‘Not exactly,’ the FBI man replied, turning to the CSI. ‘Has anything been drawn or written in the house? Anything in red?’
The blonde woman shook her head. ‘What were you expecting?’
Sebastian didn’t answer. The swastika in Laurie Simpson’s apartment had been kept from the media to avoid copycat actions. ‘Have you been through all the rooms?’
The woman looked at Jamieson and raised an eyebrow. ‘We know our jobs, sir,’ she said, her chin jutting.
‘Not suggesting you don’t. But this killer strikes me as highly devious.’ He turned to Bimsdale. ‘Arthur, you go with Martine here and check downstairs. Lift all the rugs, take all the pictures down.’
‘No stone unturned,’ said the young agent earnestly.
Peter Sebastian watched them go and then looked at the detective. ‘We’re going to do this floor together. Have you got a camera?’
Jamieson nodded, his expression stony. ‘Why would the murderer hide something when he left his victim in full view?’
The FBI man gave a humorless smile. ‘Two pretty dubious assumptions behind that question. First, just because Sterling Anson was made a display of doesn’t mean the killer wasn’t subtle in other ways. Second, you just classified that individual as male. Why?’
The detective rubbed the back of his head. ‘It would have taken some strength to haul him up there,’ he said, looking at the beam. ‘Even though he wasn’t the biggest of men.’
‘And there are no women strong enough to do so?’
Jamieson raised his shoulders, but he looked unconvinced.
Peter Sebastian ran his eye around the room again. As with the first floor, the furniture was old and the decor in tatters. There were several reproductions of artworks on the wall, but his attention was immediately attracted by an amateurish painting of Martin Luther King above a bookcase. He stepped over, his heart pounding, as he realized that the other frames were all slightly awry, while the doctor was perfectly aligned.
‘Take some shots,’ he said to Jamieson, and when several angles had been photographed, he reached out and took the painting down. The wall behind was unmarked.
‘Damn,’ he said, under his breath. Then he turned the frame around and got an immediate adrenaline rush. Two inches high and painted twice in red was the letter S-jagged and fraught with the weight of history.
‘Shit,’ said the detective, ‘Is that what I think it is?’
‘If you’re thinking that those letters form the initials of the SS, Adolf Hitler’s elite guard, then the answer is affirmative.’
‘So some neo-Nazi bastards did get him.’
Sebastian didn’t reply. He wasn’t worried about neo-Nazis; his concern was over the son of a genuine Nazi- Heinz Rothmann, responsible for the failed plot to kill the President in the autumn. He stepped out of the room after giving Sterling Anson’s body a last look. It wasn’t just that Rothmann junior saw himself as a real Nazi. He had also resurrected the Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant, a vicious cult that included among its rituals human sacrifice-with the victim suspended from an inverted cross, throat cut and eyes put out. The problem was, Heinz Rothmann had disappeared more successfully than a firefly at midday.
‘Where are you going?’ John Jamieson asked.
‘The bathroom.’
The detective joined him in the run-down room. He knew the CSIs would have found anything obvious. The FBI man was on his knees, his head close to the floorboards. Then he groaned and reached for a pink, knitted toilet-roll holder on top of the cistern.
‘Camera,’ he ordered.
Jamieson fired off some shots, then watched in horror as the cover was removed. A human tongue, Sterling Anson’s chief weapon against fascists and racists, had been placed inside the cardboard tube.
The sole Master of the Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant looked up from the couch, displacing the surgical gown that had been placed around his shoulders. Southern sunlight was streaming in through the windows in the roof and dust motes swarmed in the beams. He remembered the Latin poet his father had made him read as a teenager, the only non-German writer the old man had ever cared for. For him, Lucretius was a master, who had raised science above the arts. He alone had shown the glory of creation and the futility of fearing death. Atoms were the basis of all things, as Democritus had proved, and all things could be changed by adjusting molecular structure. Even dust consisted of atoms. And dust, as everyone knew no matter what they purported to believe, was what human beings ultimately came to-unless you consigned yourself to the Lord Beneath the Earth.
‘I’m ready, Mr… Master.’
Heinz Rothmann, formerly known as Jack Thomson, and now the possessor of seven alternative identities, glanced at the gaunt man in faded surgical scrubs. ‘Is that you, Doctor? The last person who kept me waiting was sent to clean the snake cages.’ He gave an empty smile. ‘While the creatures were still in them.’
The doctor wiped the sweat from his brow. ‘Are you sure you won’t have an anesthetic, Master?’ He avoided looking directly at the man with the striking aquiline nose. The Master must have once been handsome, but the way his hair had been cut-short at the sides and back like the Fuhrer’s-gave him a bestial look.
‘I am sure. Proceed.’
As the scalpel cut into his face, Rothmann felt the blood course hot over his cheek, but there was no pain. The conditioning program that his sister had developed just before death had been completed and was a success. Those who believed wholeheartedly that the world could be cleansed by the genius of the Fuhrer felt no physical pain-only regret that the great man had not been able to complete his work.
‘It’s over,’ the doctor said, stepping back. He picked up a mirror and held it in front of the Master, swabbing the blood from the wound.
‘Very good,’ Rothmann said, his eyes narrowed. ‘But my father had dueling scars on both cheeks. Proceed.’
As the second cut was made, he thought about Matthew Wells. Where was he?
He needed to find him. After his sister’s death, Rothmann had thought only of avenging her, but more recently he had realized that he needed him alive. The problem was, nobody knew where he was.
The Master nodded as the doctor showed him the second wound. Wells wasn’t the only problem he had. The murders in New York and Michigan concerned him. There was something going that was unacceptable.
It was time the Antichurch took control.
Three
I came round in the infirmary, my head pounding from the drugs that had been pumped into my system.
‘Ah, the return of the prodigal,’ said Dr. Rivers, checking a monitor.
‘Return of the guinea pig, more like,’ I mumbled, trying to reach for the glass of water on the commode and finding that, as usual, my arms and legs had been secured.
‘Come, come, Mr. Wells. You fought that trigger very successfully.’
‘Didn’t seem that way to me.’ I licked my dry lips. ‘When are you going to stop using that knockout gas? It isn’t as if I can escape.’
He gave me a reproachful look. ‘It isn’t a question of escape. It’s essential that the trigger is rendered completely ineffectual, and that I can only do when you are unconscious.’
‘So, Doc, has the treatment worked this time?’
‘Let’s see,’ he said drily. ‘Ready?’
I took a deep breath and dropped into the defense zone I had learnt.
‘Fontane.’
I felt a momentary buzz, but nothing more. ‘Okay, you can unbuckle me.’
Rivers shook his head. ‘You know the protocol, Mr. Wells. We wait for ten minutes in case of-’
‘Delayed reaction,’ I said, closing my eyes. This was always the dullest part of the procedure. ‘What does Fontane mean?’ I asked, to pass the time.
‘Who rather than what,’ the doctor replied. ‘Theodore Fontane was a major nineteenth-century German novelist.’
‘Never heard of him,’ I muttered, mildly embarrassed by my ignorance. Even though I’d studied English literature at college, my knowledge of foreign writers was negligible. Being a crime writer didn’t help. I spent most of my reading time on the competition, and not much of it was translated from German. ‘So did the Nazis approve of this Fontane?’