A sign said Authorized Admittance Only and there was a key card panel.
‘Mr. Wells,’ he said, his eyes avoiding mine, ‘Dr. Kitano had to perform a Cesarean section. You…you should be aware of that.’
I understood the warning-don’t look down there. ‘I’m going in on my own,’ I said, extending my hand, palm up.
The doctor exchanged glances with Peter Sebastian, who nodded, and gave me a plastic card.
‘I’ll be here, Matt,’ Sebastian said, his expression grave. ‘Anything you need, anything at all.’
I walked away from them and inserted the card into the locking device. I pushed the door and let it close after me. The room was cold. The first two aluminum tables were shrouded by white sheets. The one on the left was almost flat, a tiny object lying near the top. The outline of an adult was on the right. I stepped up to that table first and drew the sheet back slowly. Karen’s face was peaceful, the furrows labor had created on her forehead now gone. Her skin was gray, as were her lips, and her hair was limp. I stood by her for a time, my fingers on her chill brow. The pain in my heart had increased even more and I was struggling to stay upright. Tears drenched my cheeks and obscured my vision.
After a while, I went to our son. I pulled the sheet away gently and looked at the small body that was still curled as it had been inside Karen. It was swaddled in white, the face a deep, unnatural blue. His hair was dark brown and there was a lot of it. His nose was flat and his lips an even deeper shade of blue. He was beautiful. I picked him up and kissed him on the forehead. Then I took him to his mother, pulling down her shroud and setting him gently on her chest. Her arms had already stiffened, but I managed to get them around him. I stepped back to take in the sight of them together. I kissed them both for the last time, and then I covered them carefully with the sheet.
When I opened the door, the group in the other room looked away, apart from Peter Sebastian. He stepped toward me, but he didn’t make it in time.
I saw the floor approach rapidly. Then everything, even the pain in my heart, was gone.
Thirteen
The Soul Collector. Sara Robbins considered the name she had given herself the last time she had been in the U.K. It struck her now as ludicrously over the top, despite the fact that it had been a tribute to her brother, who had called himself the White Devil. She had been influenced by the occult back then. Not that she believed in any of the Satanic stuff, but her sister had. And Matt Wells had killed her, just as he’d been responsible for the White Devil’s death. She would never forget that, no matter how much time passed or how much the circumstances changed-and no matter what her expensive Upper West Side shrink said.
She glanced around the chairs outside the Brooklyn Heights cafe. It was the kind of place that pandered to its customers by putting gas heaters on the terrace in winter, even on days like today, when the sun was bright and there wasn’t much wind. A pair of well-dressed young women at the table in front of her discussed their boyfriends, listing their inadequacies and squealing with laughter. They both had leather laptop cases and were obviously in good jobs. Sara was tempted to lift one of the bags. When she had worked on a newspaper in London, she had often picked people’s pockets on the Underground and slipped shop goods into her pocket-nothing major enough to be missed, but she was good at it, she never got caught and it was fun. The chaos that the loss of her laptop would bring to the airhead was delicious to imagine, but Sara decided against it. As ever, she was keeping a low profile.
In the years she’d been on the run, she had changed her name and appearance frequently, paying for the best hair and facial treatments, the best documentation and bureaucratic apparatus necessary to establish false identities. The wallet in her bag contained a New York State driver’s license in the name of Colette Anne Olds, born Utica, 10/3/1971. The photo matched the way she looked: short blond hair, blue eyes (courtesy of contacts) and features that bore little resemblance to how she used to look. Her nose was thicker, her lips fuller and her cheekbones almost as prominent as Joni Mitchell’s. If Matt Wells sat down at the table, she was certain he wouldn’t recognize her, at least not immediately. She had worked on her voice as well, developing a New York accent bought and paid for. And the kicker-if necessary, she could change the way she looked with one visit to a luggage locker in Grand Central Station. The suitcase there contained wigs, a range of colored contact lenses and two changes of very different clothes.
As befitted the neighborhood, Sara/Colette was wearing boho chic-designer jeans, Manolo Blahniks and a vintage sheepskin jacket. The dark red beret she had found on the sidewalk-it was new and couldn’t have been there long. When a ditzy-looking waitress with a bare belly and pierced navel emerged, she ordered another double espresso and looked up and down Montague Street. There was no sign of the man she was waiting for, but he was only a few minutes late. She picked up the newspaper she had been reading and turned to the story about Hitler’s Hitman. There had been a feeding frenzy when the newspaper hacks convinced themselves that the deaths were connected and that, therefore, a serial killer was on the loose. The last murder, the good-looking professor in Philadelphia, was under the microscope. He had written about Mussolini in less than flattering terms. Did that means no academic specializing in extreme-right politics was safe? Dr. Jack had been a ladies’ man, as confirmed by students and faculty members. Did the previous victims have significant sex lives? Research was ongoing. He had been killed ritualistically. According to what rite? No one was clear about that, but there was no shortage of so-called experts with opinions-certain tribes of American Indians had dispatched their victims that way; the Nazis treated traitors in such a fashion, an idea strengthened by the apparent presence of Nazi slogans and symbols, unconfirmed by the various police departments; the killer wasn’t interested in politics, he was a zombie controlled by a powerful Voodoo priestess, proclaimed one supermarket tabloid.
Sara took a sip from the cup that the waitress had laid on the table with a fake smile. There were even a few reporters who had connected the murders to the Occult Killings in Washington at the beginning of the autumn. Much of it was imaginative guesswork. She knew for a fact, a costly fact, that the Justice Department had restricted the flow of information about those deaths. Still, she didn’t know exactly how Matt Wells was involved in the Rothmann conspiracy, but his subsequent disappearance, and that of his partner Karen Oaten, suggested they were working with the FBI, not least because the Bureau had denied all knowledge of their whereabouts. From what she’d been able to discover, Heinz Rothmann was the son of a Nazi and he was committed to reviving the aberrant German ideology. That made him a major suspect for the recent killings.
‘Hey, doll, is this seat taken?’
Sara watched as the thin, dark-skinned Hispanic slid down opposite her. ‘You’re late,’ she said, frowning.
‘My mother told me never to apologize.’ The man smiled, displaying teeth even whiter than her costly crowns.
‘I’ll bet she did. Still, it could have been worse.’
He looked up from the menu. ‘Meaning?’
She returned the smile, but hers was icy. ‘I could have ripped your eyes out, Havi.’
Xavier Marias ran a shaky hand over his shaven head. ‘Calm down, pretty lady.’ He raised a hand to the waitress. ‘Hey, over here. Margarita, no salt.’
‘It’s ten in the morning,’ Sara observed.
‘What do you expect? You scare me shitless.’
‘Good.’
‘What’s this about, anyway?’ He took his cell from a pocket in his tan leather jacket. ‘I prefer to spend my Saturday mornings in bed with Elena.’ He caught her gaze. ‘I also prefer not to meet my clients in person. Even when they fail to carry out instructions.’
‘Relax, Havi. We’re just two friends chilling out.’
‘Uh-huh.’ He leaned forward. ‘So, are you going to tell me?’
The Soul Collector smiled. ‘Tell you what?’
He sighed. ‘Why you didn’t terminate your last commission.’
‘Oh, that. Come on, Havi, it wasn’t fair. The guy deserved a chance to make things right.’
‘Are you out of your fucking mind? Have you any idea how much shit I’ve had to eat over this?’
