Paul Johnston - Maps of Hell

The doctor’s eyes were fixed on Rothmann. “The fact that they were members of proscribed racial groups was also relevant.”

I looked round at the Fuhrer. “Proscribed racial groups? You assholes have such a thing about African-Americans, Jews and Hispanics.” I turned to Marion Gilbert. “Let him talk, will you? I want to see how sick he really is.”

She frowned at me and then nodded.

“They are all subhuman,” Rothmann said, his face still wracked with pain. “Fit only for slave labor or execution.”

“Jesus,” I said. It was the people who had set up the North American Nazi Revival and the Antichurch who were subhuman. But how guilty were the kids they’d turned into monsters? Were they responsible for their crimes?

I looked back at Marion Gilbert. “So, even though you were trying to avenge your brother’s murder, you still chose victims your Fuhrer would approve of?”

She gave me an agonized look. “You have to understand…I’ve been fighting myself…my mind’s been in turmoil for weeks now…it’s like there’s a sharp-toothed worm, biting and gnawing…I haven’t been sleeping…I’ve been two people fighting for control of one body…”

“Sounds like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” I said.

She stared at me. “What?”

I repeated the name of Robert Louis Stevenson’s famous doppelganger.

“That’s right,” the doctor said, blinking rapidly. “That’s…that’s what I called myself.”

“Jekyll?”

She shook her head. “Hyde. Marlon Hyde. The name just came to me. I must have read the book, but I don’t remember… I rented a room and gloried in the killings there… Oh, God…”

“Pathetic,” Rothmann said. “It seems you are even weaker than your brother.”

She took a step toward him, but I raised a hand.

“The maps,” I said. “Those drawings you left on the bodies. I know what they mean-the camp at Auschwitz.”

“Oh, how clever you are,” Rothmann said sardonically. “I knew as soon as I saw the first one. How could I forget the huts where the subhumans were contained?”

“It didn’t help you identify the killer, though,” I replied, giving him a scornful smile in return. I looked at the doctor. “Why didn’t you just leave evidence pointing directly to the Rothmanns?”

Her eyes dropped. “Because…because I couldn’t. Something inside my head stopped me. The process…coffining…” She looked at Rothmann. “I think I even hoped…hoped that you would realize who was behind the killings and stop me…stop me before I did irreparable damage to the movement.” She let out a brief scream of frustration, then turned to me. “How did you know the drawings were of Auschwitz, Matt Wells?”

“I…I’m not sure,” I replied feebly. My own brain hadn’t exactly been functioning normally in recent days. I had a flash of the machine that had been lowered over me in the camp-and the blaring music, the pounding of army boots, the barking voice…

I turned to Rothmann. “What the fuck did you put in my head?”

“How should I know? You escaped before the process was complete. Besides, what happens in each case depends on the subject’s own mind. Coffining is led by the individual’s unique mental structure.” He gave an icy smile. “Perhaps, deep down, you are attracted to the Reich’s methods.”

I wasn’t going to let him distract me. I looked back at Marion Gilbert. “Did you do the drawings of Auschwitz because you approved of what went on there, or because you realized it was the Nazis’ biggest disgrace?”

She stared at me. “I don’t know…I really don’t. I was only able to do partial drawings, anyway… they just came from deep within me…”

There were pinpoints of red on Rothmann’s cheeks. “Auschwitz was no disgrace. My father did wonderful work there.”

“Research on twins, no doubt,” I said.

“Of course. That was Dr. Mengele’s main interest and my father was his right-hand man. Following their research, my sister found that twins made excellent research subjects. We were able to monitor each sibling’s progress during the conditioning process by reference to the other. The unusual complex understanding between most twins-not necessarily identical ones-was highly beneficial in structuring their minds to our purposes.”

“Do you know if he ever experimented on you and Irma?” I asked, feeling a strong impulse to hurt the fucker. “Who knows? Perhaps all this is your father’s doing, not yours or your twin’s at all. Perhaps Irma and you were coffined yourselves, back in Auschwitz.”

“Don’t speak about my sister,” he said, his body rigid. “She was a genius.”

“Really?” I said, looking at Gwen. She seemed to be apprehensive and confused. I wondered how deep her conditioning really was. “What about the Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant? What did two fine Nazi rationalists need with a backwoods cult?”

Marion Gilbert lifted up the mask with the end of the skewer and tossed it onto the Fuhrer’s lap. He gave her a supercilious look.

“We understood early on that Americans needed religion, even a perverted one like that. The history of the country shows that. The founding fathers thought they were creating the perfect state for mankind to develop to its full potential.” Rothmann gave a scathing laugh. “Unfortunately, they failed to take account of mankind’s need for spiritual comfort. If the original state had been atheist, it would have achieved much more. Think of the civil-rights movement and those ridiculous Negro preachers.”

“You’d just have mown them down, I suppose?” I said.

“Certainly not. There is always a need for research material, even from the base races. Besides, this is not a liberal country. How many people are, to use your words, mown down by the police each year? How many blacks and Hispanics are incarcerated, and rightly so? The subhumans need a firm hand.”

I managed not to hit him, somehow. “So you let people wearing gargoyle and hyena masks, the latter with a hard-on, into your pantheon?”

He gave me a cold stare. “Whatever was effective.”

Marion Gilbert pointed the skewer at the mask. “He didn’t just let them into the rituals. He was the man in the hyena mask and his sister wore that one. People like them do not lead normal lives in any way.” She shook her head. “They think the process blanks everything out, but I remember, after the sacrifice of a young woman, I saw them-incest was no taboo for them…”

Rothmann looked completely unperturbed, glancing at Gwen and holding her gaze for a few moments. My suspicions of incest had been correct, but that only opened a new door into the abyss.

“Dana Maltravers,” I said, catching Rothmann’s eye. “Are you her father?”

He shook his head. “The research that Dr. Mengele and my father carried out in the camp, and that my father continued after the war, suggested that genetic defects were a danger. No, Dana is not my daughter. With Irma, I always wore a condom.”

“What happened to her father, then?” I asked.

Rothmann glared at me. “Are you sure you can handle the answer?”

I held his gaze. “You killed him, didn’t you?”

He laughed. “Wrong. Irma did. He was one of the first sacrifices when we reinstituted the Antichurch.”

I took a deep breath and forced myself to move on. “What about the blinding of the victims after death? Was that really necessary?”

He raised his shoulders. “The original Antichurch did that. Besides, our father lost his sight toward the end of his life-heavy smoking had damaged his eyes. My sister and I felt that was the kind of commemoration he would have relished.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” I said callously. “That didn’t put Irma and you off smoking though, did it?”