Paul Johnston - Maps of Hell

America, she thought, land of the free. Or rather, land of the corrupt, the pleasure obsessed and the spiritually vacant. Its people needed discipline, a new set of ideals, just as they did back in Americanized Europe. Now that her eyes had been opened, she knew there was another way.

Matt Wells’s face flickered before her, like that of a fading ghost. It had been amusing how difficult the supposedly hardened FBI men had found it to bring up his alleged crimes. She hadn’t been surprised when she’d first been told of them at the camp. Matt had shown signs in the past of unbridled fury and had trained himself well to become a murderer, even though he’d made out that he was only interested in self-defense. She hadn’t realized how close he’d come to stepping over the line throughout their relationship. Her disappearance must have made him leap into the abyss. He had certainly seen enough violent crime firsthand to be fatally tempted. The irony was unavoidable. After standing up to the worst the White Devil and the Soul Collector had thrown at him, he had become one of their number. Earlier tonight, she’d learned, he had been responsible for the death of yet another person and the wounding of several more. He wouldn’t be at liberty for long. It was just as well-her son would never know his father.

Karen didn’t feel tired, but she knew she should lie down. Although she was in perfect physical condition, her body needed attention because of the cargo she was carrying. The day that would soon be dawning was set to be the most momentous of her life: a new beginning for her and the whole world.

The last thing Karen did before she went to bed was to check her briefcase.

Everything was in order, including what she had brought on her person from the camp.

I found a taxi on a main road about half a mile from the house where I’d left Clem and the others, and directed the driver to Georgetown. There was blood on my clothing, but I’d taken off my jacket and turned it inside out, and was holding it over the other stains. I had Dana Maltravers’s, Clem’s and Versace’s guns under there, too. I was a walking armory, but I had the feeling I would need every round.

The news came on the radio and I asked the driver to turn up the volume. The top story was about Karen and how she’d appeared at a state troopers’ station near Buffalo. She was said to be unharmed and had been brought to Washington by FBI helicopter and jet. Deep down I’d never believed she had been the sacrificial victim, but I was relieved-enormously so-to have that confirmed. But I was also frustrated-I wanted to see her, I wanted to make sure that she was as well as she looked and that our son had not been adversely affected, but I had to stay free until I laid hands on Larry Thomson. Without him, I was a fugitive, a suspect for at least two of the occult killings and-if Clem and Versace didn’t come round-a suspect for the mayhem tonight. But the alternative was worse: as long as Thomson, or Rothmann as he’d been born, was free, Karen and I would never be safe-and neither would our son.

I got out of the cab on M Street and slipped into the back streets before crossing the bridge to Rosslyn. I stopped on the corner before my hotel and checked for surveillance. Nobody knew I was staying there, but I couldn’t be sure of anything anymore. After waiting for five minutes, I walked down the street and into the hotel. The night porter nodded at me with indifference as I went to the elevators. I had my hand on one of the pistols all the way to my room. This time, I needn’t have bothered.

After holding my head under the cold tap, I took Versace’s phone out of my pocket and clicked into Contacts. Assuming the entry “GL” was Gordy Lister, I called that number. It rang for a long time before he answered.

“Talk to me, whoever you are.”

“This is Matt Wells.”

There was a pause. “What d’you want?”

“Get this, asshole. Those twins you gave us attacked Detectives Pinker and Simmons, maybe fatally. If you want me to keep your name out of it, do exactly what I tell you.”

“Shit! All right, man. Shit!”

“Larry Thomson-I need to meet him before daybreak. He can name the place.”

“He…he won’t come alone.”

“I don’t care if he comes with a division of the SS. Fix it and call me back on this number. Oh, and Gordy?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell him I shot his sister. Dead.”

“What?” Lister’s voice was suddenly higher than a schoolboy’s.

“You heard me. I killed Irma Rothmann. And her daughter Dana’s badly hurt, too.”

“Jesus, man, he’s gonna rip your heart out.”

“You reckon? Just make the call.”

I broke the connection, my palms damp with sweat. Sounding tough on the phone was all very well. Now I had to work out a way to get Larry Thomson away from his bodyguards on his turf. Killing him would be easier, but that would mean sacrificing myself, and I had reasons to live now that Karen and the child she was carrying were safe. I needed to bring Thomson in if I was to have any chance of clearing my name. There was only one thing in my favor. He would be enraged by the news of his twin sister’s death. Unless he had a heart colder than the thickest glacier in Antarctica, that meant he’d be desperate to nail me. And desperation, as my friend Dave used to say, caused people to take their eye off the ball. Then again, Gwen Bonhoff was at large. She would be gunning for me, too, given that I’d shot her brother. If she showed up at the meet with Thomson, it really would be the O.K. Corral all over again.

Peter Sebastian was standing by Clem Simmons’s hospital bed. There were machines beeping and numerous tubes coming out of the detective, and he was conscious. Gerard Pinker was not; he was in intensive care.

“So you’re saying it was Matt Wells who shot this Irma Rothmann, as well as Dana Maltravers?” the FBI man asked, trying to keep the disbelief from his face.

“Yeah,” Simmons croaked. “Had to be. And the boy Randy. I don’t know what happened to his sister, Gwen.”

“There’s no sign of her. Randy’s in surgery.”

“How about Maltravers?”

“Took a bullet to the chest, but she’ll live.”

“You know your princess is dirty?”

Sebastian frowned. “So I’m beginning to understand. The twins, Randy and Gwen, you think they did the occult murders?”

Clem Simmons coughed and then winced. “Seems a distinct possibility.”

“What about Matt Wells’s prints at the scenes?”

“Think about it.”

After a few moments, the FBI man’s eyes widened. “Dana?”

“Who else?”

A stern-looking nurse bustled into the room. “You’ll have to leave now, sir. We’re going to do a CAT scan.”

“About time,” the detective said, with a slow grin.

The nurse’s expression slackened. “There’s been a run on the machines this evening. So much for law and order in this city.”

Sebastian leaned closer. “One more thing, Detective. Larry Thomson. Are you sure about him?”

Clem nodded, his eyes closing. “Oh, yeah. Woodbridge Holdings is a hotbed of fuckin’ Nazi…” Suddenly his head slumped to the side and one of the monitors sounded a continuous alarm.

Peter Sebastian was pushed out of the way by a doctor and watched as Clem Simmons’s bed was wheeled out of the room, nurses pulling the monitors alongside. Turning the pages of his notes, he shook his head. Karen Oaten had returned safely, but all hell had broken out. And the cherry on the cake was that Matt Wells hadn’t been the occult killer after all.

The FBI man heard the sound of his career crashing all around him. He needed to do some major ass-covering, both on his own account and on that of his secondary employers, the CIA-they would be very unhappy if the Agency’s protection of Nazi doctors was made public after all this time. Fortunately, Dana Maltravers would be the perfect scapegoat.