Paul Johnston - Maps of Hell

“We’re not going to shoot you. At least, not to death.”

Joe pulled his Colt Anaconda from its holster under the desk. He leaned forward and loosed off three shots. It suddenly occurred to him that he hadn’t yet sent the information he’d just gathered to his secure server.

“Not even close,” came the woman’s voice-she sounded very young. “Have a pleasant evening, sir.”

Joe heard another voice in the background, this one deeper-a man’s. Then there was movement toward the door.

After a short time, the reporter crawled backward from under the desk and got to his feet, holding his weapon in a two-handed grip. Then he saw the black box by the door, a red light flashing on its side. He grabbed the data stick from his computer and rushed to the rear window. After he’d opened it, he hardly had time to breathe before his life was blown to fragments.

I spent an hour in a different cafe in central D.C. There were no references to Larry Thomson on any sites apart from the North American National Revival’s. I went through what there was for Woodbridge Holdings, aware that Joe would have done so, too, by now, but maybe something would jog my memory about the camp. All I found were endless details about the company’s interests, none of which pointed directly to the depths of the Maine wilderness.

A little bleary-eyed, I decided to give Joe a call and see how he was getting on. A voice said the subscriber had turned off the cell-I sent him a text in case he turned it on again soon. After ten minutes I grew impatient. I left the cafe, found a pay phone and called his landline. Again, unobtainable. I began to get a bad feeling. Joe had said he would stay at his computers until he found something. He hadn’t been intending to go out and, besides, it was nearly midnight. I hailed a passing cab and told him a street behind Joe’s place. I didn’t have to risk using the front entrance-I could approach via the yards, as we’d done a couple of nights back.

I heard the sirens as soon as I got out of the cab. Jesus, what had happened? I jumped a low fence and ran across the unkempt gardens. As I got nearer to my friend’s building, the smell of hot dust became more intense. I could see a cloud of smoke and steam in the air ahead. Shit, what had I got Joe into? It was only when I saw the firemen in the yard behind Joe’s apartment that I stopped and took cover. They were directing hoses at the windows on the second floor. In their shouts the word bomb came up more than once.

I retraced my steps and cautiously turned the corner to his street. I needn’t have worried about breaking cover. A crowd had gathered in front of the fire trucks and police cars. I joined it and pushed toward the front. Beyond men in heavy clothes, carrying oxygen tanks, I made out the solid form of Clem Simmons. I didn’t have his cell-phone number so I had no option but to attract his attention. After he’d finished talking to an attractive red-haired woman, I managed that. Looking away from me, he bent under the barrier tape and walked down the street. I gave him a minute and then followed. He was waiting for me at the corner.

“What happened?” I asked breathlessly.

“We’re pretty sure it was a bomb.” His eyes lowered. “A powerful one, too. There’s nothing left of Joe’s apartment. The fire chief has taken his men out as he thinks the whole building might come down.”

“Any human remains?”

He nodded slowly. “Small pieces. No identification possible yet.”

I knew it had to be Joe. “Fuck,” I said. “I’m responsible for this.”

“What do you mean?”

“I got him into this, didn’t I?”

“You’re saying that a reporter with his track record wouldn’t have gone after these creeps if you hadn’t been involved? Don’t be so goddamned conceited.”

I thought about that. He was right. Joe was already on the ball about Woodbridge Holdings, and he would have looked out for me and Karen even if I hadn’t gone to him. It was a slight to my friend’s memory to suggest otherwise.

“You want to come in, Matt?” Clem Simmons asked, his expression softening. “If they got him, they’ll be after you, too.”

“Let them come,” I muttered.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got any clearer idea of who they are yet?” He knew I wasn’t telling him everything, but it didn’t seem to be bothering him unduly.

“Put it this way,” I said. “We’ve been looking at a company called Woodbridge Holdings. Heard of them?”

He nodded. “They own the Star Reporter.”

“As well as a range of other companies-logging, property, pharmaceuticals-you name it, they’re into it.”

“Got any evidence linking them to Joe’s death? Or to the other murders? Or to what happened to you?”

“Watch this space,” I said. “Or rather…” I took out my cell phone. “Give me your number.” I saved it. “I’ll be in touch.”

“Don’t do anything illegal, will you?” The words sounded more like an invitation than a warning.

I snorted and turned away. Typical cops. They wanted you to do their dirty work. Then a picture of Karen rose up before me. She was in the Metropolitan Police uniform she rarely wore and she was smiling, one hand on her gently convex belly. I swallowed a sob and turned away.

The blonde woman span round and emptied the magazine of her semiautomatic pistol into a life-size human target twenty yards away. The man in gray next to her took off his ear-protectors and clapped slowly.

“Very good,” he said, watching as the target was pulled in. “Three to the head, three to the chest and three to the abdomen. I don’t think he’s going anywhere.”

The woman nodded and handed the weapon over. She had only started target shooting five days before and she had been surprised at how proficient she was. She had impressed the instructors at judo and karate, too, and had taken to knife-fighting with alacrity. At first she had been worried that the baby she was carrying would slow her down, but that hadn’t been the case. The doctors monitored her every day and the little boy was doing well. She wished she could remember who the father was, but it didn’t matter. The people in the camp would look after her and her child. They were a real family.

“They’re waiting to take you to the lab, Karen,” the shooting instructor said, pointing to the door.

Karen followed the other personnel in gray uniforms down the passages to the place where she had recently spent so much time. The machine was ready for her, lights flashing and tubes pulsing above the bed. At first she’d been frightened by it, worried that its close proximity to her body would harm the baby, but now she looked forward to the daily sessions. She could never remember what happened when the humming got louder, apart from a feeling of deep satisfaction and belonging. The music, which she had originally found discordant, now brought her a calm desire to participate, to strive for something glorious; and the rhetoric that she had once found disturbing now increased her devotion every time that she heard it. As for the images of men in field-gray and women in white blouses and black skirts, they inspired her.

She was one of them, and always would be.

In time, her son would join the movement, too.

I went back to my hotel across the river, and ate the burger and fries I’d bought. The food tasted like nothing, but I needed to keep my strength up. I was down, hit badly by Joe’s death, but I knew I had to keep searching, had to find Karen. But how was I to do that without Joe’s help? I had received e-mails from him with useful material, but nothing that broke the case. He had hinted he was on the brink of discovering something hot, but the bomb would have destroyed all his equipment and records.