Paul Johnston - Maps of Hell

“It’s all right, Dad,” she whispers. “Come on, let’s go to the other film.”

I stay in my seat. “Oh, no you don’t. You wanted this movie and you’re going to sit through it to the bitter end.”

She jabs her elbow into my ribs and smiles, then looks avidly at the screen as the lights go down.

I lean toward her. “Be gentle if I start snoring,” I say in her ear.

My ribs take another pounding…

I woke up and found myself sweating beneath the heap of quilts. For a few moments, I had no idea where I was, then I remembered the cabin. I got my head clear and listened intently. There was nothing, not even any birdsong. It was obviously still night. I relaxed and started going over the dream. I knew for sure that the scene with me and the girl called Lucy, the girl who’d addressed me as Dad, had really happened. So I was a father. The realization hit me hard. I felt a tenderness well up. Now I knew there was something for me beyond the hell of the camp and the desperate chase through the forests. The idea that there was someone to stay alive for made me feel much stronger.

I thought about other things I’d remembered. I had been married to a woman called Caroline and was now divorced. Lucy referred to a “you-know-who,” which I had the strong feeling meant some woman I was now involved with, not that I could come up with any recollection of her. Was she in the police? Was that how she could protect me? I felt a wave of desolation break over me.

I got my breathing under control. At least I knew there was someone else in my life besides Lucy and an ex-wife. All I could hope was that my memory would work better with every day I spent away from the camp. I thought of the scene with Lucy again. The red bus. The name of the location flashed into my mind. London. I immediately knew the city was the capital of Great Britain. That was where I lived, I was also sure. But, then, what was I doing in the U.S.A.? Maybe that was just an illusion. Maybe the people in the camp had programmed me to remember things that weren’t true.

Sitting up, I slid my hand down to my knee. It was aching dully, but I couldn’t feel any external pain. Then my right index finger gave a twinge. I remembered the trap and moved the digit gingerly. If it didn’t function as it should, I’d be at a serious disadvantage when I had to pull the trigger, as I was sure I would have to. I couldn’t see what I could do. Splinting it would mean I couldn’t fire the rifle or the pistol at all.

I sank back into the inviting warmth and softness of the quilts and drifted back to sleep. This time I saw a man’s body peppered with bullets; a young woman hanging from the ceiling, her entrails touching the floor; an underground chamber painted to show all the horrors of hell; and a savage beast with yellow fangs leaping up at me-

I woke with a start. It wasn’t the dream that had roused me. I had heard the unmistakable sound of an ammunition clip being pressed home. I felt for my weapons and slid silently to the edge of the loft.

Detectives 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.