Paul Johnston - Maps of Hell

Trooper Condon nodded at Mary and then turned to me.

“Care to give me your full name, sir?” he said, taking some folded papers from his breast pocket.

That was a tester. I said the first names that came to mind. “Em, Matthew James Page.”

“And where are you from, Mr…Page.”

That brief hesitation, and the glance directed at the papers he’d just unfolded, were enough to tell me that he knew more about my identity than I did. Was I a criminal? All the thoughts I’d had about my shooting and fighting abilities came back in a rush. My memory was so full of blanks that I could have assassinated the U.S. president and not been aware of it. But my survival instinct overrode all those suspicions. Whatever my previous actions, I hadn’t deserved what had been done to me in the camp-like the man at the fence hadn’t deserved execution.

Trooper Condon’s eyes opened wide as I brought the Glock to bear on him. I took a step forward and relieved him of his own weapon, sticking it in my pocket. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Mary Upson’s face. Her lips were apart, but otherwise she seemed surprisingly calm.

“Sir, I would caution you-”

“Forget it, Trooper.” I pulled the papers from his hand. There was a photo of me on the top one that stirred something in my memory. Compared with how I’d appeared in the mirror in the cabin, this image gave the impression of a well-fed, well-groomed, slightly arrogant type. The leather jacket I was wearing must have cost plenty.

“Sir-”

“I said forget it. Get hold of your cuffs.”

“What?” The trooper was either playing dumb or had been gripped by fear.

“Your handcuffs.” I moved the Glock nearer to his chest. “Slowly, Stu.”

“Right,” he said, moving one hand round his belt.

“Put one on.” I waited till he’d complied, then took his arm and pulled him across to the wall. There was a heating unit there. I hooked the other cuff around a pipe and closed it. Then I patted his pockets and removed his phone and a set of keys. “You want me to hit you?” I asked.

“Huh?”

I smiled. “So it doesn’t look so bad to your superiors.”

The look he gave me could have felled a buffalo. “You’re forgetting something, Mr. Wells,” he said slowly. “Mary here’s a witness.”

He was right. I hadn’t considered what to do about her. “Stay here,” I said to her. “Let me have as long as you think I deserve.” I knew that was a risk, but I had the feeling she’d give me a break-at least for the time it would take me to find some transport.

Mary Upson didn’t respond. She held her eyes on me, gaze unwavering. I couldn’t tell what she felt about me. It was a risk cutting her loose, but I didn’t want to make the evening even worse for her.

“Take care of yourself,” I said, smiling.

Then I turned and headed for the door.

I picked up the rifle outside and ran down the deserted street, discarding the Texans’ phones and other gear. There were cars and pickups outside the nearest houses, but I wanted to put some distance between myself and the station first-if Condon didn’t know which vehicle I’d taken, it would buy me some time. As I ran, I glanced down at the page with my photo. Beneath it was printed a name. Matthew John Wells. Wells. That was my surname. I still didn’t remember it, but it seemed to fit. Matt Wells. Yes, I was sure that was who I was. Then I saw the reason I was wanted-suspicion of a murder committed in Washington, D.C., on October 29, 2009. The notification had been issued by the violent-crime unit of the FBI. I slowed to a jog. Jesus. Assuming the date was recent, and it squared with the autumn climate and conditions, I was in the clear. Then again, the only people who could vouch for me wore gray uniforms and killed people. What the hell was going on?

Suddenly, in front and to my right, there came the roar of an engine and the shriek of tires. A dark green sedan shot out of a side road and slid to a halt. The passenger door swung open.

“Get in!” Mary Upson yelled.

Something whistled past my head, then I heard a loud boom. I looked back down the road and saw the trooper. He’d got free and armed himself with a rifle. Another shot whizzed past as I threw myself into the car.

“Bloody hell!” I gasped.

Mary had her foot to the floor. She laughed as she glanced in the mirror. “That what you English say when you’re under fire?”

I had my head as far down the seat as I could get, waiting for the rear windscreen to explode. To my relief, it didn’t. A few seconds later, the road went left and we were out of the town center.

“You can sit up now,” she said, a slack smile on her lips.

“How did the Lone Ranger get free?” I asked, stowing the rifle in front of the backseat.

“Search me. I left not long after you.”

I looked at her. “So you’re in the shit, as well.”

Mary Upson shrugged. “Never did like that scumbag Condon. He came on to me once in the bar and wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

I reckoned that was a pretty weak reason for helping a wanted man, but I didn’t have any alternative means of escape right now.

“What does it say in those papers he had?”

I told her about the murder in Washington.

Mary glanced at me quizzically. “When did it happen? Yesterday night? You get the early morning flight up here?”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. As a matter of fact, I wasn’t in Washington yesterday.”

“That’s a relief,” she said, grinning. “I’d hate to think I was on the road with a killer.”

I looked at her. “Why are you helping me, Mary?”

She met my gaze briefly. “Because you helped me.”

“Simple as that?”

“Sure. What you did wasn’t a small thing, Matt. Those Texan shitheads would have raped me, might have killed me. You saw the knife.”

I nodded. “Which is why we went to the state troopers.”

She shot me another glance. “Which is why I went to the troopers. Why did you go? And don’t say you-”

“Shit,” I interrupted. “The Texans are still tied up.”

“Like I give a flying fuck. Do you?”

For some reason, I did. Then I thought of all I had been through in the forest and let that concern go.

“You can let me out anywhere you like,” I said. “You can tell the trooper I threatened you.”

She laughed. “Yeah, he’ll buy that. I left the station on my own and I picked you up on my own. What kind of threat are you supposed to have made? Bring your car or I’ll shoot up the bar?”

I glanced at the pines lining the highway. “That would do. It rhymes, too.” I gave her a serious look. “Come on, Mary. Go back while you still can.”

“Ah, screw it,” she said with a wild laugh. “I could do with a vacation.” Then her expression got more serious. “Besides,” she said, catching my eye. “You’re no killer. You could have hurt those Texans much worse than you did. You could have shot Stu Condon, too. Plus, you wouldn’t have come with me to the station if you were on the run.” She laughed again, this time more softly. “Looks like I’ve got myself a genuine lost cause. Want to tell me what’s going on?”

I considered that and decided that, given the risk she was taking with her liberty, she deserved some kind of an explanation. Then again, what good would it do? In addition to the people from the camp, I had the FBI after me. I should surrender myself to the representatives of federal law, but no way was I going to do that. Someone was framing me and I intended to find out who. Then a thought struck me. What if my memory was playing games with me and I really had killed those people in Washington? What if I was a killer with no awareness of my actions?