The Nameless Dead (13 page)

P
eter Sebastian drove us to the airport outside a town called Rockford. Quincy Jerome and I were in the back of the SUV. I looked out through tinted windows at the world I’d been excluded from for what seemed like years. It was icy cold and there were few people around. The exhaust fumes from vehicles hung in the air like ghosts unable to take corporeal form. Northern Illinois did not look in any way inviting.

‘If you don’t mind me asking,’ Quincy said, ‘what’s the plan?’

I flexed my fingers. ‘We find Heinz Rothmann and I get rid of him.’

Peter Sebastian glanced into the mirror. ‘Partially correct. We need to find Rothmann, but I want him brought in, like any other felon.’

‘So I’m an officer of the law now, am I?’ I asked ironically.

‘But if you have to use extreme force to defend yourself,’ the FBI man continued, ‘then so be it.’

‘Uh-huh,’ Quincy said. ‘That applies to me as well, does it?’

‘You’re a soldier,’ Sebastian said. ‘You’re trained to fire back if you’re attacked, no?’

‘You sure this is aboveboard?’ the sergeant asked. ‘I don’t want to find myself in a court accused of murder.’

‘Not going to happen,’ Sebastian said emphatically. ‘As for legitimacy, I can show you an authorization signed by the Director of the FBI.’

‘Maybe later,’ Quincy said, glancing at me.

I didn’t respond to his look. All I cared about was nailing Rothmann.

‘Where are we going?’ I asked, as we arrived at the airport.

‘D.C.,’ Sebastian replied, showing ID at a gate. ‘I want to review the murders. Then we’ll come up with a detailed plan.’

I didn’t buy that. The FBI’s head of violent crime was about the most structured person I’d ever met. We wouldn’t just come up with a plan, he’d have several carefully structured strategies already.

We were waved past the terminal building and through a gate in the security fence. Sebastian drove into a hangar and stopped next to an executive jet.

Quincy Jerome let out a low whistle. ‘Cool. Never been on one of these babies.’

Neither had I, but I didn’t feel any exhilaration. It was like my emotions had been streamlined—everything was directed toward finding Rothmann.

A few minutes later, we were in the air and arcing upward through a thick cloud cover. Quincy had his eyes glued to the porthole, until a tray of food arrived from the galley. When Sebastian sat down opposite me, I leaned forward and spoke to him in a low voice.

‘I presume you’ve publicized the fact that I’m in circulation.’

He shook his head. ‘We’re not telling the media anything as that would provoke a feeding frenzy. But we will pass the word to some of our informers in the criminal underworld.’

‘So I’m the bait.’ I gave him a cold smile. ‘Don’t worry, I can see the attractions of that idea. But what if he doesn’t come after me?’

‘You killed his beloved twin sister, Matt. Trust me, he’s going to come after you.’

I sat back. ‘So why are we going to D.C.? Why don’t we go somewhere easier for him to target?’

Sebastian thought about that. ‘Got a suggestion?’

‘I have, actually. You remember Mary Upson?’

‘The woman who got you out of Maine.’ His memory was as sharp as I had expected. ‘Her mother was involved with the Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant.’

‘Correct. Maybe we can kill two birds with one stone. You can interrogate the old woman about the cult and I can find out what Mary didn’t tell me.’

‘They were both interviewed at length after the cathedral massacre. The mother denied any involvement with either the Antichurch or Rothmann. Besides, your relationship with Mary Upson didn’t exactly end happily, Matt.’

‘True. I’ll try to make it up to her.’ The fact was, I was in pure manipulation mode. Rothmann would have been proud.

Sebastian looked up from the notes he was making. ‘How do we let Rothmann know where you are?’

‘We won’t have to. If you give Mary’s mother a chance, she’ll find a way to get in touch with him.’

‘Smart, Matt. Okay, I’ll talk to the Maine State Police and find out if the women are still living there.’

‘Sparta, that was the name of the town.’ It was the first place I’d reached after I escaped from the Rothmanns’ camp.

‘I know,’ he said testily. ‘I went there to catch you.’

I watched him as he went to the front of the cabin and picked up the phone.

‘I haven’t been to Washington since I was a kid,’ Quincy Jerome said, taking Sebastian’s seat.

‘Don’t hold your breath, big man. We’re rerouting.’

‘Where to?’

‘Probably Maine.’

‘At this time of year? Shee-it.’

‘Even worse than Illinois, eh?’

‘You know where I’m from?’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Mobile, Alabama. That’s about as different from Maine as you get.’

‘I’ll take your word for it.’ I feigned exhaustion and closed my eyes. I didn’t feel like talking. I liked Quincy, but often he made me laugh and I didn’t want to do that anymore. I tried to think of Karen and our son, but they wouldn’t come to me. My memory seemed to be working fine when it came to other things, but their faces—even Karen’s—had gone. If this was what grief did to you, I could do without it. I wanted to see them and weep.

‘Matt?’

My shoulder was shaken and I snapped awake.

‘You’ve been out for over an hour,’ Peter Sebastian said. ‘Mary Upson and her mother—’

‘Nora Jacobsen.’

He nodded. ‘They’ve moved to Portland—Maine.
Not Oregon, fortunately. We should be there in an hour and a quarter.’

‘You realize there’s a serious drawback to this plan,’ I said, after I’d gulped down a bottle of water.

‘What’s that?’

‘Sara Robbins.’

Sebastian studied me impassively. ‘She’ll see that you’ve been released, sure. But how could she know you’re in Portland?’

‘Trust me, she’ll find out. It wouldn’t even surprise me if she was working for Rothmann.’

‘Then we really will kill two birds with one stone.’

Quincy Jerome leaned across the aisle. ‘Who’s Sara Robbins?’

‘You do
not
want to know,’ I replied. ‘On second thoughts, you have to know.’

By the time I’d finished telling him about the Soul Collector, we had almost reached Portland.

Abaddon had been given that name by her brother. As far as she was concerned, that was who she was. The family was from Atlanta, but she had lived in St. Louis for the last five years, mainly because it was centrally located and had good flight connections. She often worked on both east and west coasts, as well as plenty of places in between, so a hub was essential.

She looked out of the window in the roof of the converted warehouse in Laclede’s Landing. The apartment had been an expensive buy because the area was a historic district, but that hadn’t been a problem. She liked the view of the Mississippi, the pair of bridges on one side and the open space around the Jefferson National Expansion Memorial on the other. She wasn’t so keen
on the 630-foot-high Gateway Arch. Modern architecture and art didn’t cut it for her, and the stainless steel parabola always struck her as a monument to American vanity.

Abaddon broke a couple of eggs into a glass, added salt, pepper and Tabasco, and drank them down. That would keep her going till dinner, which she would eat at Connolly’s, an Irish pub that did great burgers and stews. Tonight she was celebrating. Connolly’s was a young people’s hangout and if she was lucky she would find a willing guy. She corrected herself. Luck had nothing to do with it. Although she was forty, she kept herself in good shape and her hair was still black as ravens’ feathers. A man she lived with for three weeks—the most she’d ever managed—had told her that she had witchy looks. She reckoned he was right. She’d inherited her father’s dark hair and complexion, as well as other attributes. The genes behind her mother’s meekness and mousy hair had been outmuscled in a big way.

The only problem about St. Louis was that she wasn’t close to the Antichurch down south. Sometimes she managed to attend rituals on the way to and from jobs; other times she flew down specially. She didn’t make it every week, but she’d been given a dispensation. As long as she was there at least once a fortnight her soul remained bound to Lucifer. She couldn’t imagine life without that. Then again, she hadn’t been able to conceive of life without the old man until the catastrophe happened. The family had been devastated, but had managed to keep the Antichurch going, despite the efforts of the heretic. Abaddon had done what she could to avenge the lost faithful, but the enemy had always been untouchable.

Now, at last, the time had come. True, Abaddon had to do things the way her employer wanted, but that wasn’t a problem. She would do anything to get a shot at the heretic, kill anyone and never count the cost. It was what she lived for, what she wanted more than anything in the world. And she knew that the great god beneath the earth was on her side. There was nothing worse than a traitor. Now the enemy would pay for his sins against the Antigospel of Lucifer.

Abaddon opened her laptop and checked her employer’s secure site. Apparently Matt Wells had been released by the Feds. He could lead them to the enemy, but first she was to deal with someone else. The woman who stared out at her from the blurred photograph had short blond hair and prominent cheekbones, and she looked to be in good physical condition. As she read through the file, she felt the tingle throughout her body that always came when she was put up against a worthy opponent. This target was nothing less than a demon. She had killed at least fifty-six people, and those were only the confirmed victims—it was estimated that she was responsible for dozens of other deaths, in the U.S. and abroad. Her original name had been Sara Robbins, but later she was known as the Soul Collector. Her brother had been a vicious serial killer. Even more interesting, she had been Matt Wells’s lover. Nobody seemed to know her current name. Finding her was the first part of the job. The second was to take her out.

She looked toward the Gateway Arch, glinting red in the late afternoon sun, and smiled. This was going to be some contest. Abaddon versus the Soul Collector. The angel of the pit versus the killer who culled spirits.
Assassin versus assassin. Pro versus pro. There could be only one winner. The heretic might even get caught in the cross fire.

We were in an office borrowed from the Maine state cops on the outskirts of Portland. Peter Sebastian had just finished with the major in charge, making it clear that the FBI was boss now. While he was doing that, I caught the news on a TV high up in the corner. There was more about climate change than I remembered before we’d been cut off from all news media in the camp. There was a high-profile gathering of international leaders at the UN in ten days and special correspondents were stressing how important it was that progress be made on the issue.

Quincy Jerome sat at the conference table, looking like a fish who wished he was back in the water. In the past I’d have kept him company, but I didn’t have the urge anymore. There was a job to be done and being friendly was irrelevant. Besides, he’d been taken aback by what I told him about Sara. Soldiers didn’t expect to be attacked by attractive women. I made sure he had no illusions—she would pick up my trail, it was only a question of time. But I found that I didn’t care anymore. Nailing Rothmann was all that mattered.

Sebastian came over. ‘I’ve got surveillance on the Jacobsen house. Both she and Mary Upson are there.’

I stood up. ‘Let’s go then.’

‘Not yet. I’m waiting for some essential material from D.C. We’ll interview them tomorrow morning. They aren’t going anywhere.’

I looked at him doubtfully. ‘You’d better hope they aren’t. They’re our only leads.’

‘Apart from Gordy Lister. Look at this.’ He handed me a printout.

‘Jesus, this came in hours ago. How come you only got it now?’

Sebastian pursed his mouth. ‘I didn’t. I was informed this morning. I thought you had enough going on.’

I glared at him. ‘Don’t do that again. I’m the tethered goat here. I need to know what’s happening.’ Sebastian nodded, so I went back to the paper. ‘This Mikey Lister was what? Gordy’s brother?’

‘Yes. I’m embarrassed to say that our Jacksonville field office had him under surveillance, near Tallahassee. I thought Gordy might show up there after we spotted him in Philadelphia. The hit-and-run driver was gone before our people could react. There will be disciplinary proceedings.’

‘“No witnesses,”’ I read. ‘In broad daylight?’

‘Apparently.’

Quincy Jerome stirred. ‘Are you sure it was an accident?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Who would have wanted him dead?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Maybe someone else trying to find Rothmann thought Gordy’s brother might be able to help,’ I suggested.

‘So why kill him?’ Quincy asked.

Sebastian and I exchanged glances.

‘You’ll learn a lot if you pay attention, Sergeant,’ the FBI man said, shaking his head.

‘I thought we were done with ranks,’ Quincy countered.

That almost made me smile. Then the door opened
and Special Agent Bimsdale appeared, carrying a couple of heavy bags.

‘There you are,’ Sebastian said. ‘Have you got the insertion tools?’

The little man nodded and started unpacking his bags on the table. He handed a couple of long, thin boxes to his boss.

‘Right, gentlemen,’ Sebastian said, with a tight smile. ‘Arm or leg?’

‘I’m a leg man myself,’ Quincy said, grinning. Then his eyes opened wide. ‘Just what the hell is that?’

Sebastian had stripped the wrapping from an evil-looking, stainless steel probe. ‘Surely you didn’t think we were going to abandon you? There’s a GPS implant and signaling system in each of these.’ He stepped toward Quincy. ‘Come on, pull up your pant leg.’

I watched as the big man obliged. Bimsdale swabbed a patch of his calf, then Sebastian pressed the button on the insertion tool. Quincy blinked once.

‘Didn’t hurt then?’ I said, rolling up my shirt-sleeve.

‘You kidding? Hurt like hell.’ Quincy Jerome smiled. ‘But I got no problem with pain.’