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.
‘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.’