Paul Johnston - Maps of Hell

Lister gave a sympathetic smile. “Kids, huh?” he said, getting to his feet. “I’m very sorry, Richard. I don’t have any idea where your kids are. They certainly haven’t been in touch with me.” He glanced at his watch. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s somewhere I have to be.” He extended his hand. “So long, friend. Hope you get to see some of the sights before you head back home.” He dropped some bills on the bar and stepped toward the door, his hand raised in farewell.

Richard stayed where he was for some time. He was thinking about what had just happened. Something about Gordy Lister’s manner wasn’t anywhere near being right. He had no idea who Randy and Gwen were at the outset yet, after he’d recalled them, he immediately knew they hadn’t been in touch with him. It was too slick. And his departure had been sudden.

Richard might have been a farmer from the Midwest, but he knew when he’d been given the brush-off. So much for the soft approach. He wouldn’t be making that mistake again.

It started to rain, not heavily, but enough to mess with my vision. Blinking every few seconds, I kept going for what I estimated was well over an hour. Then I came to a break in the trees. There was an outcrop of rock and an overhanging section that I took cover beneath, stripping off all my clothing. I examined everything that I removed, from boots to jacket, but found nothing that resembled a tracking device. I was still dubious about the interior of the boot soles, but I couldn’t see any sign that they’d been detached or tampered with. So I concentrated on myself.

I ran my fingers over my feet and legs. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was looking for, but I presumed I’d recognize a foreign object-unless they’d somehow buried a bug deep inside my brain. I wasn’t inclined to discount that possibility, given the activities I witnessed back at the camp. I wondered why they hadn’t managed to track me down when I was still inside the building. Perhaps the device didn’t work underground.

I felt my chest and abdomen. Nothing. Then I ran my fingers down my left arm; about an inch beneath the armpit, on the inside of the upper arm, there was a small raised area. I pressed it with a fingertip and felt something hard and definitely foreign. It was about the size of a small insect. The question now was, what could I do about it? I had nothing sharp in my possession. I tried to puncture the skin with my fingernails, but they had been cut short. Those people thought of everything. Short of shooting myself, I was screwed.

I stared out into the drizzle. Beneath the green foliage, I saw rows of thorns on the thin branches. I went over to them and managed to break a stem off. Taking it back to the rock overhang, I pried off thorns until there were only four left toward the end of the piece of twig. They were very sharp and it struck me that the bush might have poisonous sap. Too bad: this was my only option.

I took a deep breath, then jabbed one of the thorns into the skin alongside the raised section. I bit my lip and started to dig around. It wasn’t easy and I used up three thorns, but eventually I managed to remove a small metal capsule. I was about to smash it with the pistol butt when I had a better idea. Some snails had come out on to the wet rock. I picked one up and gently crushed the shell. Then I removed the slimy flesh and used the last thorn to cut into it. I put the bug into the hole I’d made and placed the unprotected snail body on the highest rock. If I was lucky, a bird would swallow the whole thing and lead my pursuers a merry chase away from where I was headed.

I got dressed and checked the rounds in the rifle’s clip. There were only four left-I had used more than I’d realized. At least I hadn’t made any inroads into the pistol ammunition. I set off at medium pace as my knee was giving me occasional shafts of pain. They grew less frequent while I was running, so I didn’t stop apart from once, at a narrow stream where I refilled my canteen and immersed my knee. The rain was heavier now, and I had to rely on whatever innate sense of direction I had, since the mountain peak I’d been navigating by what was now invisible. It was clear to me that I’d done this kind of exercise before, but whether as army training or as a sport remained hidden in the depths of my unreliable memory. I tried to prompt images from the past to flash up, as had happened with the deer-hunting and Dave, but nothing appeared.

At least, nothing I was expecting. I was running up a gentle slope, feeling the breath catch in my throat and trying to ignore the growing pain in my leg, when I suddenly remembered another tight spot that I’d been in…

…I push against the ropes, but there’s no give in them. I try to speak, but the gag allows my tongue no movement. I can only moan and groan.

“You’re wasting your strength, Matt,” the woman in a blue police uniform says. She comes over to the chair I’m in and lowers her face to mine. “But I’ll play fair.” She laughs ironically. “Besides, no one can hear you.” She raises a large knife with a partially serrated blade to within an inch of my left eye, then lowers it slightly and cuts the tape round my mouth. She smiles and rips it off my cheeks.

“Jesus!” I yell. “To hell with you, Sara!”

Instantly the knife is back at my eye. “We don’t use the names of the underworld deities lightly, Matt,” she says icily, then nicks the skin between eye and eyebrow. The drops of blood make me blink.

“No,” I say, bitterly. “Not now that you’re the famous Soul Collector. Self-appointed, of course.”

She looks down at me, a smile on her lips that from another person would have been comforting, even loving. But her brown eyes are cold and unwavering.

“You didn’t really think you’d escape me, did you, Matt?” she says, moving the blade down to my throat. “You must have always known that one day it would end like this.”

She’s right; deep down I’ve always been convinced. She was my lover and now she would be my death. I blink hard and get a grip on myself. Whatever else she does, she isn’t going to break me.

“It can’t be very satisfying,” I say.

She looks puzzled; I’ve succeeded in breaking the patina of confidence.

“I mean,” I continue, “after all the spectacular killings you’ve pulled off, cutting me to pieces while I’m tied up isn’t much of a test for your skills, is it?”

Sara is far too smart to be fooled completely, but even a slight distraction may be enough for me.

“What do you suggest, Matt?” she says, bringing her lips close to my ear. “You want to play games?”

I have a flash of when we were lovers-her wrists tied to the head of the bed and her backside in the air… I thought we’d been as close as any couple could be, but she betrayed me, handed me over to the White Devil. I twitch my head and banish the image of the heartless murderer who had been my first tormentor. I have to stay focused.

“Give me a chance to get away,” I say. “Make it a fair contest.”

She laughs, the sound as empty as the grave. “According to the headlines, I’m a psycho killer, Matt. But I’m not a congenital idiot.” Then she stands up straight and looks around the room. “All right, I’ll give you a chance.” She leans over me again and jabs the knife into my right knee.

I yell over and over as the blade is twisted around, and then slowly withdrawn. Ropes fall from my ankles, stomach and wrists and I try to get up. I collapse onto the floor.

“How’s that?” she asks. “Let’s say, if you make it to the door, I’ll let you go. Fair?”

I force my thoughts into some kind of order, telling myself that I’ve had pain on the rugby field often enough. I bite my lower lip till my chin is slick with blood. The only thing I can think of is to make it appear that I’ve lost my nerve.