The nameless dead

Ten

Special Agent Arthur Bimsdale was perplexed. Back in his hometown for the first time since he had been posted to Washington six months ago, he had never seen Philadelphia in a worse light-even on the autumn day that his parents, killed in a car crash three years ago, had been laid to rest in the Episcopalian cemetery. It was then that he had questioned his faith for the first, but certainly not the last, time.

It didn’t help that it was winter and the city’s prevalent color was gray, in a plethora of merging shades, but there was more to his feeling of disquiet than that. A sensitive person would have put it down to his proximity to death, in the forms of Jack Notaro and his predecessors in recent weeks. That didn’t apply to Bimsdale. He might have looked like the Yale scholar he once was, but his few friends knew he had a stainless steel backbone. There was no question that the behavior of the local media had been horrifying-a school of barracuda would have shown more respect to the professor’s mutilated corpse. No, the root of the problem was that his boss, Peter Sebastian, had chosen Philadelphia as the place where he finally showed his true colors.

And those, Bimsdale reflected as he hurriedly downed a cheesesteak at a stall near the university, were blacker than a pirate’s heart. He had suspected from the beginning that Sebastian saw him as a lightweight. His boss had read his personnel file, but quoted only selectively from it. In fact, the special agent in charge at the Butte, Montana, field office had given Bimsdale the best report he’d ever signed off on, commending in particular his aptitude for handling violent crime and his diligence in nailing the most hard-nosed felons. Sebastian seemed unimpressed by that. Arthur knew that his previous assistant was in jail, and he couldn’t understand what he was doing wrong. Maybe his boss had been romantically attached to the mysterious Dana Maltravers.

But all that was in the past. The fact was that Bimsdale hadn’t dropped the ball in the brief period they’d been working together. He had acted as the link between Sebastian and the Bureau’s investigators, both at the Hoover Building and in field offices, as well as dealing with local homicide teams. He had written reports, often in his boss’s name. Sebastian read and signed them, but he had never given him one word of praise. He even kept the media off Sebastian’s back, which had been quite some job since the career of ‘Hitler’s Hitman,’ as the killer was now called by the press, had started in Greenwich Village. Just remembering what information had been made public and what had been restricted in each case required an elephantine memory.

None of that really mattered. Arthur Bimsdale would have been having the time of his life. If his boss had kept him in the loop, he’d have been walking on air. But that wasn’t happening. The worst thing was that Peter Sebastian kept quiet about the details of earlier cases, particularly those which involved the Washington ‘Occult Killer’ and were confined to restricted files. Bimsdale suspected those murders were connected to the Rothmann conspiracy that had targeted the President, but Sebastian refused to discuss that angle. Most of what Arthur had learned, he’d found on the internet. What kind of a way was that to run a high-profile investigation? In fact, the violent crime unit wasn’t even running it-the day-to-day homicide work was being carried out by local detectives. That seemed like an abrogation of responsibility.

And then there was the question of Matt Wells. Why had Sebastian suddenly started visiting the British writer so regularly? Why did he spend so much time on those visits closeted with Dr. Rivers, whose career in mind control had been characterized as ‘highly dubious’ by several researchers and bloggers? Now Matt Wells was doing combat training and firearms practice. What kind of a way was that to treat a prisoner with dubious legal status, one that had tried to kill the President?

Arthur Bimsdale threw the remains of his lunch into a garbage bin. He was going to spend the afternoon in the University of Pennsylvania library, seeing if Jack Notaro had written anything that could have provoked his killer. Meanwhile, his boss had returned to D.C., for a meeting with the Director. At least that showed he had top-level support.

If it were up to Arthur, he’d have busted Peter Sebastian’s hindmost region to Guam, never mind Butte, Montana.

I heard several clicks on the line.

‘Hello? Sebastian?’

‘No, this is Special Agent Bimsdale. Who’s this?’

‘Matt Wells. Listen, I need to talk to him urgently. Is he there?’

‘I’m afraid not. Can I help?’

I thought about that. Obviously Sebastian wasn’t taking calls. I didn’t have any option but to talk to his worryingly young-looking bagman.

‘All right. Are you familiar with the name Gordy Lister?’

There was a pause. ‘Wasn’t he involved in the Rothmann case?’

At least he’d done his homework. ‘Correct. He was the scumbag’s fixer on the Star Reporter.’

‘And he was allowed to remain at liberty.’

‘Thanks for pointing that out, Arthur. Not one of our better calls at the time. The thing is, I just saw him.’

‘What? At the camp?’

‘No, you idiot. On the TV. He’s at the back of the crowd at the scene where the professor’s organs were found.’

‘Really? Give me a description.’

I did so. ‘Are you there?’

‘Yes. Stay on the line.’

The TV was no longer showing the live feed from Philadelphia, so I could only follow what was happening on the phone. I heard raised voices-one of which seemed to call the special agent ‘fuckface’. Bimsdale responded with, ‘Coming through’. He wasn’t so dumb though-he wasn’t shouting, so Lister might not realize he was being approached. I zapped from channel to channel, but there was nothing relevant, not even on the 24-hour news stations.

Eventually I heard Bimsdale’s voice again.

‘I don’t see him, Mr. Wells.’ He was breathing heavily.

‘Shit. Are you sure?’

‘I’m standing on a newspaper dispenser.’ That would have made his tall figure stick out like a lighthouse, but it sounded like it was too late for caution. ‘No. I’m sorry, Mr. Wells, he must have gone.’

‘Circulate the description among the cops.’

‘Okay. I can do better than that. I’ll get hold of the TV footage. He’s bound to show up on at least one channel.’ He paused. ‘If he really was here.’

‘I’m telling you, it was him.’

‘He was wearing a beard, you said.’

‘Yeah, it could have been fake.’

‘So how did you recognize him?’

I sighed. ‘I don’t know, Arthur, I just did. It was something about his manner. Lister’s a shifty bastard and that was what I picked up on.’

‘All right, Mr. Wells, I’ll do what I can. The problem is, if his beard was a false one, he could easily have jettisoned it to aid his disappearance.’

He was right. Lister could also have dumped the overcoat he was wearing, or turned it inside out, and he could easily have dispensed with the woolen hat.

I signed off and thought about what Lister’s presence might mean. Could he be ‘Hitler’s Hitman?’ I’d had some run-ins with him and he had played the tough guy, but he usually made sure he had big men present to look after him. I couldn’t see Gordy, who was skinny and below average height, hoisting a body as bulky as Jack Notaro’s onto a hook in the ceiling, nor could I see him killing people and cutting them to pieces.

So what was he doing at the scene? He was taking a hell of a risk, despite the disguise. He would have known that law enforcement often checked TV footage for suspicious individuals. What was so important that he had shown up in Philadelphia? Had Rothmann sent him? I was pretty sure that Lister would have hooked up with his boss after he disappeared. But if the Nazi was behind the murders, why would he risk incriminating himself and his underground organization by sending Lister to the locus? I was certain he was still scheming, no doubt having changed the name of his armed force from the North American National Revival, also known as the North American Nazi Revival, and no doubt still manipulating the Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant. Details of the M.O. s had been scanty, presumably because Sebastian had censored the reports, but it seemed to me that the satanic cult’s sacrificial ritual might be being copied in the stringing up and mutilation of the victims. On the other hand, Heinz Rothmann was a subtle operator, at least until his plans came to fruition. These murders were about as subtle as a cockroach in a cup of coffee.

Karen moved her bulk on the sofa. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Nothing.’ I hurriedly turned the TV off. ‘I thought you were asleep.’

‘I was. Who were you talking to?’

‘What? Oh, Quincy Jerome. Just arranging a run.’ I didn’t want her to know about the latest murder, and especially not about Gordy Lister. She hadn’t met him, but she knew who he was. The idea of her going into labor with him in mind was not appealing. Then again, the process might not start for days. Keeping the news from her would be impossible now we had internet and TV access.

‘How about some music?’ she said, hands on her bulge. ‘There’s a whole lot of kicking going on down here.’

I turned on the CD player. Julie Simms brought fresh disks from the camp library every week. I’d managed to get her to steer clear of garbage pop and concentrate on rock and folk. She was obviously a classical fan; there were always a couple of orchestral pieces in the bag.

The Manic Street Preachers blasted out. I’d forgotten that I’d left the CD in. They weren’t a top class band as far as I was concerned, but I couldn’t fault the sentiments of what was playing now-‘If You Tolerate This, Then Your Children Will Be Next.’

‘No!’ Karen cried. ‘Too raucous. Do you want your son to shake his way out of me?’

‘Sorry.’ I ejected the disk and put on one of Julie’s. A swathe of gentle strings and what sounded like a harpsichord filled the room.

‘That’s better. What is it?’

I looked at the box. ‘Monteverdi.’

‘Mmm, it’s nice. Come over here.’

I did as I was told.

‘I feel…funny,’ Karen said, taking my hand.

I was instantly alert. ‘Is it beginning?’

‘I don’t think so. It’s just…it’s just that I’m afraid, Matt.’ She let out a sob.

I pressed myself against her. ‘Don’t be silly. You’re my strong woman, you can stand up to anything.’

‘I don’t think I can. I keep…I keep thinking about what the Rothmanns did to me. What if the baby’s damaged? What if I can’t act like a proper mother?’

I squeezed her hands. ‘You’ve had plenty of tests. Nothing’s wrong with the boy. Or with you.’

‘How do you know?’ she demanded, pulling her hands away. ‘Rivers is still dredging triggers out of you and I’ve had much less treatment. What if some function of the conditioning is activated when I give birth? What if they designed the process to keep female subjects childless? That isn’t so unlikely. They wouldn’t want their robot soldiers to be distracted by kids-’

‘Karen, Karen,’ I said, wiping her brow. ‘Calm down. Take some deep breaths.’ I did that and she eventually followed suit. ‘That’s better. You know you mustn’t get overwrought. It’s bad for junior.’

‘Don’t call him that. He’s Magnus Oliver-Magnus Oliver Wells.’

‘That’s right, darling.’ I repeated the names. ‘He’s desperate to see us, so you have to look your best.’ I handed her a box of tissues.

‘I’m sorry, Matt. Sometimes it gets too much for me.’

‘I don’t believe that for a second. You’re just trying to make me sorry for you so that I’ll make your lunch.’

She laughed. ‘I don’t want anything to eat.’

‘Aren’t you supposed to keep your strength up?’

‘Look at me. I’ve got enough blubber reserves to sink a whaling ship.’

‘Rubbish. You’re the most attractive woman in the camp.’

She raised an eyebrow at that admittedly less than ringing endorsement. The average female soldier’s looks were forbidding and Julie Simms was no Venus de Milo, though she did have a full set of limbs.

‘Matt, don’t go out today.’

‘Okay,’ I said, alert to her tone again. ‘I think Rivers is expecting me in the evening, though.’

‘Let’s see if we get that far,’ she said, closing her eyes.

I took the phone into the bedroom and called the medical center. The midwife said everything was ready and there was nothing else to do, so I cut the connection. I felt useless, a spare part. I went back into the living room and turned the music down. Monteverdi was surprisingly pleasant, but the lack of guitars was a problem for me. I was going to make sure Magnus Oliver Wells had a working knowledge of classic rock music before he went to school.

There were certain things a father had to do for his son.

The boy was between two and three years old. His legs were short and bowed, in a pair of clean and well-pressed corduroy trousers. The black leather boots had been polished, but were now spattered with Central Park mud-the Filipina nanny wasn’t quick enough to stop him dashing onto the grass and under the trees. He screamed with delight every time she came after him, his cheeks red and his blue eyes sparkling. The last time the woman approached, he pulled off his woolen hat and threw it in her face. That earned him a stern talking-to and he started to sniffle as he was led back to the path.

Sara Robbins watched from behind a wider tree trunk than most. The day was milder than its predecessors, but there was still a bite in the wind. The water in the reservoir looked chill, low waves sweeping across its surface. As she walked out of the cover, she felt the plastic switchblade in the pocket of her Levi’s. She always had it with her, not least because it wasn’t picked up by metal detectors.

As the little boy walked past, trying to tug his hand away from the Filipina’s, Sara threw the ball she’d bought in his direction. The nanny looked round and stared at her suspiciously. Scott smiled at Sara and then ran to retrieve the ball.

‘Tana,’ said the boy, pointing at the picture of the steam engine on the ball.

‘Thomas?’ Sara said. ‘That’s right, it’s Thomas.’

‘Come, Scott,’ the nanny said firmly. ‘We do not talk to strangers.’

Sara ignored her, kneeling down beside the boy. ‘Your name’s Scott? My brother’s called Scott.’ She viewed that as a white lie.

The Filipina pulled on her charge’s arm. ‘Come on. Mummy will be angry.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ Sara said. ‘I’ve got kids myself.’

The nanny looked around the area of grass. ‘So where are they, Mrs.?’

Sara laughed hollowly. ‘Where are they? Visiting Granny.’ She pointed to the ball. ‘Would you like to have Thomas?’

The little boy nodded avidly. ‘Tana. Scott love Tana.’

‘Come on now,’ the Filipina said, glaring at Sara. ‘Or I call police.’

‘Because I gave him a ball? Are you insane?’

‘No. You are insane person.’ The nanny tugged hard at the boy’s arm.

‘You’re hurting him,’ Sara said, standing up and grabbing the woman’s wrist. ‘Let go.’

The Filipina’s face clenched in pain and she quickly released Scott’s hand.

‘That’s better,’ Sara said. ‘Are you all right, darling?’

The boy smiled. ‘Tana.’

Sara ran her fingertips down his cheek. ‘Have fun. I have to go now. Bye-bye.’ She looked at the nanny. ‘Don’t you dare hurt him again.’

The trembling Filipina dropped her gaze.

Sara Robbins walked into the trees, and then started to jog away. That was stupid, she said to herself. What were you doing? Your brother wasn’t called Scott and you don’t have children. What’s the matter with you?

When she got to Museum Mile, she hailed a cab and sat back in the seat, her breathing ragged. She knew herself too well to be under any illusions. She had never had the slightest desire to have children, but now Matt Wells was about to become a father again. That was getting to her. She had no idea whether the child was a boy or a girl, but for some reason that she couldn’t fathom, she was interested.

This was changing her, and that wasn’t good. Something that she couldn’t control was happening to her, something that was making her see the world differently.

The Soul Collector had to find her former lover urgently.

It was as if he had unknowingly infected himself with a disease that would change him irrevocably. Whenever he descended to the underground chamber hosting the Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant in exile-what those who believed in the false faith would have called a cathedral crypt-the Master almost forgot his name.

Given how many identities he possessed, he shouldn’t have been surprised. Of them, only his birth name of Heinz Rothmann was important to him, but even it was less desirable than the title he had assumed. The Master of the Antichurch was not only the guarantor of eternal death to his followers. He also still had control of the fortune that he had obtained as the businessman Jack Thomson, distributed over the years in numerous offshore banks. He was also still the sole owner of the conditioning drugs and techniques developed by his unjustly killed sister and lover, and there was no shortage of government agencies around the world that would pay with the lifeblood of their citizens for those. Not only that, he still had a large number of subjects who had been through coffining and could be activated as ruthless killers with a single phone call.

But for the Master, all of that had become a secondary reality, one seen through a glass lightly. Now he preferred the darkness that the Antichurch brought, the darkness and the knowledge that life was an illusion and that only death had any substance. The great poets had always known the power of death and its inescapable triumph. That was why the Mesopotamian tradition had the hero Gilgamesh descend to the underworld, the house of dust, to see firsthand how ineluctable the death gods were. The great poets, Homer, Virgil, even the deluded Christians Dante and Milton, had sent their protagonists to the underworld-assuming, as was obvious, that Satan was the hero of Paradise Lost. And even the false messiah Christ was said to have harrowed hell before his supposed resurrection. Lucifer and his realm were triumphant for eternity. To think that when the Master had revived the Antichurch in Maine, his motivation was that Americans would respond more readily to a religious cult than the antireligious ideology of Nazism. Now he knew that the Antichurch had more potential for destruction than any political system. After all, the established religions in the West had been sucking innocents into their maws for centuries.

The man with the scarred cheeks looked at the manuscripts he had laid out on the table in the underground chamber. Maybe he should see it as a crypt after all-the word meant ‘hidden,’ and there was nothing more hidden than the original Antigospel, written by its founders’ own hands. But it wouldn’t be a crypt for long. Soon the Antichurch and its primary lessons, that death governed all things and that human beings were naturally violent, would be known across the world.

But something was missing. The Master corrected himself-not something, but someone. He needed a senior disciple, a helper he could depend on. People capable of what the Antigospel required were very rare-even fully coffined subjects could not be relied upon in the most testing circumstances. He had encountered one with true potential, though: the Englishman, Matt Wells. The Master now understood that blaming Wells for killing his sister was a mistake. By that act, the crime writer, who had immersed himself deep in death’s philosophies and experienced the persecution of merciless killers, was the ally he needed. The problem was, Wells was nowhere to be found.

But that would soon change, he was certain. The murders in the northern cities would see to that. Matt Wells would become one of the nameless, as had the Master. And then the will of Lucifer would sweep across the land like the flames of hell itself.