Maps of Hell (10 page)

R
ichard Bonhoff woke up much later than he did on the farm. The budget hotel he’d found was in the eastern outskirts of Washington, near the beginning of the freeway. He had expected to be kept awake by the traffic noise, but he’d been exhausted when he turned in and had slept deeply. After Gordy Lister had walked out on him in the cocktail bar, he’d spent hours tramping the Mall. The nation’s grandest sights—the White House, the Washington Monument, the Capitol, the Lincoln Memorial—hadn’t impressed him much, even though they were lit up spectacularly. He kept looking at the photo of the twins he’d brought to show Lister, their smiling faces beaming up at him. That didn’t make him happy. Rather, he had struggled to contain his anger. He hadn’t even needed to show Lister the photo. He’d known who the twins where immediately, and he looked guilty as hell. Richard knew exactly what he was going to do.

After drinking a cup of vile coffee from the machine in his room, he headed out. Now that it was charged, the temptation to check his cell phone was great, but he resisted it. There would be a string of voice messages from Mel, each nastier in tone and content than the previous one. He didn’t need the hassle. But then it struck him that the twins might have been in touch. He checked, cutting off the three messages his wife had left as soon as he heard her voice. As he’d suspected, there was nothing from Gwen and Randy.

Richard retrieved the pickup and headed down New York Avenue to the center. He left the vehicle in a multistory lot around the corner from the newspaper office. The parking charges were killing him.

He took a seat at a coffee-shop window and kept his eyes on the Woodbridge Holdings building. There was no sign of Lister. The place filled up and he was told he had to buy something else if he wanted to keep the table. After four hours and a selection of overpriced drinks and snacks, Richard was down to his last ten dollars in cash, but he couldn’t risk leaving to find an ATM—he couldn’t even risk going to the can. By four o’clock he was getting desperate.

Then Gordy Lister came out of the building. He was wearing the same tan jacket, and high-heeled cowboy boots. He looked to right and left, and Richard realized the small man was nervous. Could it be that he’d spooked him by asking about the twins?

Richard got up and headed outside when Lister went left. He felt a stabbing in his bladder, but ignored the pain. Keeping about twenty yards back, he did his best to merge into the crowd of people in expensive clothes. When his target took another left turn, it struck him that maybe he was heading for the car park where the pickup was. That was how it played out. Richard decided to make a dash for his vehicle. He had no way of knowing which level Lister had parked on, so he could only hope they would reach the exit barrier around the same time.

His pickup would make a very obvious tail, but there was nothing he could do. He paid the ticket, using his credit card, and gunned the engine. The suspension strained as he took the narrow corners too fast, but he was in luck. Lister, driving a dark blue BMW roadster, was only one car ahead of him at the barrier.

Richard tried to drop back when he hit the street, provoking a horn blast from a young woman in a Japanese sports car. There was nothing for it but to keep closer to Lister than he’d have liked. He was relieved to see that the newspaper man was talking animatedly into his cell phone.

The roadster headed north. Richard was surprised at how quickly the smart buildings of the city center were replaced by dilapidated tenements. A few minutes later, a sign told him he was in Shaw. He’d heard the name on the local TV news back at the hotel. There had been a murder here last night, some guy who ran a black-magic shop, according to the overexcited reporter.

The traffic in the narrow streets was heavy and Lister had no chance to exercise the horsepower under his bonnet, meaning that Richard was still close behind. He was sweating, under attack from his bladder and worried that he would be spotted. He glanced around and saw a trio of young black men on the sidewalk. They were pointing at the pickup and laughing.

The line of cars hadn’t moved much farther when Lister made a right and drove down a side street. By the time Richard had followed, the roadster had vanished. He pounded the wheel and drove on, looking desperately to right and left. Then he saw the BMW in an even narrower street to the right and slammed on the brakes.

Richard turned, then left the pickup in the middle of the road—it was a dead end and there were no spaces at the curb. He walked toward Lister’s car, which was parked at the end of the street. When he got there, he saw it was empty but then noticed that the door of the neighboring house was ajar. He heard his target’s voice.

“No!” Lister screamed. “Don’t hurt me!”

Richard went to the door and listened. The screams continued. He went in and took some stairs that led downward at the end of the hall. There was a smell of fried food and dope, cut with a stink like the cattle shed back home. He made no sound as he went down. There was a single door to his left. It, too, was half-open.

“Jesus, don’t hit me anymore.” Lister was pleading. “I’ll get the money for you, I promise.”

There was a heavy slap, followed by a pathetic squeal.

Richard shoved the door open and stepped into the room.

He was instantly grabbed by two large men in white T-shirts. They had shaven heads and tattoos on their thick arms. Lister was sitting in a battered armchair, cleaning his nails with a tooth pick.

“Hey, Iowa,” he said, looking up. “What the fuck are you doing on my ass?”

Richard stared at him. “But…but I thought…”

Lister laughed. “You
thought?
I wasn’t sure folks did that out there in Hicksville.”

The big men laughed.

“Give him a couple,” Lister said, casually.

Two heavy fists smashed into Richard’s solar plexus in rapid succession. He dropped to one knee and felt a warm gush in his crotch.

“Oh, Jesus, Gordy,” the hulk on the right said, “he’s pissed himself.”

All three men laughed, Lister almost hysterically.

Richard felt a blush of shame ignite on his face. He blinked hard and struggled to contain himself.

“Pick him up,” Lister said, stepping closer. “My, my, Mr. Farmer. Your missus ain’t going to be pleased with the state of your pants.”

The big men laughed again.

“Let him go,” Lister said. “Iowa and me need to chew the fat.”

Richard took a deep breath as his arms were released. Then he ducked down and crunched his elbows into the groins of Lister’s muscle men. They both keeled over. He smashed his knee into each of their faces as they dropped. Then he pulled the matte black pistol from the belt of the unconscious man on his left and racked the slide.

Lister had retreated to the far wall at speed. He was fumbling in his waistband, but gave up when he saw Richard bearing down on him, pistol raised.

“Put it on the floor.”

Gordy Lister removed his snub-nosed revolver and laid it down carefully, a finger in the trigger guard. “Jeez, Iowa. Where’d you learn those moves?”

“Marine Corps,” Richard said, picking up the revolver. He went back to the comatose forms and patted them down. He stuck the semiautomatic he found in his belt, along with Lister’s weapon.

The newspaper man’s face was pale. “How come you pissed yourself then?”

“I drank a gallon of coffee waiting for you, asshole.”

“Yeah, well, if you’re gonna tail people, you wanna get another vehicle.”

Richard gave him a frozen look. “You reckon you’re in a position to tell me what to do, dwarf?”

Lister raised his thin shoulders. “What’s next? You gonna shoot me?”

Richard shook his head. “Nope. At least, not yet. You’re going to tell me about my kids.” He stepped closer. “And no more bullshit.”

Gordy Lister shook his head. “You don’t know what you’re getting into, man. I’m telling you, back off. This thing’s too big for you.”

Richard Bonhoff glanced over his shoulder at the men on the floor. “Like they were too big for me?”

“No, Iowa, a thousand times bigger than them.”

“Let’s get started, then.” Richard grabbed him by the arm and dragged him out of the basement. “We’ll go in the pickup,” he said, grinning. “I wouldn’t bet on your wheels being here when you get back.”

Lister’s expression was slack. “You’re a dead man, Iowa.”

“I don’t take kindly to threats, Gordy.” Richard said, having a sudden glimpse of his wife. He wondered if she’d ever believe what he’d just done.

“I mean it. They’ll do you and they’ll do your kids.”

The ex-marine opened the passenger door and shoved Lister inside. “You’d better help me find the twins.” He jammed the pistol between the small man’s thighs. “Or I’ll give you back the voice you had when you were a kid. Free of charge.”

A
fter an hour and a half, the trailer’s tires started to grind over gravel. According to the watch I’d stolen, it was ten to five. I had cut a small flap in the tarpaulin but, in the fading light, all I could see was pine trees. Although night had now fallen, I saw no lights and I could make out only more tree trunks ahead in the headlights. No other vehicles had passed, in either direction. The forest seemed to go on forever.

Despite the uneven surface, I couldn’t stop myself from falling asleep. Faces flashed before me. One belonged to my friend Dave, as on the deer-hunting trip. The sight of him gave me a bad feeling, but I couldn’t fathom why. I also saw my daughter, Lucy. Then I froze as the smiling face of the Soul Collector reared up before me. Sara Robbins. I knew she had been my lover, but I couldn’t recall any details or images of that time. The only thing I was sure of was that she had sworn to kill me. Could she be involved with these people?

There was a crunching of gears and the vehicle slowed down. I looked out from the flap and again saw nothing but trees. Then we moved onto a smoother surface. I looked at my watch. Eight twenty-two. There was still no other traffic and no house lights, but the asphalt road suggested we were at last getting nearer to civilization. I lay back down as the speed increased. At least there was less chance of the load overturning on a flat road. I closed my eyes again.

“You-know-who” was still elusive, despite the glimpses of blond hair. Now it seemed to be tied back in some kind of clip. The impression I got was of severity. Could
she
have something to do with the camp?

The road might have had a flat surface, but it wasn’t lacking in tight curves, not that the driver noticed. After a couple of sideways thrusts, the load finally shifted. I felt one of the ropes tying down the tarp give way as the logs jolted underneath me. I scrabbled with my fingers to find a solid surface and nearly got an arm stuck between the great lengths of wood. The brakes screeched as the men in the rig realized what was happening.

The trailer came to a halt. My heart was trying to break out of my chest, but I forced myself to concentrate. I heard the doors open upfront, and then the thump of boots as the men jumped down.

“Shit!” one of them said. “I told you you was going too fast.”

“Shut the fuck up, Hal,” said the driver. “Fuckin’ smart-ass.”

They moved around to the rear of the trailer.

“Coulda been worse.” The driver’s tone lightened. “Only one of the logs has moved. Reckon we can tie it down.”

They were silent as they flung more ropes over the load and secured them.

“That oughta do it,” the driver said, tugging on a rope that had come over the tarpaulin. It was tight across my chest and I could hardly breathe.

“I don’t know, Jeff,” said the man called Hal. “Don’t look right to me. What if we spill the load on the highway? We could kill someone.”

“We could kill someone,”
the driver repeated scornfully. “Shut the fuck up, you crybaby.”

“Screw you,” Hal said. I felt the rope tighten again, and then the log beneath me quiver. He had climbed up.

I watched through the flap as he approached, his flashlight illuminating parts of the tarp. Then I saw the long-barreled revolver in his other hand. I wondered if that was normal for a driver’s mate and decided it wasn’t likely. These guys had some connection with the camp. I was sure of it, even if they weren’t wearing the gray uniform. I struggled hard to get a hand free and grip my pistol. It was useless. I kept still as he got nearer.

The light blazed in my eyes.

“Hey, Jeff, you notice a tear in the tarp?” Hal called.

“No, I didn’t notice a tear in the tarp,”
the driver replied, his tone still derisive. “What do you fuckin’ care, Hal? You didn’t pay for it.”

I screwed up my eyes as the tip of a boot poked into my groin. The flashlight was no longer in my eyes, but I saw plenty of bright lights. At least I managed not to cry out. The pressure remained as Hal kept up his examination. At last the boot was pulled back and I felt heavy steps moving away. Tears had filled my eyes.

Soon afterward, we got moving again. Jeff was a bit more careful with his speed, but the load still canted slightly on curves, which was enough to increase the pressure on my chest enormously. My ribs were being crushed and I began to panic. Then I remembered the combat knife. It was in its sheath on my belt. My right hand was close to it, but I could hardly move my arm. I felt the trailer edge back to the horizontal and waited for the pressure to lessen. It didn’t. The load hadn’t shifted back.

Now I really lost my cool. Mustering all the strength I could, I drove my arm downward. The tips of my fingers touched the haft. I shoved against the rope again and got hold of the knife, but I still had to pull it from the sheath. My ribs were about to shatter and I was gasping for breath. For the first time since I’d escaped from the camp, I really thought I wasn’t going to make it.

Then I saw her face. The blonde woman was less severe now. She was looking straight at me, her red lips forming into a smile. I still couldn’t remember her name, but that didn’t matter. I knew that she loved me and I her. That was enough.

I heaved my arm free and stabbed the knife upward through the tarpaulin, then dragged the blade toward my face. It stopped when it reached the rope. The pressure was still intense. I started sawing through the fibers, desperately forcing breath into my compressed lungs. The rope gave way and my ribs sprang outward; it was a few minutes before I got my heart rate back to something approaching normal.

I made longer cuts in the tarp and got myself out into the open air. The timber hadn’t moved while I was cutting the rope. I could only hope it wouldn’t do so at the next corner. Whatever happened, I wasn’t going to let myself be tied down again. If I had to take on Hal and Jeff, so be it.

The truck and trailer moved on through the night. I could see all around me now, but that didn’t help much. The road was still lined by pine trees and there was no sign of life. I glanced at my watch. It was coming up to nine in the evening. Maybe everyone went to bed early around here. Then again, I hadn’t even seen any houses yet. There were telephone poles alongside the road, and the idea that at least there was a phone system gave me some encouragement. I lay back down, this time on top of the tarp, and tried to recall the woman who had inspired me. What was her name? I said my own aloud, trying to hear how we would have been as a couple.
Matt and… Matt and his partner… Matt and his wife…?
Nothing. At least I could still see the face, with its prominent cheekbones and gray eyes. She seemed to have a habitually serious expression. When it softened, the eyes remained intense. I heard the thrum of the engine fade and the wind on my face weaken. Suddenly I found myself in a place I couldn’t immediately identify, an area of rolling hills and deciduous trees, an idyllic safe haven….

…birds are singing and a light breeze is blowing over the surrounding slopes. We’ve driven through picturesque small towns, and past prosperous farms, old stone houses and outbuildings. There are the peaks of numerous hills to the left of the road, the trees on their flanks covered by leaves in shades of yellow, red and brown. We stop at several overlooks, as the guidebook calls them. We are in the Shenandoah Valley in Virginia: valleys, cliffs, banks of cloud rising up the slopes to reveal cone-shaped summits, rocky peaks, even a waterfall.

We find a parking place and take the picnic basket we’ve brought, following a path through the trees until we come to a meadow. There seems to be no one else around. We throw the blanket onto grass that the midday sun has dried, but the bite in the air means we keep on our fleece jackets.

“Isn’t this a paradise on earth, Matt?” the woman says, sipping chilled wine from the plastic cup I passed her.

“Better than Washington any day.”

She nods. “Too much work.”

“Speak for yourself.” I laugh and take the plate she hands over.

“I thought you were working, too,” she says, raising an eyebrow.

“I am,” I assure her, suddenly on the defensive. “I told you, Joe Greenbaum’s giving me a lot of useful stuff.”

“Good,” she says. “I wouldn’t like to think you’re taking a holiday while I’m slaving away with the FBI.”

We eat smoked ham, cheese and fresh bread that we bought in one of the pretty towns. There’s fruit, too, and the pale brown pancakes I can never resist. When we finish, we clear away the plates and stretch out on the rug.

She takes my hand. “You know, Matt, I could almost give up work and come to live here.”

“According to the book, it’s a tourist trap every weekend and all summer.”

She digs her elbow into my ribs. “Typical. Can’t you let a girl dream?”

I laugh. “How long would you last without a juicy case to get your teeth into?”

“Work isn’t everything, you know,” she says, raising herself up on one elbow.

“Is that right?” I lean over to kiss her on the lips. “I’ll try to remember that.” I get up. “Excuse me while I go and look for the little boys’ tree.”

She laughs. “Keep an eye out for the little girls’ equivalent, will you?”

I make a carefree skip as I head for the nearby glade.

“And, Matt?” she calls.

I turn to look at her.

“I’m ashamed to say it in the open, but I love you.”

I grin. “And so you should be.”

“Is that it?” she says, as I keep walking.

“I’m desperate,” I say, over my shoulder.

“You’re not kidding,” she shouts.

I relent as I reach the tree line. “I love you, too,” I shout back.

She raises her hand.

When I walk back across the meadow, I can’t see her. At first I assume she’s lying down, but as I get closer I see that she isn’t there. The rug is as I left it, the bag of paper plates and garbage beyond undisturbed.

I see myself from above, shouting her name and running about like a deranged animal. I look at the grass around the blanket, I call her number on my cell phone, I sink to my knees and beat the ground in anguish.

That’s the last time I see her.

I go back to the spot several times, with uniformed men and with people in plain clothes. Other times I return on my own.

None of us finds the slightest trace.

I was back on the load of timber, trying to make sense of what I’d remembered. The woman, what had happened to her? What had we been doing in Washington, when I had understood that I lived in London, Great Britain? And this Joe Greenbaum? What was it he had been giving me? I couldn’t bring him to mind at all. I remembered the FBI, though. Why was the woman I loved working with the Federal Bureau of Investigation? Was she a police officer? A lawyer?

Then the engine revved and the truck and trailer slowed. I looked ahead and saw lights. Civilization. I had made it. I would be able to find help. I shouldered the rifle and crawled to the rear.

I took in a sign by the roadside. Sparta, Maine, it read. Population 2,360. Elevation 673 feet. If I was lucky, there might even be a police station. At least I had an idea of where Maine was—up by the Canadian border. What the hell was I doing up here? As far as I remembered, it wasn’t anywhere near Washington, never mind Virginia. I needed to get hold of a map.

The truck reduced speed even more, and then slowed into a petrol station. There was a kiosk selling food and drink, but I still had some supplies and I needed to find someone in authority. I lowered myself toward the ground and took cover behind a garbage container. There wasn’t much sign of life, but I was still hesitant about walking down the road with the assault rifle over my shoulder. Maybe I’d be taken for a hunter. Then again, I was wearing the gray uniform of the North American National Revival. It would be interesting to see how the locals reacted. What if the camp had people in Sparta? What if this whole town belonged to the NANR?

I compromised by taking off the jacket and draping it over the rifle. Although the night was cold, I’d been through worse recently. I started to walk toward the center of the town and some bright lights up ahead. Clapboard houses lined both sides of the road, some in decent shape and some not. The cars and pickups outside each place matched the building’s condition. There wasn’t much money being made in Sparta.

I could hear muted sounds of music, the sentimental country laments beloved of truckers. But before I got there, I heard a different sound from behind a derelict, unlit house to my right. I knew immediately that the anguished moan came from a woman in distress. The fact that it was cut off abruptly made me pull the jacket off my rifle and move into the shadows.

“Stop your crying, bitch.” The loud whisper was followed by a dull slap.

“Yeah,” came another voice. “You’ll have your mouth full soon enough.”

I got to the edge of the wall and looked around it cautiously. In the dimly lit area at the end of an overgrown path I made out a figure sprawled on the ground, bare white legs splayed. Two men bent over the woman, pulling at the remains of her clothing. There was a tearing sound and the upper part of her body was exposed.

“Shit, Billy Ray, she ain’t wearing no bra,” said one of the assailants with a cackle.

“Well, get your lips on those titties, man.”

“Don’t even think about it,” I said, walking round the corner and holding the rifle on them. “Hands in the air.”

They turned toward me and stared. When they saw the weapon, they complied, slowly.

“Look what we got here, Bobbie,” said one of them, licking his lips and giving me a slack smile.

“Feels like we’re back in Texas, Billy Ray. Ain’t that a M16?”

I stopped about five yards in front of them. I wasn’t too keen on firing the weapon in town and reckoned I could take them whatever they tried.

“You guys from Texas?” I asked.

They nodded. They were both heavily built and red faced, and substantially the worse for drink.