hard to miss, but she’d covered herself all the same. Killing people without identities wasn’t something the Soul Collector did. Havi was unaware of that-there was no reason he should know she was so fastidious. It hadn’t taken her long to find out the target’s name. It was on the rental agreement for the condo. Then she had run into problems-no one of that name and description had been treated for serious spinal or leg injuries anywhere in the U.S. in the last five years. She sent the photo to a seriously expensive identity recognition site that had been set up by a geek who had hacked into every archive bank he could and bingo, there he was-Michael Anderson Lister, born Oklahoma City, 3/12/1978, electrician, with an address outside his birthplace. According to his health insurer, he had shattered both legs in a car accident nearly thirteen months ago and had undergone extensive surgery and rehabilitation, the latter being withdrawn after it became clear that prosthetic limbs were not an option. There was no record of criminal activity and no connection to ongoing investigations. That had been enough to satisfy her and she had left to carry out the hit.
And now everything had changed. The word among the informants she paid was that Matt Wells had been released from FBI custody. Now she had to find him. The formulas continued to check local law enforcement sites around the country, as monitored by her network of hackers. Some of them could get into the FBI’s system, too, but she had found that wasn’t worth it, as the encryption codes took too long to decipher and illicit access was spotted quickly. State police sites were much less secure, and they also provided up-to-the-minute information. If the FBI took Matt out of lockdown, the likelihood was they would be using him to find Heinz Rothmann, given the murders going down. If they took him to any of the scenes, local law enforcement would be involved and, if she was lucky, some eagle scout would note his presence, not least because anything the FBI did in other people’s jurisdictions tended to be logged in detail.
She sat back and watched the streams of data tumble down the screen. If there was a match within the parameters she’d entered, the flow would stop and the machine would ping like a microwave that had incinerated dinner. So far, it had been as silent as her conscience. That set her back to thinking about the man she’d killed in Florida. Lister. There was something familiar about the surname. She booted up her older laptop and inserted a memory stick-it held everything she had found about Matt Wells’s involvement in the Washington Occult Killings and the subsequent massacre in the National Cathedral. Within five seconds, she had a match.
According to Washington D.C. Metro Police records, Gordon David Lister had held a senior post at the Star Reporter, a supermarket tabloid, and had disappeared after Jack Thomson, owner of the paper and son of Nazi doctor Nikolaus Rothmann, had vanished from his cabin cruiser on the Anacostia River.
The Soul Collector ran another check and confirmed that Gordon Lister was the brother of the man she’d killed in Florida. What she wanted to know now was, who had ordered the hit? Predictably, Havi wouldn’t tell her, saying only that her next job was on the secure site they used. But she could see no reason for Rothmann to have done away with his accomplice’s sibling. It was much more likely that someone was putting the squeeze on Rothmann himself. But who?
A loud ping came from her laptop. She turned back to it and looked at a small section of print ringed in red. It was part of an internal memorandum written by a Major Hexton of the Maine State Police in Portland. In a group led by FBI violent crime Director Peter Sebastian was one Matthew John Wells, holder of British passport number…
Sara turned off the computers and put the laptop in the carry-on bag that she had permanently packed. The plastic switchblade was in her underwear. She was out of the door in less than three minutes. For once, she welcomed the pain that pulsed and clenched across her upper back. It would keep her mind on the job.
We had dinner on the outskirts of Portland. The diner was obviously a law enforcement haunt as nobody was perturbed when a uniformed cop came in and started whispering in Peter Sebastian’s ear. There was insignia on his shoulders and a badge identifying him as Major Jake Hexton. I nudged Quincy Jerome. Major Hexton looked decidedly warm under the collar.
The FBI man turned to us. ‘We’re leaving.’
‘Haven’t had dessert yet,’ Quincy muttered.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked.
‘Nora Jacobsen’s on the move,’ Sebastian said. He got into the major’s car. Quincy and I piled into the back, which meant that Arthur Bimsdale was crushed against the door. He bore the position without complaint.
We drove for about ten minutes, through the lights of the city at first and then down narrow roads with only occasional houses on either side. Major Hexton drove skillfully, talking frequently on the radio. He killed his lights before coming to a halt about fifty yards from a low building with a single light outside.
‘Whose place is this?’ Sebastian asked.
‘Isaac Morton is the registered owner,’ the major replied, ‘but he’s been in an old folks’ home for a year now.’
I recognized the green pickup parked outside. Nora Jacobsen had lent it to her daughter and me after my escape from the camp.
‘Did Nora know this Morton?’ I asked.
The policeman looked round at me and nodded. ‘They used to keep company.’
Sebastian and I had the same thought.
‘Special Agent Bimsdale?’ he said.
‘Yes, sir, I’m calling it up.’ The young man next to me tapped the keys of a small computer. ‘No, sir, there’s no record of Isaac Morton being a member of the Antichurch.’
Hexton stared at Sebastian.
‘Don’t ask,’ said the Fed.
I didn’t have to. I knew that Nora Jacobsen had links with the Antichurch, though under interrogation she had claimed that she had joined when it was little more than a Maine folk memory and had left it years earlier. According to her, it had been a social club for misfits, rather than the full-blown cult Rothmann used to add force to his indoctrination plan.
‘Look,’ Quincy said.
Nora Jacobsen had come out of the building, which looked more like a barn than a house, and was carrying a large bag to the pickup.
The radio clicked. ‘Shall we intercept?’ came a trooper’s voice.
‘Negative,’ the major replied. ‘Stay on her tail.’
‘You might want to tell them she can handle a shotgun,’ I said, recalling my first encounter with the woman.
‘My men are experienced.’
‘Let’s take a look inside,’ Sebastian said, after Nora Jacobsen had driven off.
‘We don’t have a warrant.’
Sebastian looked round, his eyes glinting in the light from the dashboard. ‘Major, this is a high-priority investigation. I will take responsibility.’
Hexton decided against arguing. We got out and headed for the door. Sebastian pointed Bimsdale to the door. To my surprise, the baby-faced agent jimmied the door in a few seconds.
‘Was that legal?’ Quincy said, under his breath.
I shrugged. ‘Define your terms.’ I watched as he drew his pistol and let him go ahead of me.
The interior lights came on. I was right about it being a barn-although there was an iron bed frame in one corner, the rest of the place was divided into stalls, the timber bent and cracked. There was straw on the floor and the chill air smelled of long-dead animals and their dung. It wasn’t till my eyes had got used to the surprisingly bright light that I understood.
‘Shit,’ I said, pointing with my right arm.
What I had thought were broken posts and stanchions was actually a line of four inverted crosses, each with a rope wound around the horizontal bar and a hook at the top of the vertical.
‘What the-’ Major Hexton broke off as Sebastian looked up at the roof.
We all followed his gaze. They were hard to make out at first, but soon I saw the words that had been written on the uncovered boards. Each was about a foot in height, the paint faded but still red enough. I hoped it was just paint.
‘“To Make Their Heaven Our Hell,”’ Arthur Bimsdale read.
Silence fell in the musty old room.
