The nameless dead

Four

Karen was lying on the sofa with a blanket over her. Her eyes opened.

‘Sorry. Go back to sleep.’

‘It’s all right,’ she murmured. ‘Your son’s finally stopped doing somersaults. Kiss?’

I went over and gave her what she wanted. As her time came closer, she had become more insecure, something I would never have expected when she had been the stern, driven detective. I was doing the best I could to support her, but she really needed to be in familiar surroundings so she could nest and prepare herself. Bastard Sebastian.

‘How was it?’ she asked, taking my hand.

‘Okay.’

Karen wasn’t buying that. ‘You had a hit, didn’t you?’

I glanced away. The last thing she needed now was to worry about me.

She squeezed my hand. ‘I’m a big girl, Matt,’ she said, pulling me closer with surprising strength. ‘We’ve talked about this. We’ll get through it together. You tell me what happens to you and vice versa. That’s the deal.’ She tugged me downward and kissed me on the lips.

I felt my eyes dampen. Karen had been kidnapped by the Rothmanns earlier in her pregnancy and the fuckers had put her through the brainwashing process. No one knew what effects the drugs and machines would have had on our son, even though both Rivers and the obstetrics team expressed confidence for his health, at least on the surface.

‘Don’t worry, my love,’ she said, putting her lips to my eyes. ‘We’re doing fine, all three of us. You’ll see. We’ll beat this. We’ll beat them all.’

I leant against her and felt the bump where our son was sleeping under my abdomen. God, I loved Karen. Without her, I wouldn’t have got this far in the therapy.

She laughed, her breath tickling my ear. ‘Now go and get me a sandwich, male slave. I’m ravenous.’

I went into the kitchen. The camp staff had been bringing us the makings of all our meals since Karen first refused to eat the food that came on covered plates from the mess hall. I put together some ham and cheese sandwiches and took them back to the living room. Then, my voice low, I told her about the trigger. I didn’t say the word out loud in case she had been programmed with it, too-Rivers would follow that up after she’d given birth.

We had just finished eating when the doorbell rang. Although the Feds could have walked in any time they liked, they preserved the fiction that our quarters were private, despite the cameras and microphones. I opened up.

‘Hi, Matt.’ Special Agent Julie Simms, a nondescript woman in her late thirties, was one of the FBI team. She handed me an envelope. ‘Enjoy,’ she said, turning away.

‘What is it?’ Karen asked.

I ran my eyes down the communication and laughed. ‘It’s from Peter Sebastian.’ I handed over the sheet of official paper. ‘Progress at last.’

‘My God, he’s giving you unarmed combat sessions even though he knows how dangerous you can be?’

‘It’s about time I got back into shape. You know what this means?’

‘We’re going to get out,’ she said breathlessly.

‘I reckon so. He knows that Sara will come after me, so he wants to get me back to full fitness.’

Karen’s face fell. ‘In that case, he should be giving you a small arms refresher course, too.’

I knew that wasn’t likely, given that we were still finding triggers in our minds. There could have been hundreds of others, even though I had escaped from the Rothmanns’ camp before the conditioning-what they delightfully referred to as ‘coffining’-was complete. But that wasn’t what was worrying me. The idea that crazy Sara might be on my tail when our son was a tiny baby horrified me, as did the fact that I was partially responsible for the threat. If only she’d been killed alongside her sick brother…

I knew what I would have to do when we were released-find her before she got to us, and deal with her once and for all. I would never forgive myself if something happened to the woman I loved and our son.

‘Matt,’ Karen said, ‘I don’t want to think about the Soul Collector.’ She never called Sara by her real name. ‘Come here.’

I sat down on the rug by the sofa and took her hand.

Karen gave a shy smile. ‘I…I want to talk about the baby’s name.’

I remembered the lack of progress the last time we’d done that. ‘Are you sure? Maybe we should wait till after he’s here.’

There was a flash of anger in her eyes. ‘What, now you’re superstitious?’

‘No, of course not. I take it Algernon’s out of favor.’

She ignored that. ‘I don’t know. You’ll probably hate my idea.’

‘No, I won’t. Try me.’

She took a deep breath. ‘Magnus.’

I liked it immediately. ‘You know what it means?’ I’d always been fascinated by names and had several books about them.

She shrugged. ‘It’s Latin, isn’t it?’

I nodded. ‘Magnus means big.’

Karen laughed. ‘Really? Like father, like son.’

‘Ha.’ Suddenly I knew the time was right, although I hadn’t been planning it. I shifted onto my knees, her hand still in mine. ‘Karen Oaten,’ I said, as formally as I could. ‘Will you do me the enormous honor of marrying me?’

She looked like she had been struck by several bolts of lightning. For what seemed like a long time, she was unable to speak. Then she managed the words I’d been hoping I’d hear. ‘Oh, Matt. Of course I will.’

We kissed for an even longer time.

And then the doorbell rang again.

‘Shit,’ I said, after our lips had parted.

‘Don’t go,’ Karen whispered.

‘They’ll only use the passkey. I won’t be a second.’

I got a surprise when I opened the door.

‘Sergeant Quincy Jerome, 182nd Airborne Division,’ said the familiar figure, this time wearing full fatigues, cap, belt and gleaming black boots. ‘I’ve been assigned to work up your unarmed combat skills, Mr. Wells.’

‘You couldn’t have picked a worse time.’

‘Go!’ Karen called. ‘I want to let the good news sink in.’

Quincy gave me a quizzical look. ‘It’s good news that I’m going to be at the…give you a rigorous workout?’

I smiled. ‘I’m less of a civilian than you think.’ I went to change my clothes.

Sergeant Quincy Jerome beat the crap out of me. Or rather, he would have done if we’d been fighting for real. As it was, I still had pains in places I’d forgotten existed. We started with judo. I was a black belt, but Quincy was several dans better than me. Then we boxed for a while. My stamina wasn’t too bad-I’d been running and doing exercises every day for the past two weeks. That was the best that could be said of my performance in the ring. He was taller and his reach was longer: I hardly landed a punch on his head guard, never mind his body. The fact that I used to train with an ex-paratrooper and SAS man didn’t do me any good; Dave, the meanest bastard I ever saw in a fight, would have had trouble with the sergeant.

Jesus, Dave. Sara had killed him in cold blood. And that was my biggest secret and motivation-my lust for revenge was just as great as hers.

The sergeant folded his arms and shook his head. ‘You’re softer than a marshmallow, friend.’ He slapped me on the back. ‘Come on, it’s time to get wet.’

We spent some time going after each other in the pool. After I’d swallowed most of it without laying more than a fingertip on him, we called it a day. I dragged myself out of the water and staggered to a bench.

‘Actually,’ Quincy said, standing in front of me, ‘I’ve seen worse.’ He laughed. ‘At a grade school.’

I gave him the finger without looking up.

‘Joking,’ he said. ‘For a civilian, your grasp of the basics isn’t bad. Give me a week and I’ll knock you into shape.’

‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ I said, finally getting my breathing under a modicum of control.

He grinned. ‘Same time tomorrow?’

‘Sadist.’

That got me a heavy punch on the shoulder.

Peter Sebastian looked down at the gray waters of the Potomac as the Bureau driver crossed it on their way into Washington D.C. The flight from Boston had been delayed and he was going to be late for his meeting with the Director. Not far downstream, the Nazi Heinz Rothmann had last been seen on his boat, heading toward this same Potomac. Matt Wells had done what he could to stop the madman, but it hadn’t been enough. No body had been found and Rothmann had survived, the FBI man was certain of that-survived to start anew with a murderous campaign against the people who hated everything he lived for.

‘Sir?’

Sebastian glanced at Arthur Bimsdale. The young agent was like a puppy desperate to please. At least you didn’t have to worry about hidden depths with him-what you saw was very definitely what you got. That made a change from Sebastian’s last assistant, who had played him for several kinds of fool.

‘What is it?’

‘Well,’ Bimsdale said, flicking through the pages of his notebook, ‘I was wondering how we’ll be handling the media with this latest killing. There’s no chance of keeping most of the details under wraps.’

‘Considering the poor woman was blowing naked in the wind in front of half of Boston until the paramedics arrived, that is a reasonable conclusion.’

The agent’s cheeks reddened. ‘Em, yes. So, shall I give the Massachusetts detectives details of the earlier killings?’

‘Do nothing of the kind.’

‘But they’re already asking-’

‘Let them ask. We don’t have to answer.’ A thought struck Sebastian. ‘Have you told the people working on the other killings not to volunteer information to Boston?’

Arthur Bimsdale nodded. ‘I thought that would be advisable until you told me otherwise.’

Sebastian was impressed, not that he showed it. He had lined another agent up to assist him, but Bimsdale had been foisted on him by the deputy director of personnel. Apparently he came highly recommended by the special agent in charge in Butte, Montana. J. Edgar Hoover, who used to exile incompetents there, would be rotating in his grave.

‘Keep it that way until I do tell you otherwise.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The young man looked at him earnestly. ‘Do you think it’s the same killer in all three cases?’

‘Yes.’

The abrupt answer seemed to surprise Bimsdale. ‘What about the differences in the M.O. s?’

The senior man shook his head. ‘We’ve been over this before. The specifics may vary, but the general picture is the same every time. The victims were all involved in activities that could be construed as anti-Nazi, and all three were killed in ways that relate to the rituals of the Antichurch.’

Arthur Bimsdale looked unconvinced. ‘Yes, sir, I’ve looked at the archive material, such as it is. I have to say, I don’t find it hugely convincing.’ His manner was that of a nitpicking student in a philosophy seminar.

‘Oh, really?’ Sebastian said, giving him an icy look. ‘One of the core rites of the Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant was human sacrifice. The chosen ones were suspended from an inverted cross before their throats were cut. Then their eyes were put out. Does that sound at all familiar?’

Bimsdale was unaffected by his boss’s sarcasm. ‘First of all, the Antichurch only operated in the state of Maine-none of these killings took place there. The records also show it was eradicated in the 1850s. I don’t understand why an obscure and highly localized cult should be relevant, especially considering that there was no direct reference to it at the scenes.’

Peter Sebastian turned away and looked at the lights in the center of the capital. In a few minutes he would be in the executive elevator that led to the Director’s office. He didn’t need a debate about the killings right now. Then again, honing his case on a callow subordinate might be beneficial.

‘As I’ve told you more than once, Arthur,’ he said, using the young agent’s first name to induce a bogus sense of camaraderie, ‘the Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant was recently revived by Heinz Rothmann and his sister to give their Nazi movement a religious component. They calculated, quite correctly in my view, that Americans had to be engaged on the spiritual dimension before they would accept a political agenda.’

‘But human sacrifice?’ Bimsdale was unable to conceal his horror.

‘Is that so strange? Millions of our fellow citizens believe that Armageddon is almost upon us, you know, the battle in which scores of people are going to die horribly.’

‘Really, sir, that’s nothing more than a myth,’ the young agent said dismissively.

‘Is that right?’ Peter Sebastian caught his assistant’s eye. ‘Tell me, Arthur, what’s your faith?’

‘I’m an Episcopalian.’

‘From Philadelphia, as I remember. And you studied sociology and criminology at Yale?’

‘Among other subjects, yes.’

‘Have you spent much time in the Bible Belt? Or the deep South?’

The young man shook his head. ‘My family has a holiday place in Vermont.’

‘But you came across fundamentalist Christians in Montana, I’m guessing. Fundamentalist Christians with some worrying political beliefs.’

Bimsdale nodded, looking uncomfortable.

‘That’s what I mean. There are enough frightening people with beliefs related to human sacrifice even before you go anywhere near cults like the Antichurch, never mind Nazis.’

‘All right, sir, I can accept that. But what about the differences in the M.O. s? Victim one was decapitated and disemboweled. Victim two was hung upside down-but then his eyes were removed, unlike the previous victim’s. And number three was stabbed before being hung from a window.’

Sebastian had turned away, his eyes fixed on the Washington Monument. ‘You’re forgetting several significant points.’

‘With respect, sir, I’m not. Nazi slogans and/or insignia were found at every scene, and all the victims were engaged in activities that could be construed as anti-Nazi-or at least pro-minorities and liberal. But there’s been no specific reference to these Rothmann people, nor to the Antichurch. It’s all very circumstantial.’

Sebastian looked round. ‘What, your detective skills require that Rothmann leaves his fingerprints at every scene?’

‘No, sir,’ Bimsdale said, less deferentially. ‘In any case, the lack of trace evidence suggests that an experienced professional carried out the murders.’

‘An experienced professional hired by Rothmann.’

‘Maybe.’

Peter Sebastian sighed. ‘Look, the M.O. s are not so different. True, Laurie Simpson’s head was removed, but that’s a form of throat cutting, isn’t it? And that poor woman in Boston had a rope put round her neck-again, the throat.’

‘What about the postmortem mutilation of the first two victims?’ Bimsdale demanded, holding up his yellow pencil like a teacher questioning a pupil.

‘The records suggest that the Antichurch faithful tore apart the victims of human sacrifices.’

Bimsdale nodded. ‘But there’s nothing about organs being placed in or near the vicinity of toilets.’

Sebastian groaned. ‘Like all those indoor toilets in nineteenth-century Maine? Come on, Arthur, you’ve heard of metaphors, haven’t you?’

‘The victims’ head and tongue put where fecal matter goes? I see the rationale, sir, but it’s hardly an established methodology, even amongst fascists and Satanists.’

Sebastian was tempted to pull rank on his assistant, but he restrained himself. If his case struck a lowly agent as being flawed, what would the notoriously acerbic Director think of it? Then again, the Director had shown a personal interest in the murders from the start, and he’d been keen on a meeting even before his head of violent crime had been obliged to go to Boston.

The thing was, whatever the Bureau’s manuals said, investigating murder wasn’t only about collecting and collating evidence. You had to go by your gut as well, and Peter Sebastian’s had been telling him from the moment he saw the swastika above the heaped innards in Greenwich Village that Rothmann was pulling the strings, even though he’d still hedged that conclusion until the house on Lake Huron.

The question was, what to do? Given the distance between the various scenes and the skills demonstrated by the killer, it would be impossible to predict who and where the next victim would be-and he was sure there would be more. They could either sit back and let the bastard run with it until they nailed him, or launch a preemptive strike. Convincing the Director to go with the latter would be a hell of a job, he knew. But at least he had a card up his sleeve: the former Rothmann subject Matt Wells.