Paul Johnson - The nameless dead

‘Wait! That’s it? You don’t want nothing in return?’

She shook her head. ‘Even drug dealers are entitled to deal with child abusers.’

‘How do I know you’re on the level and this isn’t some play to screw with my Colombian connection?’

‘Well, I suggest you take Mr. Larengo to a darkened room and ask him if what I told you is true. I find pincers and wire cutters useful in such cases.’

‘I’ll bet you do, lady. Can I give you something for your trouble?’

The woman turned away. ‘Just stay off my tail. If I hear you behind me, I’ll empty my clip into your Roadster.’ She glanced back. ‘I’ve got another one for you, if necessary.’

Back on Ditmars Boulevard, the woman headed for the subway. Seagulls were shrieking above the buildings, flying in from Rikers Island, with its teeming prison, and the strait between Queens and Manhattan that was called Hell Gate. Her broker Havi wouldn’t be impressed by what she’d done-she’d been contracted to kill Vlastos, but she had decided that the rapist Larengo should be punished. The Colombians would give Havi a hard time, but she thought Vlastos would survive. Larengo had crossed a line.

She felt an unusual lightness of spirit, although that did nothing to alleviate the ache in her upper back that had appeared a few weeks back. She had painkillers at home. What would her ex-lover Matt Wells think if he heard the dreaded Soul Collector had just righted a wrong that was beyond the normal reach of justice, and that she was pleased she’d done it?

Sometimes the line between good and evil was as blurred as a charcoal drawing in the rain.

A week passed and we started gearing up for the birth. Karen seemed fine, though she got tired very quickly. She looked magnificent, like a galleon with the wind in every sail, as she moved around our rooms. Judging by the size of her bulge, my son was going to live up to his name. I was still having daily sessions with Quincy Jerome and, when pressed, he agreed that I was making progress. My body disagreed. I had more bruises than a linebacker-American football was the only sport I could get on the TV set we’d been provided with-but my fitness was definitely improving. I spent a lot of time on the internet, catching up with old contacts and, as much to see if there was any censorship going on, searching for traces of Heinz Rothmann and my lethal ex-lover Sara Robbins. None of the sites I logged on to were blocked by the Feds, nor did I find anything about the pair except out-of-date media reports.

We were sitting watching a romantic comedy-not my choice-after dinner one evening, when Karen let out a groan.

‘What is it?’ I asked, immediately panic-stricken.

She grimaced and then smiled. ‘Calm down, Matt. I’m supposed to be the nervous one.’ She ran a hand over her abdomen. ‘Oh, you little swine. Stop doing that. It hurts.’

‘You aren’t having contractions, are you?’

‘I don’t think so.’ She squeezed my hand. ‘I have a feeling it won’t be long, though.’

I fetched her a glass of water and she gradually got back to normal.

‘Do you want me to call the health center?’ I asked.

Karen shook her head. ‘It’s okay. Things are calming down.’ Then she swallowed hard and her eyes filled with tears.

‘What is it, my love?’ I said, putting my arm round her shoulders.

‘Oh, nothing,’ she said, sobbing. ‘It’s just…it’s just I’m so happy…to be having our son…’ She blinked and looked into my eyes. ‘I’d never have done this if it wasn’t for you.’

I laughed. ‘You got that right. Remember how it started?’

She inserted her elbow under my arm. ‘Don’t make a joke of it, Matt. I…I’ve never felt so happy.’

It was infectious. I felt tears in my eyes. ‘Neither have I,’ I said, kissing her. ‘Neither have I.’

Karen slept unusually deeply that night, and so did I; no nightmares or blood-lathered memories, and no Sara. Despite all the bullshit-the kidnapping, the conditioning, the Rothmanns’ conspiracy, being held in this Spartan camp for weeks-the imminent arrival of our son was all that mattered; that and Karen keeping well.

In the morning we had breakfast together and I went off for a session in the pool with Quincy. I’d asked him to see if he could arrange some time on the shooting range, thinking that perhaps he’d be able to swing it with his superiors, but that didn’t work out. I knew who I could blame for that.

And when I got back to our rooms, there he was- Peter Sebastian, sitting at the table, in front of our laptop.

‘Where’s Karen?’ I asked, looking around the living room.

The FBI man raised his hand. ‘Good to see you, too, Matt.’ He gave me a tight smile. ‘Don’t worry, she’s lying down in the bedroom.’

I took a deep breath. I had got to the stage that anything to do with Karen provoked unease, or, rather, blind panic.

‘Sorry,’ I said, going over to shake his hand. ‘Though I don’t know why. You’re the reason we’re still stuck here. Karen should be in a proper hospital.’

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. ‘Where Sara Robbins could get to her?’

I wasn’t letting him get away with that. ‘I guess I assumed the mighty FBI would be able to protect us outside of the camp.’

‘Cool it, Matt,’ he said, closing the laptop. ‘You know she’ll get excellent care here.’

I circled the table, unwilling to sit down with him.

‘What’s up?’ he asked.

‘Have you got kids?’

‘Sure. They’re both at college now.’

‘You remember what it was like when they were born?’

Sebastian smiled weakly. ‘Not much. I was on duty both times. That was when I was working undercover in L.A.’

‘Really?’ I was interested because he’d never said much about his past. ‘What were you pretending to be? A junkie?’

‘Nice,’ he said, with a subdued chuckle. ‘Actually, I was supposed to have a coke habit. No, the Bureau was investigating links between a Hollywood studio and organized crime. I was a writer with a hot script about the Mob.’

‘Who wrote it?’

‘Not me, obviously. We found some washed-up script editor and kept him in booze for a month.’

‘The romance of the writing life.’

He looked up at me. ‘Why aren’t you spending your days writing a book about your experiences?’

Further proof that we were being watched around the clock. I let it go. ‘Because they haven’t ended yet, Peter.’ I sat down opposite him. ‘When are you going to let us go from this shit-hole?’

He looked around the room. ‘I’ve seen worse.’ He put his hand on the computer. ‘What do you think of this? I haven’t heard any thank-yous.’

‘Screw you. When we can walk out the gates of this concentration camp, I might consider thanking you. Until then, you can swivel.’ I raised my leg and pointed at the tracking unit. ‘What am I? A common criminal?’

Sebastian’s expression was blank. ‘Many Americans would say you’re something a lot worse than that if they knew. Going after the President wasn’t the best move you ever made.’

‘So put us on trial. You know any decent lawyer will argue we didn’t know what we were doing.’

‘Are you sure you want to risk that? Karen will be nursing your son. Do you want her to do that in court, with the TV cameras running? Do you really think you can win a trial against the President? Even my word wouldn’t be enough.’

‘Of course not.’ I looked away. ‘I appreciate the computer and the combat training.’

‘How’s that going? Sergeant Jerome comes highly recommended.’ He smiled. ‘Shame you can’t get him to smash the tracking unit on your ankle for you.’