Maps of Hell

Twenty

“You really sure you wanna go through with this, Iowa?”

Richard Bonhoff stared at Gordy Lister, and then nodded. They were in the pickup, outside a dilapidated warehouse in southeast Washington. The newspaperman had made several phone calls, saying it was better if Richard didn’t listen in. The upshot was that he’d managed to locate the twins-or so he said.

“This isn’t far from where that Loki singer was murdered, is it?” Richard said.

“True enough,” Lister said. “We’re about a mile away.” He nudged Richard. “Hey, did you read about that in the Star Reporter? We did a big story.”

Richard glowered at him. “I never read that rag,” he said, deciding not to admit that he’d seen the story there.

“It was good enough for your kids, Iowa,” Lister replied, grinning.

“Yeah, that’s where their problems started. What exactly are we doing here?”

“You want to see the twins, don’t you? Hold on. They’ll be out soon.”

“They in there?” Richard peered at the building. “Why can’t we go in?”

“Because it isn’t safe.”

“How come you know where they are?” All Richard’s various suspicions of Gordy Lister surfaced at once. He grabbed the smaller man by the throat. “Are you using them? Are you making money off them?”

Lister struggled free and gave Richard a scandalized look. “Of course not. I used my contacts to find them, that’s all.”

The farmer wasn’t convinced, but he had no other leads.

“Here we go.” Lister pointed and they watched as a door opened wide. A head appeared, scanning the vicinity. The pickup was scrutinized.

“Whatever you do, don’t get out, Iowa. They won’t talk to you-I guarantee it.”

Richard’s heart was thundering. He watched as young people came out of the warehouse. Most were black, dressed in the uniform of the street-basketball shoes, loose jeans hung low, oversize T-shirts. But the clothes were torn and dirty, and the kids didn’t look healthy.

“Who are these people?”

Lister raised a hand. “Wait,” he hissed.

And then Richard saw them. He strained forward as Randy came out. Gwen was right behind him. They both looked terrible, their faces drawn and their hair, longer than when he’d last seen them, lank and tangled.

“What’s happened to them?” he said desperately.

Gordy Lister snorted. “What do you fucking think has happened to them, Iowa? They’re junkies.”

Richard grabbed the door handle and got out. He started to run toward the twins, shouting their names. They looked around, their eyes wide. As he got closer, it was the eyes that got to him most-the pupils were yellowed and bloodshot, the overall effect as icy and empty as the sky in winter.

“Gwen! Randy!” he called. “Let me talk to you.”

But the twins looked away, linking hands. Richard saw that their arms were bruised and pockmarked. Then he doubled up as one of the black youths drove a fist into his midriff.

“Get away, old man!” the boy screeched. “Ain’t no place for daddies here.”

Richard raised his head and saw the twins walking away. He screamed their names again, and then took a heavy punch to the side of his head. He keeled over and the kicking started. He tried to shout, but soon he couldn’t raise a sound. He could only mouth his children’s names as a final blow to the head sent him lurching into the dark.

He woke up with his head pounding, unclear where he was.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Iowa.”

Richard blinked and took in Gordy Lister’s face. There was a weak smile on the newspaperman’s lips.

“Wha…?” He sank back. He opened his eyes again and realized that he was in the passenger seat of his pickup.

“Where are you staying?” Lister asked, starting the engine.

The name of his hotel swam up to the surface of Richard’s mind. He managed to whisper it.

The pickup moved off, gears crashing. “Jesus, you actually drove all the way from Iowa in this?”

“Stop!” Richard gasped, remembering the twins. “I need to talk to my kids.”

“Forget it,” Lister said. “You saw the crowd they’re with. You want to get yourself killed?”

“What’s it to you?”

“What’s it to me?” Lister said, shaking his head. “Exactly what do you think I am? Some kind of animal?”

Richard didn’t reply. He was wondering if he had the strength to open the door and roll out when the pickup was still moving.

“Look, Iowa,” the newspaperman went on, glancing at his passenger. “Let me level with you. I feel bad about what’s happened to your kids. I liked them, really I did. I even tried to set them up with some advertising work.”

“Yeah,” Richard mumbled, “there’s always a market for good-looking twins.”

Gordy Lister looked at him again. “That’s right. You know more than I thought.” He raised his narrow shoulders. “But they got sucked into the drug scene. I’ve seen it happen before with kids from Hicksville. No offense.”

“Fuck you,” Richard said to himself. A thought struck him. “Take me to the police, will you?”

There was a sharp intake of breath from Lister. “Whoa, man. What do you think the cops are gonna do? The twins are twenty-one, they’re adults. The cops will just give you the brush-off.”

Richard sat up slowly, looking out at the lights of the city. For someone who supposedly had only known the kids for a few days, and that months ago, Gordy Lister was very specific about their age. Richard decided against insisting. Tomorrow, he’d go to the cops alone.

At the hotel, Lister put a hand on his arm. “You all right, Iowa? Need any help getting to your room?”

Richard pulled his arm away, the small man’s touch burning like a snake bite. “Get the hell out of my pickup.”

“Okay, okay,” Lister said, opening the driver’s door. “Sorry I asked.” He turned back and caught Richard’s eye. “There’s nothing you can do here. You have a good trip home, you hear, Iowa?”

The farmer watched him walk away, then hail a passing cab. For all the fake concern, Richard knew for sure that the newspaperman had a serious interest in the twins.