Paul Johnston - Maps of Hell

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.”

After 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.