Paul Johnston - Maps of Hell

The cop approached Joe and, after shaking hands, sat next to him. I watched his face. It was rugged, with a slightly world-weary expression. He looked competent and, more to the point, reasonable. I gave them a few minutes, scanned the paths and woods one last time, and then broke cover. I had one of the Glocks and the combat knife under my belt in the small of my back. No doubt Detective Simmons was armed, too, but I wasn’t going to let myself be locked up again, no matter what happened.

I joined the track about twenty yards behind them and started walking. Joe didn’t turn round, and neither did Simmons, until I was almost on them.

“Jesus, Matt!” Joe said in surprise, as I sat down. I hadn’t told him how furtive I could be. He looked at the detective. “Like I say, just hear the man out.”

“Mr. Wells,” the detective said, leaning forward and extending a hand. “Welcome back to D.C. I’m Clem Simmons.”

I shook his great paw. He seemed friendly enough and not particularly interested in arresting me. “Call me Matt,” I said. “Clem.”

He smiled. “Okay, Matt. Joe here says you’ve got things to tell me. You’ve got to understand, I can’t offer you any kind of assurance that I won’t take you in.” Furrows appeared on his forehead. “But, as you know, I’m not investigating the killings anymore.”

I nodded. “But you don’t think I’m guilty of them.”

“It’s up to you to convince me of that. Tell me, you got an interest in black magic, that kind of stuff?”

I raised my shoulders. “Interest, no. Involvement, yes. In the past I was chased by a pair of killers who played around with satanic names and imagery.”

“The White Devil and the Soul Collector. I read about them. Seems you’re pretty good at looking after yourself.”

“I took precautions,” I said, and then told him something about the training I’d undergone with Dave. Then I got on to the camp and my escape from it.

When I’d finished, Simmons glanced at Joe and shook his head. “Is this guy for real?”

Joe and I laughed, then saw the serious look on his face.

“It ever occur to you that the Soul Collector could be behind these murders, Matt?” Simmons asked. “I mean, she’s bound to have your fingerprints, isn’t she?”

“Yup,” I said. “But if she is, I’ve no idea how to nail her, especially off my home ground.”

“She couldn’t have got herself involved with this Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant, could she?” Joe asked.

I didn’t mention that they were at the camp-I didn’t know him well enough to spill my guts completely. “Sara’s capable of anything,” I said. “But we’d be better off tracking the Antichurch itself.”

The detective shook his head. “The FBI has got their Hate Crimes people involved.”

“Any reason why you can’t run a check, as well?” I asked.

“Apart from the fact that I’m off the case?” Simmons shrugged. “I guess I can do that.”

I nodded. I liked the man, but he wasn’t exactly buzzing with solutions to my problems. Karen was as lost as ever, while I was still suspect number one.

“Yeah,” Simmons said, “I can check the Antichurch out, at least here in D.C., but that won’t keep you out of jail down the line, my friend. And I’ve got other cases now.”

“What about the latest victim?” Joe asked. “Any ID yet?”

The detective shook his head. “Not that I’ve heard of. The Feds won’t be telling me anything, though.”

“But he is another occult killing,” I said.

“You tell me, Matt,” Simmons said. “Personally, I’m not convinced. Could be a copycat.”

“Oh, great,” Joe said, with a groan. “Now we’ve got two crazies terrorizing the capital of the world?”

The detective caught my eye. “So, what are you going to do?”

I smiled. “You sure you want to know?”

“Probably not.” He looked at Joe. “I’m trusting you to keep me informed.”

Joe nodded. “Anything helpful you want to drop our way?”

Clem Simmons checked the area. There was no one near us. He slid his hand inside his coat and handed a brown envelope to Joe. “I must be out of my mind,” he said morosely. “You didn’t get these from me. The press doesn’t know about them. Every victim’s body except the last had a drawing pinned to it. See if you can figure out what these mean before the assholes in the Bureau do. And make sure you tell me first.” He walked away at surprising speed for such a bulky man.

Joe and I looked at the photocopies. The names of the relevant victim had been printed on each sheet, along with an arrow pointing upward. I examined the different arrays of geometric shapes, but couldn’t make a meaningful pattern out of them.

“Doesn’t look particularly occult to me,” Joe said.

“No,” I agreed. “Then again, the Antichurch of Lucifer Lunatic notwithstanding, we don’t think the murders really have too much to do with the black arts, do we?”

He shook his head. “In which case, what is this shit?”

“Joseph, I don’t have the faintest idea.”

We split up before we reached the paved road.

Clem Simmons was looking out of the office window. He didn’t register the walls of the neighboring buildings or the pale blue autumn sky above. Instead, he was watching himself as he would soon be-a man in late middle age without a job or, most likely, a pension. Although he’d considered what to do carefully before the meet, after the event his thought processes seemed pathetically flawed. He’d been sure that slipping information to Joe Greenbaum would be an agreeable way of sticking it to the Feds, and perhaps garner some new insight. He had contacts that Clem could only dream about. But the reporter had blind-sided him with Matt Wells. And, even more surprisingly, Clem had been convinced by the Englishman’s crazy story.

He shook his head. Ever since the cancer had taken Nina, he’d been struggling. Until the occult killings, he hadn’t really cared whether he and Vers caught murderers. The only thing he’d wanted was to get back to the house he and his wife had shared for twenty-four years, to take in her scent before it finally faded from her clothes. But these cases were different. He had a burning need to find the killer, no matter the cost. Perhaps it was because a voodoo believer had been murdered, but he thought it was more than that. If he could crack this case, if he could solve it before the Feds, he could retire happy. And now it was more likely he’d be sent packing without a penny to his name.

Gerard Pinker came up. “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded. “I got so bored waiting I went down to the coffee shop to check out the girls in uniform.”

Clem Simmons handed him a sheaf of pages, each one in a transparent cover.

“What’s this?”

“New information, a letter addressed to me by the guy in the Anacostia River.”

“What?”

“Keep your voice down. We’re off the case, remember?”

“Wait a minute.” Pinker looked at his partner apprehensively. “You mean, you haven’t shown this to Chief Owen?”

“Nope. He’d have to pass it to the Feds.”

“What are we going to do with it?”

“Follow it up, of course. You’d better read it first.”

Gerard Pinker went through the text, taking in the photocopied photographs that had been attached. When he’d finished, he dragged his chair over and slumped into it. “Christmas has come early for us this year.”

Clem Simmons finished writing. “Could be… Okay, here are the main points as I see them. The first photo confirms this is the dead man, right?”

Pinker nodded. “Hold up. Where did the letter come from?”

“The owner of the Travel Happy Motel brought it in. The maid found it on the bed this morning. The envelope was marked ‘Urgent.’”