Paul Johnston - Maps of Hell

The young man let me off in the area he identified as Adams Morgan and I went straight to a phone booth. I had enough coins to make a call. Fortunately Joe’s number was listed. I got connected.

“Greenbaum.”

“Joe, it’s Matt.”

There was a brief silence. “Jesus, Matt. Where are you?”

“In your town.”

“I don’t believe it,” he said, the words coming in a rush. “The police…well, I’ll tell you when I see you. Where are you exactly?”

I looked around. “Eighteenth Street and Belmont Road.”

“Okay. Stay there. I’m on my way.”

About fifteen minutes later, a yellow-and-black taxi pulled up and I saw Joe’s heavy frame in the back. I got in the other side and punched his shoulder.

“It’s great to see you, man,” I said, meaning it. I suddenly felt emotional. Seeing someone I knew, someone I remembered, brought home how much I’d been through.

Joe smiled. “Yeah, this is a surprise-a great one, of course.” He looked over his shoulder and said the name of what sounded like a bar to the driver. “I only hope I haven’t landed you even more in the shit.”

“What do you mean?”

“I went to the cops about you.” He raised his hands. “All good, don’t worry. But they may have thought it was worth staking out my place, in case.”

“So they’re still after me…” I said, my voice low.

“Not if they listened to what I said.”

“I just heard on the radio that the FBI has taken over the investigation.”

He nodded. “Yeah, I heard that, too. I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”

The taxi pulled up outside a run-down bar. After paying, Joe got out and scanned the area. “Don’t worry. We’re not going in. There’s another place about a ten-minute walk from here. You up to it?”

I laughed. “Are you?”

“What do you mean?” he said, feigning outrage. “I’m at my fighting weight.”

“I didn’t know hyper-heavyweight had been recognized.”

He thumped me in the chest. “Yeah, I’ve missed that classy English humor.”

“Shall we split up for a bit? See if anyone’s on our tail?”

“I forgot you were an expert at this. Okay.”

I crossed the road and ducked down behind a van with high sides, while Joe kept walking straight ahead. I waited while a couple of people passed him, but neither showed any interest. I kept him in sight as he waddled on. When he went into a much more salubrious bar, I looked around again. There was no one suspicious, at least to my eyes, so I went to join him.

Joe had found a table at the far corner of the place, which was a cross between a neighborhood bar and a trendy young persons’ hangout. The waitresses were wearing short black skirts, so it was bearable. Joe had already ordered us beer.

“So, let me look at you, man,” he said, taking in my less than salubrious clothes. “Still buying your gear at Bloomingdale’s, eh?”

I laughed. The oversize reporter had a comic streak that was at odds with his work outing corrupt businessmen and officials. “I see you’re still on the sperm whale diet.”

“Yup,” he said, grinning. “Blubber three times a day keeps the doctor away.”

I had come up with that jibe the first time I’d met Joe-he’d made a comment about how thin I was.

The beer arrived, accompanied by a platter of snacks. I suddenly realized that, although Bo had given me a bottle of water, nothing solid had passed my lips since last night at the motel. I actually managed to match Joe bite for bite. That seemed to impress him.

“All right,” he said, wiping his lips. “Tell me what happened.”

“I’ll tell you what I can remember.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

“Somebody wearing army boots has been stomping through my memory.” I told him what I could about the camp and my escape. It would be fair to say he looked astounded.

“Jesus, Matt. What is this shit?”

I shrugged. “I was hoping you might be able to help me out there, Joe.”

He smiled. “What, along the lines of ‘Yeah, now you come to mention it, Matt, I know just the place you mean up in the Maine woods. It’s a research center run by the CIA and-oh, look-I have the cell-phone number of the man in charge.’”

I laughed. “That kind of thing, yeah.”

Joe’s expression grew more serious. “Why would someone want to mess with your mind, Matt? Do you know something they want forgotten?”

“Good questions, both.”

He rubbed his unshaven chin. “Can you remember anything about how you got up there?”

“No, that’s one of numerous things that my brain is steadfastly refusing to access. I’ve remembered Karen’s disappearance, but…” I broke off, suddenly seeing the woman on the upturned cross whose throat was cut.

“What is it, man?”

I took several deep breaths. I wasn’t going to let myself believe that Karen had been the victim. It must have been a trick. But why would anyone be so heartless? She was pregnant, for Christ’s sake. Our son…

“Matt?” Joe’s hand was on my arm. “Are you okay?”

I snapped out of it and gave a weak smile. I wasn’t going to tell him-if I did, it would seem even more real.

“Just a bit wasted-not enough sleep.”

“Not enough beer.” Joe raised a hand for more. “So you don’t recall you and me running around Virginia and D.C. after Karen disappeared? I pulled the chain of any law enforcement professional I thought might be able to help.”

“No… Doesn’t surprise me that you did what you could, though.”

“Yeah, well…” He looked away, embarrassed. “’Course, I had to do the same thing when you didn’t show for our usual late breakfast. You must have been snatched somewhere between your hotel and my place. We were using it as base camp for our investigation-the Feds were getting nowhere fast.”

“What about the local cops in Virginia?”

“Oh, they did all they could. I used a contact of mine in the Bureau to kick ass down there.”

“Then you had to cope with me vanishing, too.”

He nodded. “It was the same story as with Karen. I kept them at it, but there was nothing-no witnesses, no messages, no ransom demand. I even wrote an article about you both for the Washington Post. They stuck it on page twelve, so who knows how many people noticed. That was ten days ago. The story’s died a death since then.”

I gave an ironic laugh. “And I nearly died several more times in the camp and on my way here.”

“Certainly sounds like the people in that camp were very unhappy that you’d gotten away. I wonder…” He broke off, for once not raising his glass to his lips.

“What?”

“Nah, it’s just my suspicious mind. I was thinking that maybe those assholes in the gray uniforms have got some pull with the Bureau. I mean, I was always sure you weren’t behind any of these occult killings, despite your prints at one of the scenes. Someone’s gone to a lot of trouble to frame you, my friend.”

“That much I’d worked out for myself, Joe. The question is, who?”

A spectacular waitress brought a fresh pitcher and Joe filled our glasses.

“Someone who had access to the scene, obviously.”

“Which means either the killer or someone who knew his or her movements. Or, alternatively, one or more of the investigators.”

He nodded. “The latter being the patrol cops first on the scene, the CSIs, the D.C. detectives on the case or the FBI-take your pick.”

“How come the FBI was involved?”

Joe put his hand over his mouth and burped. “Because it’s D.C. and there are so many VIPs around. That’ll no doubt be behind the Bureau pulling rank and kicking the MPDC team off the case today.”

I watched as the waitress brought another platter of food, then I picked up a buffalo wing. “So what’s your line on the murders, Joe?”