Paul Johnston - Maps of Hell

I looked at the compass from time to time. We had headed west for several hours, but had now turned south. That made me feel better. I assumed the camp was in the north of the state and the farther away I was from it, the nearer I’d be to some kind of safety. Then I recalled that the troopers were looking for us all over Maine. No doubt the FBI would have alerted the law enforcement agencies in the neighboring states, too.

“Want me to take over?” I asked. “You should get some sleep.”

Mary turned her head toward me. “I have to navigate, remember, Matt?”

“You don’t have to do anything. This trek is all my doing.”

“We’ve been over that,” she said impatiently. “Okay, you can drive for a bit.”

She stopped the pickup and got out.

I joined her. In the moonlight, the road was like a snake winding down toward a lake.

“It’s beautiful country,” I said. “If you don’t have to stay alive in it.”

Mary looked at me. “Why were those people after you?”

I shrugged, aware again how little I knew. We went back to the vehicle.

“How come you were wearing that uniform?”

“My own clothes disappeared.” I felt her eyes on me. “I’m not one of them, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“What were they called again? The North American…”

“National Revival.”

“The North American National Revival,” she repeated. “They sound like a gang of crazies. What do they want? Removal of the Zionist Occupation Government, an end to income tax, forcible repatriation of foreign workers?”

I slowed as a large animal shambled across the road. “Christ, was that a moose?” Then I thought about her words. I glanced at her, an icy finger stirring in my gut. “You seem very well informed about groups like that.”

She met my gaze and smiled. “I had an argument with some of the more shithead parents at my school. They wanted me to teach their view of history. It got heated. I told them to go fuck themselves.”

“Good for you.”

“Fortunately they didn’t tell the principal.” She was looking at me warily. “So how can I be sure you aren’t one of them? How do I know they weren’t chasing you because you-I don’t know-dissed one of the officers?”

I managed not to laugh at the irony. There was I worrying that Mary had some connection to the camp and she was doing the same thing.

“As far as I can remember, I didn’t do anything to piss them off.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Seems to me your memory isn’t the most reliable part of your mind.”

I kept my eyes on the road. Mary had noticed that I wasn’t telling her the whole story. I wanted to, but something was holding me back. Something…

“Matt!” There was alarm in Mary’s voice. “Look out!”

I blinked. The road had disappeared and all I could see was a line of men in gray with rifles at their shoulders. I heard myself scream, but instead of the blast of guns, there was a shriek from Mary and then a sudden, bone-jarring smash that jerked my head forward into the wheel…

…images cascading past the eye of my mind, visions I’d seen before but that were buried deep-a cell with all the angles wrong, a thin blanket, freezing water gushing in, men in bloodstained leather aprons, a complicated machine that lowers over me, swallows me up…music that deafens me, words full of hatred drilling into my brain…

And then I see her-the naked man tied to the post, the woman tormenting him, torturing him…cutting his throat-the woman, I can’t make out her face, blond hair concealing it, blond hair turned into rat’s tails by the spurting blood. Then the hair parts and I take in the features, the broken lips and split skin over prominent cheekbones…no, it can’t be…it can’t be her, not the woman I love, the woman who disappeared from the picnic spot in the meadow, no…

…and then I find myself in another place, high above a wide expanse of water, the white caps of the waves marching away to a horizon of low hills. The sound of high-powered machinery in the background. Jets. From an oval window I see a raked wingtip with a pod beneath, an engine nacelle. Now we are passing over a jagged coastline, the land cut by ravines, pine trees dotted around, but not the slightest sign of human habitation.

“That must be Newfoundland,” a woman’s voice says.

I turn and take in the blonde woman in the seat next to me, with an airline magazine open at the map page on her lap.

“Hello, calling Matt Wells,” she says, with a tight smile. “Anyone at home?”

“Sorry,” I hear myself say. “Pretty desolate country down there.”

She laughs and her stern face is transformed. “You’d love it, Matt. Think how much work you could get done. No distractions, no nights in the pub, no me.”

“No you?” I say. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

She gives my ribs a solid jab with her elbow. “Aw, Matt, that’s almost the nicest thing you ever said to me.”

“Is that right? What’s number one in that chart?”

She feigns deep thought. “Well, I suppose it would have to be the time you admitted you were wrong and I was right.”

“I don’t remember that.”

My ribs take some more punishment.

“What a surprise.” She looks into my eyes. “No, seriously, Matt. It would be the first time you told me you loved me.”

“I don’t remember that, either.” This time I gasped as her elbow made even heavier contact. “Shit! All right, I do. It was the night I took you back to my place, unzipped your-”

“Stop it,” she said, looking around. “We aren’t alone.”

“Oh, forgive me,” I say, with exaggerated subservience. “How could I behave in such an inappropriate way with a senior member of her majesty’s Metropolitan Police force?”

“Kindly call me by my rank,” she says, a smile quivering on her lips.

“Forgive me-Detective Chief Superintendent.”

She relaxes. “That’s more like it.”

I give her a haughty look. “Now it’s your turn to call me by my rank. That’s more like it, sir.”

She laughs. “Sir! You’re just an ordinary member of the public. Why should I address you like you’re my superior?”

“Em, because I am?” I reply. “Intellectually, morally, physically…”

“Now you’re just being childish,” she says, opening a folder. “I’ve got work to do.” Her expression is severe, but I can see she’s suppressing laughter.

“Bullshit,” I say, my elbow extracting overdue retribution from her ribs. “You’ve read your case notes at least twice since we left London. You must know Gavin Burdett’s activities off by heart.”

She gives me a warning glare. “Keep your voice down,” she says, in a loud whisper. “You know how sensitive this is.”

And suddenly my memory supplies the relevant information. Gavin Burdett-British investment banker, Eton and Cambridge-he has extensive contacts with American business and specializes in burying funds in untraceable offshore accounts. And the woman next to me has found the evidence to nail him. Since she was promoted to run the corporate-crime team at the Met, high-profile business figures have been falling like ninepins. No one expected a violent-crime expert to be so effective in the most complex investigation branch, but in her first year she’s really shown her mettle.

She puts down the folder and sighs. “You’re right, Matt. But this is the big one. If we nail Burdett, the way will be open for us to nail corrupt companies all over the world.”

“If you nail Burdett,” I say. “What’s the name of the company you think he’s connected with in the States?”

“Woodbridge Holdings. If we can put the squeeze on it, that’ll really impress the politicians. Woodbridge has got international media interests, as well as subsidiary companies all over the place. They’re into everything from logging to high tech, radio stations and newspapers to pharmacological research and development.”