‘Matt,’ Karen said, ‘I don’t want to think about the Soul Collector.’ She never called Sara by her real name. ‘Come here.’
I sat down on the rug by the sofa and took her hand.
Karen gave a shy smile. ‘I…I want to talk about the baby’s name.’
I remembered the lack of progress the last time we’d done that. ‘Are you sure? Maybe we should wait till after he’s here.’
There was a flash of anger in her eyes. ‘What, now you’re superstitious?’
‘No, of course not. I take it Algernon’s out of favor.’
She ignored that. ‘I don’t know. You’ll probably hate my idea.’
‘No, I won’t. Try me.’
She took a deep breath. ‘Magnus.’
I liked it immediately. ‘You know what it means?’ I’d always been fascinated by names and had several books about them.
She shrugged. ‘It’s Latin, isn’t it?’
I nodded. ‘Magnus means big.’
Karen laughed. ‘Really? Like father, like son.’
‘Ha.’ Suddenly I knew the time was right, although I hadn’t been planning it. I shifted onto my knees, her hand still in mine. ‘Karen Oaten,’ I said, as formally as I could. ‘Will you do me the enormous honor of marrying me?’
She looked like she had been struck by several bolts of lightning. For what seemed like a long time, she was unable to speak. Then she managed the words I’d been hoping I’d hear. ‘Oh, Matt. Of course I will.’
We kissed for an even longer time.
And then the doorbell rang again.
‘Shit,’ I said, after our lips had parted.
‘Don’t go,’ Karen whispered.
‘They’ll only use the passkey. I won’t be a second.’
I got a surprise when I opened the door.
‘Sergeant Quincy Jerome, 182nd Airborne Division,’ said the familiar figure, this time wearing full fatigues, cap, belt and gleaming black boots. ‘I’ve been assigned to work up your unarmed combat skills, Mr. Wells.’
‘You couldn’t have picked a worse time.’
‘Go!’ Karen called. ‘I want to let the good news sink in.’
Quincy gave me a quizzical look. ‘It’s good news that I’m going to be at the…give you a rigorous workout?’
I smiled. ‘I’m less of a civilian than you think.’ I went to change my clothes.
Sergeant Quincy Jerome beat the crap out of me. Or rather, he would have done if we’d been fighting for real. As it was, I still had pains in places I’d forgotten existed. We started with judo. I was a black belt, but Quincy was several dans better than me. Then we boxed for a while. My stamina wasn’t too bad-I’d been running and doing exercises every day for the past two weeks. That was the best that could be said of my performance in the ring. He was taller and his reach was longer: I hardly landed a punch on his head guard, never mind his body. The fact that I used to train with an ex-paratrooper and SAS man didn’t do me any good; Dave, the meanest bastard I ever saw in a fight, would have had trouble with the sergeant.
Jesus, Dave. Sara had killed him in cold blood. And that was my biggest secret and motivation-my lust for revenge was just as great as hers.
The sergeant folded his arms and shook his head. ‘You’re softer than a marshmallow, friend.’ He slapped me on the back. ‘Come on, it’s time to get wet.’
We spent some time going after each other in the pool. After I’d swallowed most of it without laying more than a fingertip on him, we called it a day. I dragged myself out of the water and staggered to a bench.
‘Actually,’ Quincy said, standing in front of me, ‘I’ve seen worse.’ He laughed. ‘At a grade school.’
I gave him the finger without looking up.
‘Joking,’ he said. ‘For a civilian, your grasp of the basics isn’t bad. Give me a week and I’ll knock you into shape.’
‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ I said, finally getting my breathing under a modicum of control.
He grinned. ‘Same time tomorrow?’
‘Sadist.’
That got me a heavy punch on the shoulder.
Peter Sebastian looked down at the gray waters of the Potomac as the Bureau driver crossed it on their way into Washington D.C. The flight from Boston had been delayed and he was going to be late for his meeting with the Director. Not far downstream, the Nazi Heinz Rothmann had last been seen on his boat, heading toward this same Potomac. Matt Wells had done what he could to stop the madman, but it hadn’t been enough. No body had been found and Rothmann had survived, the FBI man was certain of that-survived to start anew with a murderous campaign against the people who hated everything he lived for.
‘Sir?’
Sebastian glanced at Arthur Bimsdale. The young agent was like a puppy desperate to please. At least you didn’t have to worry about hidden depths with him-what you saw was very definitely what you got. That made a change from Sebastian’s last assistant, who had played him for several kinds of fool.
‘What is it?’
‘Well,’ Bimsdale said, flicking through the pages of his notebook, ‘I was wondering how we’ll be handling the media with this latest killing. There’s no chance of keeping most of the details under wraps.’
‘Considering the poor woman was blowing naked in the wind in front of half of Boston until the paramedics arrived, that is a reasonable conclusion.’
The agent’s cheeks reddened. ‘Em, yes. So, shall I give the Massachusetts detectives details of the earlier killings?’
‘Do nothing of the kind.’
‘But they’re already asking-’
‘Let them ask. We don’t have to answer.’ A thought struck Sebastian. ‘Have you told the people working on the other killings not to volunteer information to Boston?’
Arthur Bimsdale nodded. ‘I thought that would be advisable until you told me otherwise.’
Sebastian was impressed, not that he showed it. He had lined another agent up to assist him, but Bimsdale had been foisted on him by the deputy director of personnel. Apparently he came highly recommended by the special agent in charge in Butte, Montana. J. Edgar Hoover, who used to exile incompetents there, would be rotating in his grave.
‘Keep it that way until I do tell you otherwise.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The young man looked at him earnestly. ‘Do you think it’s the same killer in all three cases?’
‘Yes.’
The abrupt answer seemed to surprise Bimsdale. ‘What about the differences in the M.O. s?’
The senior man shook his head. ‘We’ve been over this before. The specifics may vary, but the general picture is the same every time. The victims were all involved in activities that could be construed as anti-Nazi, and all three were killed in ways that relate to the rituals of the Antichurch.’
Arthur Bimsdale looked unconvinced. ‘Yes, sir, I’ve looked at the archive material, such as it is. I have to say, I don’t find it hugely convincing.’ His manner was that of a nitpicking student in a philosophy seminar.
‘Oh, really?’ Sebastian said, giving him an icy look. ‘One of the core rites of the Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant was human sacrifice. The chosen ones were suspended from an inverted cross before their throats were cut. Then their eyes were put out. Does that sound at all familiar?’
Bimsdale was unaffected by his boss’s sarcasm. ‘First of all, the Antichurch only operated in the state of Maine-none of these killings took place there. The records also show it was eradicated in the 1850s. I don’t understand why an obscure and highly localized cult should be relevant, especially considering that there was no direct reference to it at the scenes.’
Peter Sebastian turned away and looked at the lights in the center of the capital. In a few minutes he would be in the executive elevator that led to the Director’s office. He didn’t need a debate about the killings right now. Then again, honing his case on a callow subordinate might be beneficial.
‘As I’ve told you more than once, Arthur,’ he said, using the young agent’s first name to induce a bogus sense of camaraderie, ‘the Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant was recently revived by Heinz Rothmann and his sister to give their Nazi movement a religious component. They calculated, quite correctly in my view, that Americans had to be engaged on the spiritual dimension before they would accept a political agenda.’