at me, taking in the compass round my neck. “Where did you get that?” he said, jabbing the rifle’s muzzle at me. “Is it Hans’s?”

I decided to jack up the pressure. “Oh, now I get it. Hans was the pussy I kicked the crap out of.” I gave a harsh laugh. “You won’t be seeing Hans again.”

The youth’s cheeks flared and he moved closer, the rifle thrust even closer toward me. One more step…

“If you’ve hurt Hans, I’ll cut your balls off,” he said, a malevolent glint in his eyes.

I suddenly realized that, even though he was very young, someone had worked hard to bring out the worst in him.

I grinned. “You sure that won’t seriously piss off your superior officers?”

“You can live without balls.” Then he took the step forward that I’d been waiting for. I grabbed hold of the rifle with one hand, wrenching it out of his grip. At the same time, I let the knife slip into my hand. In a second, I had the blade at his throat.

“But
you
can’t live without your throat,” I said, breaking the skin above his Adam’s apple.

“Fuck you, you piece of shit,” he yelled, spraying my face with spittle.

“Keep your voice down,” I warned, jabbing deeper.

After a few more seconds, the resistance went out of him and his body slackened.

“What’s your name?” I asked, my voice softer.

“Fuck you.”

“Rank?”

“Fuck you.”

I laughed. “Serial number. No, don’t bother, I’ve got the message.” I looked at the letters on his cap badge. “How about this? What’s NANR?”

This time I’d pressed the right button. “North American National Revival,” he said with undisguised pride.

“What’s that?”

He stared at me, but kept quiet.

“Bad move,” I said, pressing the blade against his neck. Blood began to drip.

The young man whispered something and I leaned forward to catch it. The first word began with
f
and the second with
y.

I made good progress through the forest after I’d gagged the young man and tied him to a tree with strips from his jacket. I’d buried the rifles, pistols and other equipment I’d taken from him and from Hans in a heap of needles a good distance from where he was. I wondered how long it would be before he was found, and was thinking that perhaps I’d finally got out of the zone controlled by the men in gray when I was distracted by the sudden sounds of a large animal crashing through the trees.

A German shepherd came pounding around a tree trunk, its jaws wide and worryingly speckled with foam. I went into automatic response mode and ran straight at the dog rather than waste time trying to bring a weapon to bear. The creature blinked its eyes, but it was too late for it to alter course. With a flick of my hips, I slid past it, having a flash of performing the same maneuver on a muddy pitch with an oval ball in my hands. I kept on running till I came to a thick tree trunk and took cover behind it.

Looking around the trunk, I saw the dog coming back in my direction. Then its ears pricked as a low voice came through the forest.

“Prince!”

I estimated the man to be about twenty yards to the animal’s left. It ran toward him with a yelp. I wasn’t clear whether the handler was aware of Prince’s recent engagement with the enemy. I waited where I was, finger on the trigger. It was still aching from the rat trap, but I reckoned I could take out man and dog if I had to.

The German shepherd was leaping about, trying to make the dumb human understand what was going on. A gray uniform came into view. I stared. The handler was a woman. And she was stunning, with auburn hair in a plait beneath her cap and a full figure beneath the uniform, which fitted more tightly than did the men’s. Her voice was deep and hoarse, the kind that raises hairs on necks. Shooting her in cold blood wasn’t an attractive prospect.

Then I heard a crackle of radio static. She had her walkie-talkie turned up loud.

“Base, unit seventeen. Report, over.”

She put the device to her ear. “Unit seventeen. All clear. Over.”

“Proceed to loggers’ cabin. Unit eleven nonresponsive. Confirm. Over.”

“Unit seventeen, confirm heading to cabin, over.”

“Exercise extreme caution, seventeen. Remember, target is to be immobilized, not terminated. Base out.”

I watched as the young woman left in the opposite direction. Pity. Then again, I hadn’t had to terminate her or the German shepherd. It was only after I’d been under way again for about a quarter of an hour that I remembered what had also struck me about the beautiful young woman. She bore a strong resemblance to the guy I’d dealt with in the cabin—the one called Hans.

Something else occurred to me: I seemed to have a very well-developed sense of self-preservation.

Two hours later, I was striding down a slope through the trees. The idea that I was leaving something important behind had filled my mind again. Although I hadn’t heard any pursuers since the woman had turned back, my mood had darkened when it should have done the opposite. I remembered Lucy, my daughter. Where was she? Could the bastards at the camp have her? I stopped in my tracks. Then I thought of the words she had used in the cinema—
you-know-who.
The problem was, I
didn’t
know who. I closed my eyes and tried to call up that mysterious individual, my assumed partner. I caught a glimpse of blond hair and—

The roar of the engine rang through the forest. It was directly ahead of me. I immediately started running in that direction. The sound of revving continued as I got to the tree line. There were only a few yards between me and the rear of a trailer loaded with massive tree trunks.

A bearded man in blue overalls and heavy boots was lashing the last of the ropes that secured the load. He stepped back and raised his hand to the truck at the front.

“All right!” he yelled. “Let’s get the hell outta here!” He shifted his large frame toward the cab’s open door. I made out the words
Woodbridge Holdings
painted over an image of an open newspaper.

I had only a few seconds to decide if I was going with them. I looked at the back of the trailer, then slung the rifle over my shoulder. There was an even louder noise from the engine and black exhaust streamed from the pipes behind the cab. When I heard the gears engage, I went for it. There were several ropes tied to a steel ring, so I had plenty to grab hold of. I was making a fine target for any gray-uniformed marksmen in the vicinity, but no shots rang out. As the truck bumped down the uneven muddy track, I pulled myself higher and toward the tarp covering the top of the load. With difficulty, I managed to crawl under it, the muzzle of the rifle banging against my head as the trailer rolled to the side alarmingly.

There were two problems with the place I’d found to hide. The first: if the load overturned on the track I’d be crushed to a pulp. The second: I couldn’t see a thing from beneath the tarp. I managed to take the compass off my neck and check the bearing. Maybe—if I was very lucky—I’d be able to navigate my way back to the camp once I’d found help. I was still gripped by the feeling that I was leaving a vital part of my life behind. I caught another glimpse of blond hair, but recalled nothing else.