Paul Johnston - Maps of Hell

This time he saw the sign for the exit well in advance and had no trouble getting off the Beltway. Now the fun would really start. Richard had never been comfortable driving in unfamiliar towns. When they went into Des Moines, Melissa usually took the wheel-she had no problem imposing herself on other drivers. Even the twins were more confident than their father was, not that he let them sit at the wheel often. Randy had bent the pickup’s fender several times, while Gwen always drove like she was drunk. Richard shook his head as he remembered the twins, then set his jaw. He needed to concentrate on what he had come to do in Washington. The twins. He glanced at his watch. It was a quarter after four. He still had time to make a start today.

To his surprise, he made it downtown without any problem. He was heading for Mount Vernon Square. He found a parking lot and left the pickup there, astounded at the rates he’d seen at the entrance. No wonder the politicians needed unofficial contributions to their income-then again, they no doubt got recompensed for their parking charges. He went onto the street and walked quickly down to New York Avenue. The newspaper office was only a few minutes away, perfect since it was nearly five o’clock. He was presuming they closed at that hour though, for all he knew, D.C. folks might work longer hours than people did back home.

Richard stopped outside a large office block. The sign above the entrance said Woodbridge Holdings, which meant nothing to him. He went closer and examined the list of companies in the group. The Star Reporter was there. He was at the right place after all. As he was walking toward the glass doors, he saw his reflection. For sure, he was the only person within a mile wearing a plaid shirt, faded jeans and yellow work boots. Not to mention a faded John Deere cap. He took that off as he went inside. The security guards scrutinized him as he went through the metal detector. Then he felt the receptionist’s eyes on him as he approached the desk.

“Can I help you, sir?” the young black woman asked, a smile playing across her lips.

“I’d like to see Mr. Lister, please,” Richard said, his cheeks reddening. “Mr. Gordon Lister.”

The receptionist nodded and looked at her computer screen. “Your name, sir?”

“My…my name?” Richard stammered. He hadn’t expected that he would have to identify himself so soon.

“Yes, sir. You do have an appointment, don’t you?”

Richard made out that he was even more confused than he felt. He preferred not to give Lister any advance warning, catch him cold. Playing the hick out of his depth might just get the job done.

“Can you…can you ask him if he’ll see me without an appointment?” he said, with a certain country drawl. “I’ve driven all the way from Iowa.”

The receptionist gave him a puzzled look. It was obvious she had little idea how far away his home state was but, after a sigh, she tapped her keyboard and spoke into the microphone of her headset.

“Mr. Lister, there’s a gentleman to see you. He says he’s from Iowa.” She paused. “All right, I’ll tell him.” She looked up at Richard. “He’s just leaving, sir. If you wait here in the lobby, he can give you a few minutes.”

Richard nodded his thanks and retreated to a nearby sofa. There was a selection of newspapers and magazines spread across a glass table. He picked up the Star Reporter and read the latest about the murder of the rock singer in D.C. It seemed the Metro Police hadn’t much idea who had done it, though the guy wasn’t exactly an upstanding citizen. There were grainy photos of the dead man’s chest and back, taken from some thrash-metal Web site. Even though his own great-grandparents had emigrated from Munich, Richard didn’t have any time for neo-Nazis.

“He was quite a piece of work, wasn’t he?”

Richard looked up and took in a small man in a tan leather jacket and an open-necked denim shirt. He’d been expecting an expensive suit and tie.

“Mr. Lister?”

“Yeah. You the guy from Iowa?”

Richard nodded. This time he gave his name. It didn’t seem to be familiar to Lister.

“All right. How about a drink?”

Richard shrugged. This was more in line with what he knew about people who worked in the capital: work hard, play hard.

“If you like,” he said, without much enthusiasm. He wasn’t teetotal like Melissa, but he rarely drank alcohol. It made his head throb.

Lister was already heading rapidly for the exit. The heels of his cowboy boots clicked on the marble floor. It struck Richard that the guy would pass for a local back home. Weird. He caught up with him outside.

“There’s a place just around the corner,” Lister said, turning to the right. “So, first trip to Washington?”

“Yes.”

“Seen much of the sights?”

“I just got here.”

“Oh, yeah?” Lister went down the steps beneath a sign for Amberson’s Cocktail Bar.

Richard immediately felt out of place in the watering hole’s plush surroundings, even though no one paid him any attention.

Lister sat on a stool at the bar. “The usual, Tom.” He turned to Richard. “What’s yours?”

Richard thought it would be better to join in. “I’ll have a beer. A Bud.”

When the drinks came, Lister picked the olive out of the cocktail glass and popped it in his mouth.

“The classic Martini,” he said, grinning to show dazzling teeth. “A decent slug of gin and no more than a drop of Martini.”

Richard had never had anything in a glass that shape. He sipped his beer and managed not to grimace.

“So, what brings you to me, Iowa?” Lister ran his hand over his thinning fair hair. It was hard to tell how old he was. There were dark rings round his blue eyes, though his face was unlined and almost babyish.

Richard took a deep breath. He’d thought hard about how to handle this and meeting Lister had only made him more certain. He wasn’t the sort of guy who would react well to being strong-armed.

“Mr. Lister-”

“Call me Gordy,” the other man said, signaling to the barman for another. “Your beer okay?”

Richard nodded. “Gordy,” he said, uncomfortable with the strange name. “Last November, you were involved with a competition in the Star Reporter.”

“I oversee competitions for all Woodbridge Holdings publications. Which particular one are you talking about?”

“One about pop music-twins who had hits. And you had to write a line saying-”

“Why you love the Star Reporter,” Lister said. “That’s standard.”

“Oh, I get you. In this case, the prize was a trip to Washington.”

“Usually is.” Lister tapped his nose. “I’ve set up a good deal with one of the hotels.”

Richard was beginning to realize that Gordy Lister was an operator. “Well,” he said, “my kids won and you looked after them when they were here.”

“Really?” the small man said. “Can’t say I remember. What was your last name again, Richard?”

“Bonhoff. I think you might recall them, Gordy. They’re twins themselves. Randy and Gwen?”

Lister looked blank. “Randy and Gwen,” he repeated, peering into his almost-empty glass. Then he raised his eyes. “Yeah, I remember. Real lookers, the both of them. Nice kids, too.” He swallowed the last of his drink.

“I was just wondering…” Richard broke off, a sudden wave of emotion crashing over him. He took a deep breath. “I…I was wondering if…if you’d seen them or heard from them.”

Gordy Lister’s face took on a serious expression. “What do you mean?”

“Mr. Lister, Randy and Gwen left home three months ago and we haven’t seen them since. To tell you the truth, they were never the same after they got back from Washington.”