Paul Johnston - Maps of Hell

The problem for Clem was what to do with the material. It was circumstantial in the extreme and, according to the Web site, no member of the Antichurch had been identified. On the other hand, those people were clearly inciting racial and religious hatred. The obvious course of action would be to ask Peter Sebastian to involve the FBI’s experts, but Simmons wasn’t sure how much he trusted him.

Gerard Pinker came up to his partner’s desk, a wide grin on his face.

“What going on?” Simmons asked, looking up.

“Get this. The English guy Matt Wells got away from twenty-five New York staties this morning.”

“What are you so excited about? Sounds like Sebastian was right about him.”

“Give me a break, Clem,” Pinker said. “Dickhead’s been blowing smoke up our asses.”

Simmons heaved himself to his feet. “Come on, we’re going to be late for our very own deep throat.” He grabbed his coat and headed for the elevator. After hitting the street, they walked toward the National Mall.

“You seriously think Gordy Lister’s going to have anything on the murders?” Pinker asked, stopping at a kiosk to buy gum.

Simmons shrugged. “He’s helped us before.”

“Yeah, with a loony tunes dope dealer we already knew about and that vigilante pimp-killer the Star Reporter turned into a celebrity.”

“We aren’t exactly overflowing with leads, Vers.”

Pinker tightened his silk scarf as the wind whistled between Capitol Hill and the Potomac. “All right, let’s see what the slimeball has to say.”

The newspaperman was where they’d asked him to be, in front of the Washington Memorial. He wore a thick wool coat. His hands were in his pockets and his back was toward them.

“Gordy,” Pinker said, from the newspaperman’s left side.

“Lister,” Simmons added, from his right.

He gave them each an angry look. “What the fuck, guys? What’s so important that I have to freeze my ass off out here?”

“If memory serves, you’re the one who prefers meeting out of doors,” Pinker said.

Lister gave a hollow laugh. “Yeah, well, I got my reputation to think about.”

“You’re going to have your nuts in a bag if you don’t mind your mouth,” Pinker said, baring his teeth.

“Cool it, Vers,” Simmons said. “I’ll get straight to the point, Gordy. You guys been running plenty of stories about the murders.”

The newspaperman gave him a neutral glance. “You mean the occult killings?”

“As you call them,” Clem Simmons said, twitching his nose. “So, we were wondering if you maybe had some angle you haven’t come clean about.”

“What do you mean ‘some angle’? We aren’t detectives, my friend.”

“You got that right,” Pinker said, stepping in front of Lister. “Hey, asshole, you forgotten the last time you tried to play cute with me?”

Gordy Lister looked at his cowboy boots. “No,” he mumbled.

“I didn’t think so. If you don’t want me to stomp on your toes again, start talking.”

Gordy’s head stayed bowed for some time, before he raised it slowly and looked at Simmons.

“Call off your attack poodle, will you, Clem?”

Simmons laid a hand on his partner’s arm. “Don’t mind him,” he said, smiling encouragingly. “What have you got?”

“What I heard, a writer from London is the man. Matt Wells, his name.”

Pinker edged closer. “Come on, Gordy, you know that’s bullshit. He could only have done Professor Singer if he used a private jet.” He caught Lister’s eye. “And he didn’t.”

Lister shrugged. “That’s what our sources are giving us.”

“Those sources wouldn’t happen to be in the FBI, would they?” Simmons asked, poker-faced.

Lister looked down again. “You kidding, Clem? You want me to name our sources?”

“Rhetorical question. What else are you hearing?”

“Not much. ’Course, the guys who are working the stories might be looking at things they haven’t told me yet.”

Gerard Pinker shook his head. “You people are so hot for that sexy occult angle, aren’t you?”

Lister raised his bony shoulders. “Sure. It sells papers.”

“I bet it does,” Simmons said, giving him a slack smile. “Speaking of demons, you ever hear of the Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant?”

“Jeez, it’s cold out here. The Antichurch of what? No, man, doesn’t ring any bells.” He shuffled his feet.

Clem Simmons held his gaze on him, then glanced at his partner. “He hasn’t heard of the Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant, Vers.”

“No. No, he hasn’t.”

The newspaperman took out his cell phone and looked at the screen. “Look, guys, I got to go,” he said, avoiding their eyes. “See you around.”

Pinker waited till Lister was out of earshot. “What do you reckon?”

“Obviously he was lying about the Antichurch. The question is why. Is that the Star Reporter’s next big story?”

They started to walk back to the MPDC building. They hadn’t gone more than twenty paces when both their phones rang.

Peter Sebastian stood on the west bank of the Anacostia River, below the National Arboretum. To his left, a tent had been erected by the CSIs around the body of the middle-aged male Caucasian that had been found in the river. People had gathered at the barrier tape behind him and he could hear their voices. There wasn’t much sense of shock-people in northeast D.C. were used to violent death-but they were still curious.

The FBI man’s curiosity had also been piqued, and not just by the murder. He watched as Dana Maltravers showed ID, ducked under the tape and came toward him, her expression as resolute as ever.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said, points of red on her cheeks.

Peter Sebastian gave her an icy look. “I’ve told you before that I need to be able to reach you at all times, Special Agent.”

Maltravers recoiled. “I was over at Hate Crimes, sir.”

“Really? And what took you there?”

“Those threats that were found in Professor Singer’s e-mail program? It turns out Hate Crimes has logged the group that made them.”

Peter Sebastian’s face changed. “The Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant? What do Hate Crimes know?”

“Very little, unfortunately. It was founded over a hundred and fifty years ago, up in Maine. But it only lasted a few years, till it was violently put down by the locals. There was no sign of it until the threats against Professor Singer late last year.”

“So could they be the killers we’re looking for?”

Maltravers raised her shoulders. “Apparently they used to perform human sacrifices.”

“Shit.” Sebastian looked at his subordinate. “Good work, Dana. I presume Hate Crimes is collating information.”

“I asked them to. You may have to make a formal request. You know what they’re like. They guard their data, even from us.”

Sebastian watched as Detectives Simmons and Pinker arrived at the barrier tape. “Here come the soon-to-be-relieved investigating officers,” he said in a low voice.

Dana Maltravers turned toward the tent.

Peter Sebastian put a hand on her arm. “Just a moment, Special Agent. Do not engage in any more flippant conversation with Pinker. He and his partner are about to become the enemy.”

Maltravers nodded uncertainly, then followed her boss to the tent where the latest victim lay.

“Son of a bitch,” Gerard Pinker said, standing by his Crown Victoria outside the barrier tape. “Who does ol’ Dickhead think he is?”

“Someone who has more pull with the commissioner than you and me,” Clem Simmons said.

“Not to mention Chief Owen.”

Simmons shrugged.

Pinker scowled. “Shit, I’ve never been taken off an investigation in my life.”