Paul Johnston - Maps of Hell

Then I hit pay dirt. I had asked if they knew Larry Thomson. They said no, so I showed them the photo on my phone.

“That’s the Fuhrer,” they said in unison, their eyes wide.

I struggled to conceal my shock. “What?”

“The Fuhrer,” they repeated.

“He visited us at the camp,” Randy went on. “We were greatly honored. He’s a very busy man.”

The combination of servility and corrupted innocence turned my stomach. What had been done to these kids?

“He talked to me for nearly a minute,” Gwen said eagerly. “He asked me about Nazi ideology. Of course, I knew everything by heart.”

“Nazi ideology?” Versace said, in disbelief.

I raised a hand. “Just what are the aims of the NANR?”

“The North American Nazi Revival is dedicated to the eradication of Jews and all other under-races from the U.S.A., whatever the cost,” they recited. “We obey the Fuhrer and his officers without question. We fight for the Greater Germany, of which the U.S.A. will become part after the global conflict is won. We are dedicated to the extermination of all existing religions, under the instruction of the Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant.”

The twins sat back and beamed at us. It was as if a death sentence had been read out by preschoolers.

“I guess under-races includes blacks,” Clem said slowly.

“Oh, yes,” Gwen replied, with a smile.

“Well, pardon me, darling,” said Versace, “but shouldn’t you be trying to eradicate and exterminate my partner here right now?”

Randy and Gwen exchanged anxious glances.

“We…we aren’t…aren’t authorized to act without orders from our superiors,” the young man said, lowering his eyes.

“Well, that is a relief,” Clem said, with a hollow laugh. “Tell me, if you liked these people so much, why did you escape from the camp?”

Again they looked at each other, but it was impossible to tell what passed between their dead eyes.

“Well…” Randy began.

“It’s all right,” his sister interrupted. “I’m…I’m almost over it.” She licked her lips repeatedly. “They…some of the comrades…they took advantage-”

“They raped her,” Randy said, his cheeks red. “Men and women. With gun barrels. They made her-”

Gwen touched his arm. “It’s over. We’re free of them.”

I wasn’t sure if that was really the case, given that Gordy Lister had known exactly where to find them. They’d been taken advantage of and terribly abused, but they still seemed to admire the man they called the Fuhrer. What did that say about the power he exerted?

The atmosphere gradually lightened, but I still felt like I was sitting next to a pair of highly sensitive explosive devices. Then I thought about the Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant. The twins may have seen human sacrifices at the camp but, given their condition, I could hardly just ask them that straight out.

“How about the Antichurch?” I said. “Did you go to services?”

“Rituals,” Gwen corrected. “Of course we did. We all did.” Then her expression went blank, as if a shutter had suddenly been closed.

Randy’s gaze stayed down. Versace swore under his breath.

“The Fuhrer,” I said, involuntarily lowering my voice. “Did he have anyone with him when he visited the camp?”

“Of course,” Randy said. “The professor was always with him.”

“This prof got a name?” Versace growled.

The twins shook their heads.

“What did he look like?” Clem asked.

They both smiled.

“No,” Gwen said, “the professor is a woman. She’s tall, like the Fuhrer, and very distinguished. In her sixties, I’d say. Like him.” She gave a sudden laugh. “Of course she is like him. After all, they’re twins. They were plenty of our kind at the camp.”

Now we were getting somewhere. Thomson-the leader of the NANR and eminence grise behind Woodbridge-had a twin sister. Nikolaus A. N. Rothmann, Mengele’s helper, had twin children, a boy and a girl, who would be in their sixties now. But did that mean they were responsible for the murders? I thought about the diagrams, the squares and rectangles that had been left on the victims. Something was stirring in my memory, something I’d seen in the camp.

Then I thought of someone else. Gavin Burdett. Not only was he in Washington, but I’d tailed him to the occult supplies shop in East London. He was a dishonest investment banker with an interest in underage girls. Could he also be responsible for the murders in Washington? If so, how much were the Rothmann twins involved?

Pinker showed the twins into their rooms at his sister’s house-we had decided to use it in case anyone tried to find the detectives at home. Clem told Gwen and Randy that they would be put in a drug rehabilitation program as soon as possible. They seemed happy enough and showed no sign of wanting to be anywhere else, though that probably meant they didn’t need a fix yet. The house had high-security windows and doors, so they’d find it hard to break out when they did, and Versace would be playing nursemaid. Then again, they had been trained how to use weapons at the camp. I didn’t feel good about leaving the detective there on his own, but Clem and I had work to do.

“Hey, Field Goal,” Versace said, as we headed for the door.

I looked round.

“You look after my partner, yeah?”

I nodded. “And you watch yourself with the twins, Vers.”

“Don’t panic. I’ve seen The Boys from Brazil.”

That didn’t reassure me much. I couldn’t remember if the movie had a happy ending or not. As we left, it struck me that the twins maybe didn’t know about their father’s death yet. We would have to tell them later. Considering how dedicated they still seemed to be to their Fuhrer, I wasn’t sure they’d even remember who Richard Bonhoff was.

New York State Trooper Reggie Swan yawned and took a slug of cold coffee. He was on his own in the station in the small town of Grantsville thirty miles from Buffalo, and he was bored rigid. He had always hated the night shift. It was all right in a city, with the hookers and pimps, the drunks and brawlers to keep you busy. In the boonies, it was about as much fun as a teetotaler’s wake.

Then the door opened and Reggie Swan became an overnight celebrity.

“Help you, ma’am?” he said, as the statuesque woman turned to face him.

Her face and clothes were dirty and torn, and her breathing was heavy. “Ma’am?”

The trooper caught her as she fell. He pulled her as gently as he could to a chair and got her some water. After she’d taken a few sips, she was suddenly much more in control of herself.

“I’m Karen Oaten. Detective Chief Superintendent Karen Oaten of the Metropolitan Police, London.”

Reggie Swan stared at the blonde woman and remembered a photo that showed a much cleaner face. It had been in the FBI mis-pers bulletin for weeks.

“Are you all right, ma’am?” he asked, checking her for obvious injuries. He saw none.

“I’ll make it,” she said, with a weary smile. “I need to make some phone calls.”

“I should think you do. I need to make one myself.” He went back to the desk and called his sergeant. The old shithead never liked being disturbed at night, but this time he said he’d be right over. Screw him, Reggie thought. He’s not getting any of my glory. To make sure of that, he called the local TV and radio stations, as well as the Buffalo papers. Then he watched as the woman whom the whole of the FBI had been looking for made her calls from the sergeant’s desk.

For once, the night shift had been a knockout for Trooper Reggie Swan.

“You think we screwed up letting Gordy Lister go?” Clem Simmons asked as he drove toward central Washington.