‘What does that mean?’ the major asked, his voice wavering slightly.
‘It means we urgently need to see what’s in the bag Ms. Jacobsen carried out of here,’ I said.
‘You got that right,’ Quincy said, dropping to his knees.
Lying on the floor, partially covered by straw and dust, was a curved bone. It looked like a human jaw, the lower one. Most of the teeth, though broken and discolored, were still in place. I couldn’t tell how old it was but its presence, and that of the inverted crosses and the motto, suggested that the Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant was very much alive and well.
Abaddon arrived at Logan International Airport too late for the last flight to Portland, so she rented a Grand Cherokee and headed north on Interstate 95. It was cold in Massachusetts, but at least it wasn’t snowing. Although Abaddon had killed in winter conditions often enough, she didn’t like them. She was a hot-blooded creature of the South, she’d told herself often enough. The North was for people without feelings.
She wasn’t feeling exactly happy about this latest assignment, which took precedence over other jobs. It wasn’t the first time she’d agreed to carry out surveillance, and she was good at it; but she preferred to kill. She viewed it as career progression-when she was not long out of the military and still wet behind the ears, she’d worked though all the specializations: close combat, communications, observation and surveillance, agent recruitment and handling, codes and ciphers, subversion-she was a Grade A student at them all.
Then she came to weapons training. She hadn’t just been a Grade A student, she was among the best they’d ever had at the company. So going back to watching people was a demotion, even though she’d been promised that several kills, including the Soul Collector and the enemy, would follow. They’d better.
Abaddon sometimes wondered if she was wasting herself. There wasn’t much of a future in her line of work. As she got older, her skills would become compromised. If she didn’t screw up, she’d be able go on for a few more years. Then she would have to find something else to do. The idea of sitting at a desk horrified her. At least there were more and more opportunities in other countries these days-and employers in other areas were said to be less demanding.
Driving into New Hampshire on the near-deserted road, Abaddon went over her instructions. Undertake surveillance of house at 15 Springfield Road, Portland; identify local law enforcement and FBI operatives; identify Matthew John Wells when he arrives at house and subsequently keep him under observation for as long as possible; identify FBI violent crime Director Peter Sebastian and log his activities; ascertain if others are involved in surveillance and identify them.
It sounded as dull as a winter’s day in New York: too many people, too cold and too many guns. Abaddon would do her best to keep the peace, but if anyone made a move on her, she’d do what she always did-execute with extreme prejudice.
On Major Hexton’s order, police surrounded Nora Jacobsen as soon as she pulled up outside the house in Springfield Road. By the time we got there, she had calmed down, but her face was still red. State troopers had cuffed her hands behind her back and sat her in an unmarked car. Detectives had gained access to the building and were standing guard over Mary Upson. I saw her face at the window. She looked less shocked than I’d expected. Maybe she knew more about her mother’s activities than she’d admitted.
‘What’s in the bag, ma’am?’ Hexton asked, after the old woman was walked over to the pickup.
‘Why don’t you take a look?’ she answered gamely.
I stepped forward. ‘Hello, Ms. Jacobsen.’
She stared at me, and then a slack smile split her weathered face. ‘I remember you. You really got under Mary’s skin. Like a worm.’
‘I sometimes have that effect on people.’ I glanced at the bag. ‘More human remains?’
She made a sound that could have been a laugh. ‘If that’s what you think, go ahead and look, why don’t you?’
I caught her eye. ‘Does Mary know?’
For a second, she lost her conviction. ‘What’s my daughter got to do with this? You leave her alone.’
I asked the major to have Mary brought out. Sebastian watched, apparently happy for me to be running the show because of my acquaintance with the women. Quincy was behind him, his eyes constantly moving around the scene and the buildings across the street.
‘I told you, keep Mary out of this,’ Nora Jacobsen said, her voice loud now.
I followed the younger woman as she came out of the house, detectives on either side. She didn’t look at me until she was close. Then her eyebrows shot up and she briefly stopped walking.
‘Hello, Mary,’ I said, when she came up.
She studied me without speaking for what seemed like a long time. ‘Matt,’ she said finally. ‘It’s good to see you.’
I felt a pang of guilt. She had developed feelings for me during our escape that I hadn’t been able to reciprocate. She had called the police on me when rebuffed, but I didn’t blame her. I had taken advantage of her situation, but I had to. It seemed that she had forgiven me.
Sebastian stepped forward. ‘Ms. Upson, your mother has visited a property where there is evidence of major crime.’
Nora Jacobsen snorted. ‘He means the old Morton place.’
Mary looked surprised again. ‘That’s been deserted for months.’
‘Your mother recovered that bag from the scene,’ Sebastian said. ‘Do you have any idea what’s in it?’
‘She doesn’t,’ Nora said, taking a step forward. One of the state troopers clamped a hand on her shoulder. ‘I tell you, she doesn’t.’
Mary was staring at her mother. ‘Have you handcuffed her? For the love of God, she’s seventy-three. What do you think she’s going to do?’
‘Let her go,’ I said to Sebastian.
He shook his head, but gave the order to the major.
‘Now, Ms. Jacobsen,’ the FBI man said. ‘Open that bag. Slowly, please.’
The old woman glared at him, and then took the bag from the pickup. Looking around the men, some with raised firearms, she unzipped it along its length and dipped her hand inside.
Three things happened in rapid succession. The first was that Nora Jacobsen tossed a long knife with a curved blade into the air above the bag. The second was that she pressed a button on her watch. The third was a deafening explosion in the house behind where we all stood.
Seventeen
The Soul Collector recoiled as the flash filled the lenses of her binoculars and, a moment later, her ears were battered by the explosion’s report. She was on top of a four-story block about four hundred yards away, wearing thermal fleece under her dark-colored heavy-weather jacket and trousers. Flying had meant she brought no weapons of her own apart from the plastic switchblade, but that had never been a problem in the past. As smoke furled from the house and flames appeared at the windows, she watched the people in front of the building move rapidly away.
She had recognized Matt as soon as he had come into the light from the streetlamp. He looked in good shape, but his face was drawn and his shoulders sagged, as if he was carrying a heavy weight. Beside him was another person she knew: the FBI man Peter Sebastian, who had been much in evidence in news broadcasts after the chaos at the cathedral. He was in charge of violent crime across the U.S., which begged the question, what was he doing in Portland, Maine, with Matt by his side?
Sara used the high-precision binoculars to zoom in the other people who were squatting behind vehicles as the fire raged unchecked. There were police personnel in uniform, including a grizzled man wearing a cap festooned by gold braid. Despite his rank, he seemed to be taking orders from Sebastian, with Matt gesturing decisively to him, as well. Her former lover had his arm round a crouching figure in a red sweater. The blond hair was styled in a way that suggested a female. When she turned her head, Sara saw that was the case-she also saw that the woman was terrified, her mouth opening and closing rapidly as she gestured toward the house. Shortly afterward, fire engines arrived and the people behind the cars were moved farther away, out of sight.
