‘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.
She remained in position, trying to make sense of what was going on. She had followed a Maine State Police cruiser from the Portland headquarters to the vicinity of the house, in the hope that Matt would show up. He and Sebastian must have left before the cruiser, so she had been lucky to locate him in this manner. Since Sara didn’t think much of luck, she certainly didn’t want to rely on it again. That meant she had only one course of action-to get off the roof and up close and personal with Matt. She put the binoculars in her rucksack and took out the switchblade. It was time to put the surveillance skills to the test. Maybe there would be a chance to use her other more lethal abilities, too.
The Soul Collector avoided the group of rubber-neckers in the street leading to the burning house and slipped into the cover provided by a line of trees. Even though her eyes moved constantly from side to side, she failed to notice the tall form crouching behind a black Grand Cherokee.
Mary Upson had been given a blanket by a fireman. She still had it round her shoulders in the interview room back at the State Police building. I pushed a cup of coffee toward her.
‘It’ll warm you up,’ I said. The smile I gave was hesitant. She hadn’t yet shown any sign of hostility to me, but she had other things on her mind. ‘Have you any idea where your mother might have gone?’
She kept her eyes off me. ‘I already told the FBI men I didn’t.’
I’d asked for some time alone with her, though I knew Sebastian would be observing us on the other side of the glass.
‘I’m not with the FBI, Mary.’
‘How do I know they’re not listening?’ she demanded, her eyes wide. Suddenly, she wasn’t the smart but naive grade-school teacher who had helped me get out of Maine in the autumn. Then again, she and her mother had been questioned at length after the cathedral debacle-that might have taught her how to stand up for herself.
‘Whisper, if you like.’
She laughed bitterly. ‘Whisper sweet nothings? I’m not an idiot, Matt. I know you’re working with them even though you’re not an agent.’
‘We’re trying to find a killer.’ I was aware the words sounded melodramatic. I needed to personalize things. ‘Your mother’s a suspect.’
‘What? My mother? She’s a retired schoolteacher.’
‘Has she been away from home in the last three weeks?’
She turned away. ‘I’m not gracing that with an answer.’
‘Do you watch the news?’
‘Of course. We’re not hillbillies up here.’
I smiled to pacify her, but got nowhere-she stared at me with undisguised dislike. ‘So you know about the murders in New York, Michigan, Boston and Philadelphia?’
‘Are you seriously suggesting my mother was behind those? You must be out of your mind.’
I knew Nora Jacobsen hadn’t killed those people-for a start, she wasn’t strong enough to have hoisted Jack Notaro to the ceiling in Philadelphia. I wasn’t proud of myself, but pressuring Mary was the only way to find out whether her mother knew where Heinz Rothmann was.
‘Then why did she run? Why did she blow up the house?’
‘I don’t know!’ she screamed. ‘I don’t…’ The words tailed away in a long moan.
‘Look, Mary, there was a knife in the bag she brought back from the Morton place. The technicians will soon know if the blood on it-was human.’
She was weeping silently, her head bowed and her shoulders shaking.
‘There are human remains in the old house.’
The sobs grew louder. This was going nowhere. I leaned forward and took her hands from her face.
‘Just tell me, Mary. Has your mother been away from home?’
She shook her head, her eyes still down. ‘Of…of course not. She…we haven’t got money for traveling.’
‘Okay.’ I lowered her hands to the table and let them go. ‘That’s good.’
She looked up at me hopefully. ‘Is that it? You believe me?’
I nodded. They could verify whatever Nora Jacobsen’s recent movements were said to be easily enough. But she still had a link to Rothmann via the Antichurch, and her behavior suggested she had plenty to hide.
‘You remember you told me about the Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant and your mother’s involvement with it?’ Mary had done so when we were heading out of Maine. I’d never been sure why.
‘The old cult? She didn’t take that seriously.’ Mary was watching me now, her eyes glistening with tears but unwavering. ‘She hasn’t had anything to do with it for years.’