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.’
I didn’t enjoy the next five seconds.
Sixteen
Sara Robbins was in her apartment in Brooklyn, looking at the screen of her laptop. She spent a lot of time doing that on the days when work didn’t call her away. The flight from Miami had arrived at 6:00 p.m. Since getting home, she’d been after him. Sometimes she felt like she was looking for a needle in a very large haystack, but she had made herself keep the faith. The systems she used were state-of-the-art and Matt Wells wouldn’t stay out of sight forever.
As the computer ran the complex algorithms, she found herself thinking about the hit in Florida. She hadn’t been told the target’s name, only his address and a description. The fact that he was in a wheelchair made him
