The Nameless Dead (16 page)

Being Jewish also made him careful. His mother had taught him that. He never admitted to his faith unless it was necessary. And he never gave out his real name, which was a lot weirder than Quincy Jerome. He’d cobbled that together from a high-school football player and the maiden name of Winston Churchill’s mother, a woman his mother admired for her spirit. The downside of his background was that he knew more than was healthy about evil—and those upturned crosses had breathed malevolence to him even before the human remains had turned up.

‘How about this?’ Quincy heard Matt Wells say. ‘It’s not a person’s name, it’s a place name.’

That prompted a clatter of fingertips on keyboards.

T
here wasn’t anywhere called Fred Warren in the U.S. Or Warren Fred. There were, however, numerous places named Warren and even a few named Fred. The clincher was the number.

Major Hexton wondered if 1943 referred to a road. It only took a few seconds for him to find a farm to market road in Texas. It ran between two towns called Fred and Warren, about seventy miles northeast of Houston.

‘You’re kidding,’ said Quincy Jerome.

I pointed to the map that had appeared on Hexton’s laptop. ‘In the Big Thicket National Preserve.’

‘The Big Thicket?’ Peter Sebastian repeated. ‘What exactly is that?’

‘I know,’ Quincy said, raising his hand. ‘We went on a school trip. It’s part of the Piney Woods that take up a lot of East Texas. As far as I remember, the Big Thicket’s about 80,000 acres. It’s got everything a nature lover could want—wetlands, pine uplands, sandy lands. There are carnivorous plants, hickory, tupelo and all kinds of animals—deer, bobcats, armadillos, alligators, some real nasty hogs…’

‘Oh, great,’ I said. ‘Southern Gothic in spades.’

Quincy grinned. ‘You got that right, my man. Some of the locals are straight outta
Deliverance
.’

‘It gets better by the minute,’ I said.

Sebastian dropped his pen onto the yellow pad in front of him. ‘Obviously because the Antichurch has got some kind of presence there.’ Major Hexton kept his eyes down, no doubt hoping that the cult had a minimal following in Maine. Nothing attracts undesired attention like murderous Satanists.

‘Well,’ I began, ‘where the Antichurch goes…’

‘Heinz Rothmann and his acolytes are bound to follow,’ Arthur Bimsdale completed. ‘It’s pretty thin.’

‘You got a better idea?’ Sebastian demanded. ‘I didn’t think so. Get on to the field office in Houston and find out about the area. In particular, if anything unusual there has attracted their attention of late.’

Bimsdale went out, his cheeks red. Sebastian might have been a good investigator, but his management sucked.

The major stood up. ‘I’m going to see how things are progressing,’ he said, then left at speed. He didn’t want the senior FBI man to lay into
him.

That left the three of us.

I glanced at Quincy. ‘Fancy a trip to Texas?’

‘Why not? It isn’t too hot at this time of year. Still need your bug spray though, especially in those woods.’

‘If I could interrupt your vacation planning,’ Sebastian put in, ‘nobody’s going anywhere without my sayso.’

I gave him a tight smile. ‘To coin a phrase, have you
got a better idea? I take it there still haven’t been any sightings of Nora Jacobsen.’

He glanced at his laptop, then shook his head.

‘No more Hitler’s Hitman killings?’

Another shake, this one abrupt.

‘You know the state police here aren’t going to find anything.’

This time he reacted with words. ‘Let’s wait and see what the major comes back with. In the meantime, what exactly do you two superheroes think you’re going to do down in Texas? For all you know, Nora Jacobsen might have a boy toy in the Big Thicket.’

‘And I might be Jimi Hendrix’s long lost twin brother,’ I said, raising a smile from Quincy. ‘Come on, Peter, this is all we’ve got.’

Mary Upson looked up as Matt came back into the interview room. Although the rings beneath his eyes were still pronounced, there was a glint in them that hadn’t been there before.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

He sat down opposite her. ‘We think we know what your mother was saying. Was she planning a trip?’

‘Can’t you leave my mother alone?’

‘Just answer the question, Mary.’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact she was. On Friday. She has a friend in Indianapolis. She goes about this time every year.’

‘Did you see any tickets?’

‘What? No…’

‘Has she seemed different to you lately?’

Mary frowned. ‘If you must know, yes, she has. Ever since we were dragged over the coals by the FBI, she’s
kept herself even more to herself. She was never very open, but she’s gotten more secretive. I think she’s going senile. That’s why I gave up my job and moved back down here with her.’

‘And you?’ Matt asked, his tone more tender.

She ran her tongue over her lips. ‘Oh, I’m all right. Out of work, bored, unhappy in love…’

He reached across and took her hand. ‘You’ll be okay.’

‘Will I? Will you, Matt? I’m so sorry about your…your…child. It must be awful.’ She paused. ‘I could help.’

He tugged his hand away. ‘No, you couldn’t,’ he said, in little more than a whisper. ‘Nobody can.’

Mary Upson watched as he left the room. She had never seen anyone bearing such a weight. His shoulders were sloped and it seemed to take a great effort for him just to move his body. They could have been so good together, but fate had driven them apart. She would happily have given him a child, she still could—if only he would look at her like a woman rather than a pawn in the mad game he was playing.

‘All right,’ Peter Sebastian said, running a hand over his unwashed hair, ‘let’s go through this again.’

I was at the table with him, Arthur Bimsdale and Quincy Jerome.

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Mary Upson has confirmed that there’s some kind of Antichurch gathering at this time of year.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Bimsdale said, peering at his notes. ‘That’s not how you reported it. She said that her mother visited a friend in Indianapolis every December.’

‘Use your imagination, Arthur,’ I said. ‘That’s what she told Mary. I’m willing to bet your salary several times over that the old woman hasn’t got any friends except Antichurch members.’

‘Leave that point for now,’ Sebastian ordered. ‘According to Major Hexton, the CSIs have found traces of human blood and tissue on one of the inverted crosses and on the floor in the barn house, though the knife Nora Jacobson pulled was clean. The jawbone we turned up has small cuts all over it, suggesting the flesh and other matter was scraped off. Identifying the person the bone came from will not be easy.’

I closed my eyes and tried to black out an unwanted vision of the mutilation being carried out. Could one elderly woman have killed and dismembered the victim on her own? Could Mary have been dissembling? If so, she was very good.

‘As regards the fugitive mother,’ the senior FBI man continued, ‘witnesses have placed her in Portland around the times of all four Hitler’s Hitman murders. Apparently she’s a fixture in the markets and shops, telling people what she thinks of the way they live.’

‘So what are we saying?’ Quincy asked. ‘She’s involved in this Antichurch, but she’s not our killer?’

Arthur Bimsdale laughed. ‘That’s quite a deduction, Sergeant.’

The big man looked on the verge of introducing Bimsdale’s laptop to his head.

‘Indeed,’ Sebastian said, nodding at Quincy. ‘If she’s a follower of Rothmann, she probably is a Nazi. Judging by what we’ve seen here, she may well also be a murderess. But it seems she’s not up for these four killings.’

‘Far as I’m concerned, she’s going down, whoever she killed,’ Quincy said, his face set hard.

I studied him, then turned to Sebastian. ‘Mary Upson. I suggest you let her go.’

He gave me a black look. ‘You had the handcuffs removed from her mother, Matt. That wasn’t such a good idea.’

‘Keep her under surveillance. Maybe her mother will contact her, or vice versa.’

He thought about that, and then nodded. ‘What did our friends in Houston tell you, Arthur?’

Bimsdale hit keys on his laptop. ‘They sent a profile of the area. As the sergeant said, it’s heavily wooded and treacherous ground, largely unpopulated. There are no ongoing Bureau investigations in Tyler County, and no recent buildings on the 1943 road other than private homes.’

‘So if Rothmann’s down there,’ I said, ‘he’s using an existing structure.’

‘Correct.’ Sebastian looked at me. ‘Are you sure you want to go?’

‘Oh, yes.’ I turned to Quincy. ‘You still in?’

He grinned. ‘Sure.’

‘How do you want to do it?’ Sebastian asked.

‘No FBI planes. We’ll go to Houston by commercial flight—Quincy at least five rows behind me. I’ll hire a car at the airport. I want to be obvious to Rothmann’s people. When I locate him, you can send your people in.’

Sebastian frowned. ‘You’ll be taking a big risk.’

‘You put a bug in my arm, didn’t you? Just make sure you’ve got people close by—but not too close. Quincy can take point on watching my back.’

‘Not many black folks in those parts,’ the sergeant observed.

‘You’re good at camouflage, aren’t you?’

He laughed. ‘Yes, sir, that I am.’

‘We’ll give you a locator so you can track Matt,’ Sebastian said.

‘What about weapons?’ Quincy asked.

‘I’ll arrange for some to be waiting for both of you in the airport luggage lockers. You can pick the keys up from airport information.’

That seemed to cover most of the bases. I had turned myself into bait, but I didn’t care. Getting to the piece of shit who killed my family was all that mattered.

Sara Robbins, currently Colette Olds, got out of the Lexus and went to the diner opposite the police headquarters building. She was wearing a black wig and pulled a Boston Red Sox cap low over her eyes—even though she knew Matt was still in the cop shop, she wasn’t taking any chances.

She bought a decaf and sat near the window. The place was full of uniformed police, but that didn’t bother her. She was used to being in the belly of the beast—there was no better place for a professional killer to merge into the background.

‘This seat taken?’ The cop was young and fresh-faced. He was on his own, the gear on his belt shaking and jangling.

‘Go ahead,’ she said, giving him a restrained smile. ‘Busy day?’

‘Busy night, more like.’ He took a slug of black coffee.

She decided to probe. ‘You at that fire in Springfield Road?’

‘That’s right.’ He looked at her quizzically.

‘I saw the flames. Got to admit I did a bit of rubber-necking. What happened?’

‘You didn’t hear the explosion?’ He was keen to impress now. ‘Seems one of the residents took it into her head to blow the place up.’

She winced. ‘Was anybody hurt?’

‘No one, by some miracle.’ The cop took a bite from his doughnut. ‘We’re still looking for the woman.’

‘That would be Ms. Jacobsen.’ The Soul Collector had done her research.

He nodded. ‘You know her?’

‘Not personally.’

He laughed. ‘But she has a reputation.’

She went along with that. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a black Grand Cherokee move forward slowly on the other side of the diner.

The driver was a well-built white woman wearing a woolen hat. It wasn’t the first time she had seen the vehicle—it had been in her mirror, three cars behind, when she had driven out here earlier in the morning. Maybe it was a coincidence, but there was no point in taking a chance. Since the pain had started, she had become more prone to acting on impulse.

‘Oh, no,’ she groaned.

‘What is it?’ The young cop was the picture of concern.

‘It’s just…oh, never mind.’

‘No, really, I’m here to help.’

Sara sighed. ‘I don’t know…it’s embarrassing, really.’

‘Whatever it takes,’ said her admirer, following the direction of her gaze.

‘All right, thanks, Officer. You see the Cherokee? It’s been following me all week.’

The young man craned forward. ‘You know the driver?’

‘Well, like I say, it’s embarrassing…I met her in a club last Saturday night. Em, not the kind of club you go to.’

He got her meaning, attempting to conceal his disappointment.

‘We…we went back to her place, but I got frightened. You see…she wanted to do something…extreme. When I refused, she turned nasty. She found out where I live and she’s been on my tail ever since. I’m…I’m frightened.’

The combination of sexual deviance and the old-fashioned damsel in distress scenario hooked the officer.

‘Come with me,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘We’ll get this fixed.’

The Soul Collector followed him, but not too closely.

‘Get out of the vehicle!’ the cop ordered, when he was ten yards from the Cherokee. ‘Now!’

The woman at the wheel looked at him in a way that looked lethargic to the layman, but Sara could read it was full of menace. She slowed her pace and stepped behind a pickup.

‘Out of the vehicle!’ her savior yelled again.

This time he provoked a reaction. The woman floored the gas pedal and the SUV roared forward. As it did so, an elderly man in a Lincoln Continental crunched into the side of the Cherokee, pushing it toward the police
officer. Before the young cop could take evasive action, he was knocked into the air, landing with a crash on the hood of a pickup. His head made solid contact and he stopped moving. Cops immediately filed out the door of the diner and went to their comrade.

The Soul Collector watched as the SUV sped off, swerving out of the parking lot and accelerating up the road. She walked back to her car at normal pace and started the engine, and that’s when it happened.

A line of cars came out of the underground lot beneath the police building. In the back of a Crown Victoria sat her lover, Matt Wells. This was as close as she’d been to him in a long time, and it made something in her mind click with a strange mixture of hatred and desire.