Hell's Horizon

20

I solation suited me. It was good to be cut off from the world. I could have hidden in the cell forever, undisturbed, thinking about nothing.

A cop entered and shattered the silence. “You want something to eat or drink?” I shook my head. “What about your phone call?” A careless shrug. He hesitated. “I know you and Bill Casey are friends. We’re trying to contact him. If you need anything…”

“Thank you,” I said softly, since my response was obviously the only thing that would shift him.

He smiled. “No problem. We all know this is so much shit in a sack. Killers don’t leave their fucking socks behind!”

Then he was gone and I was alone again. But the interruption had jolted me. My thoughts churned. I was dragged back to the world of memories against my will.

When I first met Ellen she was a friend of my then-girlfriend. Ellen didn’t like me — she’d heard I’d been cheating. Came to my apartment and grilled me. I listened calmly, watching the bob of her hair, then asked if she’d like to make the beast with two backs. She slapped my face, stormed off, rang her friend and I was single again.

A park, some years later. Relaxing by a pond, wondering what to do with my life. A weeping woman sat down close by. I studied her out of the corner of my eye. I thought I recognized her and asked if we knew each other.

She lashed out blindly and I remembered her. She apologized moments later, then proceeded to tell me about the man she’d loved for two years, who’d just walked out. Her father had died a couple of months before and she was still aching from that as well. She was lonely and frightened and didn’t know where she was going to end up.

I said I was lonely too, not sure where I was heading. Told her life was hard, there were no smooth rides, we had to do the best we could and hope we didn’t get screwed over too often.

We spoke for ages. I told her loads of stuff about myself, even the last time I cried, many years earlier. By the end of our chat she was smiling and we both knew something special might blossom between us, given time. Then she looked at me clearly and frowned. “You’re that bastard Al Jeery!”

The door opened and shut. A large man sat opposite me and said nothing for a while. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse. “I don’t know what to say.”

I saw a pair of fists clench on the table.

“All these years comforting the bereaved and I can’t think of a single fucking thing to say to you.”

I concentrated on the fists, tracing the angry, red knuckle lines, noting the quiver in the fingers.

“I thought it was a sick joke when they called. Refused to believe it until I saw the body.”

“A piece of work, wasn’t it?” I looked up into Bill’s sad eyes. I hadn’t cried yet. Couldn’t.

“Who did it, Al? Do you know?”

“What would you do if I did?”

“I’d find the bastard and…” He gripped the edge of the table, tears falling, shoulders hunched painfully.

“I don’t know who did it,” I said, “but if I did, I wouldn’t tell. She was my wife. I’ll deal with it.”

Bill nodded, wiped his eyes, then produced a bottle of whisky, set it in the middle of the table and cleared his throat. I stared at the bottle, then Bill.

“Take it,” he said somberly.

“No.” The word was barely a sigh on my lips.

“Don’t fight it, Al. This isn’t the time.”

“You know what that does to me.”

He nodded slowly. “I weaned you off it, remember? I said I’d kill you if I saw you touch it again.” He leaned forward and gripped my hands. “But things change. All I care about now is getting you through the next few days, and if you have to be steaming drunk to do that, so be it.”

“And after?”

“Fuck after!” Bill roared. “We’ll deal with that when it comes. Drink.”

He let go and sat back, looking ashamed. I knew this offer was tearing him apart. He must think I was close to the edge of madness if he was willing to resort to such desperate measures. Maybe I was.

I reached out to caress the bottle. Unscrewed the top, bent over and inhaled. He was right — I did need it. More than anything else. A couple of swallows and all would be right. I’d cry for Ellen and drink myself to sleep. Hide until all the pain and guilt went away. So tempting. So easy.

I sat back.

“No. The pain’s bad but it keeps me going. I’ll find her killer but only if I stay sober. There’ll be time for drinking later.”

“Al, you mustn’t—”

“No!” I stopped him. “There’s nothing without her. It’s not just that she was killed — she was killed because of me. I’m the reason she’s dead.”

“You can’t be sure of that.”

I stared at him coldly until he dropped his gaze.

He pocketed the bottle. “I can’t tell you what to do. But if you change your mind, don’t be afraid. No man should have to face something like this alone. I pulled you back from the brink before. I can do it again if I have to.”

We sat listening to the silence. I kept thinking about the bottle in his jacket. I wanted him to take it out and offer it again.

“What about the evidence against me?” I asked, trying to focus.

“It’s bullshit. All the same, I called Ford Tasso and he’ll send along a lawyer to bail you out with the minimum of fuss.”

“Anybody contact Kett yet?”

“No. He’ll hear about it sooner or later. If I have my way, it’ll be later.”

Kett could have cleared me instantly but if I called him as a witness, I’d have to explain what I was doing down there. It might complicate matters.

“When did it happen?” I asked.

“Early hours of this morning.”

“Was she killed in the hotel?”

“I assume so.” He glanced at me. “Any reason to think otherwise?”

I didn’t reply. I could find that out later.

“Anybody see anything?”

“No.”

“Who was the room checked out to?”

“Nobody. It hadn’t been used since…” He coughed.

We talked some more, then he had to go. I was alone again, just me, the silence, the whisky fumes and the memories. There was no escaping the memories.

Ford Tasso stormed into the station within an hour, Emeric Hinds and a posse of lawyers in tow. Shell-shocked as I was, I couldn’t help being impressed. Hinds was The Cardinal’s sharpest legal mind, usually reserved for the elite. If this had been serious, I would have thanked the gods. But he wasn’t really needed. As Bill had said, the evidence against me was risible, more an insult than anything.

I asked Hinds if he could get the marble. It had set me thinking and I wanted it back, so I could gaze into its dark heart and think some more. He said he could get it for me later, not right away. I had to settle for that.

Tasso said The Cardinal sent his regards and would receive me any time I chose to drop by. He’d also said that I could proceed with the Nic Hornyak investigation or drop it as I wished. As if I could quit now.

I moved in with Bill until the funeral. He was going to take time off work but I told him not to — I preferred being alone. I sat in his big old house, staring out the huge front window. It wasn’t as quiet as the cell but it was quiet enough. I thought about Ellen and Nic, and what I’d do with the killer when I caught up. I also thought about the marble, its black sheen and golden streaks, the smears of Ellen’s blood.

The days blurred into one another. I didn’t take much notice. Didn’t stop to think about Nick, Kett, the blind priests. Didn’t call my father or hear from him. All that could wait. This was a period of mourning. A time for Ellen.

The liquor cabinet in the living room mesmerized me. It was full of familiar friends. They sang to me and made seductive promises. If I hit the bottle I’d forget about Ellen and escape to the blessed sanctuary of drunken oblivion.

Finally, when it seemed I must burst or give in to temptation, I took to the streets on my bike — Bill had brought it over — and spent hours cycling, losing myself in a maze of alleys, stilling the memories, the demons, the needs.

I was for some reason drawn to the Manco Capac statue. I passed it several times without stopping, but finally drew up at the building site and staggered in. I wasn’t sure what had brought me here but it seemed like the right place to be. The site was teeming with workers but none paid attention to me. The giant statue was in much the same shape as before. If they’d made progress, it wasn’t visible.

The shadow of a crane passed overhead. I followed the arm of the machine as it rotated from one side to the other. A dim part of my mind wondered again how they got these monsters up, but I wasn’t in the mood for riddles and the question rapidly slipped from my thoughts.

When my gaze returned to the ground, a tall man in white robes was standing opposite me. His eyes were round and blank. He was smiling. By the mole on the left side of his chin I recognized him. I wasn’t surprised. Part of me had been anticipating something like this from the moment I decided to stop.

I started across to confront him. I didn’t know what I’d say — I was playing this by ear. As I closed on the blind man he extended his arms, said something in a language I couldn’t understand, turned and darted behind a shed. I sped after him, only to find the area deserted. I spotted a flash of white near the base of the statue. Not pausing to wonder how he’d crossed so much ground so quickly, I raced after him.

No sign of the blind man when I reached the statue. I circled it twice before noticing a ladder up the calf of one huge leg. I climbed, taking the rungs two at a time. Emerged onto a platform dotted with the protruding ends of thick steel girders. In the center a trapdoor had been flung open. I caught a glimpse of the blind man’s head as he disappeared.

When I reached the opening I discovered a narrow ladder inside. For the briefest moment I hesitated — the Troop in me screaming, “Not a good idea!”—then let caution go to hell and started down.

After twelve feet I’d almost caught up with my prey, when all of a sudden he let go of the ladder and vanished into darkness. I scuttled down a few more rungs, only to learn he hadn’t let go on a whim. The ladder ended here. I peered down, not sure if I dared proceed, when the trapdoor overhead slammed shut.

My heart leaped wildly. I reprimanded myself — I was too old to be afraid of the dark — and focused on my options. I could ascend the ladder and try the door or I could follow the blind man. Since I saw no reward in retreating, I explored with my feet and hands, realized the shaft was narrow enough to wedge myself in and proceeded to do so. Back jammed against one wall, knees and hands braced against the other, I shuffled down.

It was stuffy, the air was poor, the darkness was oppressive, but I went on. When I appeared to be getting nowhere, I extracted a coin and dropped it. It rolled and clanged for an age before trickling to a stop. Taking a deep breath, I did what had to be done if I was to stand any reasonable chance of catching up — pulled in my legs, lay back and slid.

At first it was almost a straight drop and I thought I was falling to my death. Then the tunnel angled and I gradually slowed, until I came to a stop in what seemed from the echoing sounds to be an enormous cavern. I put my hands out but couldn’t see them. Got to my feet and took a few steps, testing each new section of ground with my toes before settling my weight on it.

The sound of swishing robes pierced the silence. I froze, alert, relying on my ears. Drew my pistol but held it by my side until I had something to aim at.

“Welcome, Albert Jeery, Flesh of Dreams.”

The voice could have originated anywhere in the room — echoes came from all directions.

“Where are you?” I snapped, only to have my own words bounce back at me. Are you? Are you? “Show yourself,” I shouted. Self. Self. Self.

“You seek answers, Flesh of Dreams. You seek truth. Death stalks your every move and you wish to know why.” The speaker paused between sentences.

“What’s with the Flesh of Dreams shit?” I retorted, but my query was ignored.

“Only through us may you access the truth. We know all that occurs in this city. Accept us and we shall share our knowledge. Deny us and you shall be denied.”

“Get to the point,” I growled, at which a match flared in the distance and a torch was lit. I trained my gun on the torch but there was nobody in sight.

I edged toward the light. When I reached it I discovered the torch was set in a wall and couldn’t be moved. Underneath it hung a pouch. I glanced around the cavern — rough-hewn walls, gothic shadows, no sign of life.

“We are of Dreams,” came the voice, filling the cavern, appearing to come from everywhere at once. “You are Flesh of Dreams, but currently more of Flesh than Dreams. To move beyond these walls, you must move beyond Flesh. There is dust in the pouch. Inhale it. Place the mouth of the pouch to one nostril and squeeze sharply. Repeat the procedure on the other side.” With the pauses, the instructions seemed to take forever.

“The hell I will,” I laughed.

“You must.”

“What’s in it?”

“Seeds of Dreams.”

“What if I refuse to play along?”

There was no answer, which was answer enough.

If I’d been in full command of myself I’d have scouted around for tunnels, or tried making my way back up to the surface the way I had come, long and painful as the climb might be. But I hadn’t been in control since I found Ellen’s body in the Skylight. It was easiest to surrender completely, to hell with reservations.

The first inhalation nearly blew me away. I don’t know what was in the pouch, but it was as strong as any shit you’d find on the streets. Rockets went off and the light from the torch intensified a thousand times. Of their own accord, my hands raised the pouch again, located my left nostril and I inhaled more dust. The walls of the cavern dissolved. I lost all sense of body and time, and became part of a sphere of light that was brighter than all the torches of the world put together. I swam in that light, deliriously, and all else was forgotten.

Minutes — hours — later, the effects of the dust diminished, and though the light persisted, it wasn’t absolute. I flickered in and out of reality, one moment aware, the next immersed in the dreamy vision. In my more lucid moments I realized I was being led down a staircase, dark as a mine, that seemed to burrow to the very bowels of the Earth. When we hit bottom there was a long walk through a maze. Some time later I found myself in a dimly lit room. The walls were draped in curtains the color of blood and skeletons dangled from the ceiling, low enough to touch in places.

“Pretty,” I murmured.

“They are the remains of the lower servants of Dreams.” Looking around I saw two men, both in white robes, both blind. I started to ask where we were and who they were, but before I could I was swept away by another wave of light.

The next I knew, we were in an antechamber and they were removing my clothes. There was nothing sexual in their actions and I didn’t resist as they stripped me naked and daubed my body with painted symbols.

“Your eyes,” I said dreamily to one of them. “There are clouds. And yours”—to the other—“mountains. I’ve seen them before. And rivers. Rivers of blood.” It was only later that I remembered where I’d seen them, in the rain-induced vision the first time I came to the Manco Capac site.

The blind men smiled. “That is good,” one commended me. I beamed proudly, then slipped down another corridor of light inside my head.

I was brought back to the real world sharply. One of the men blew something up my nose that made me vomit and jolted me back to semiconsciousness.

“We must present you now,” I was told. “Try to stay with us.”

I nodded wordlessly and concentrated on my feet as I was guided through a door and into an immense cavern that made the first seem like a cranny. Thick candles dotted the walls and ceiling. Dripping wax had formed random sculptures on the floor. The cavern receded into the distance as far as I could see. Symbols — similar to those I’d been painted with — adorned the walls. Many of them were of the sun. I thought they were beautiful.

Directly in front of me lay a circular stone platform, roughly two feet high, maybe forty in diameter. A huge golden sun medallion hung suspended overhead. The platform was dotted with the stiff remains of preserved corpses. They sat upright in plain chairs around the edge, facing inward, mummified. Three ornate thrones stood at the center of the circle, set about three feet apart from each other.

The robed, white-eyed man with the mole occupied the middle throne. Similarly blind men stood behind the other two, faces just visible over the tops of the high backs. They looked almost identical, except the one in the middle had the mole and a few years’ march on the others.

In front of the trio a young man sat on his haunches, crouched at the feet of the seated man like a dog. He had long, silver hair and brown eyes, and was naked, his body covered like mine with intricate designs. He was the one who addressed me throughout.

“Welcome, Flesh of Dreams,” he greeted me. I blinked nervously, lost for words. The man on the throne said something in a language I couldn’t place. The younger man nodded. “Don’t be afraid. You have nothing to fear. We shall not harm you.”

“Thank you,” I replied, then fixed my eyes on the huge sun ornament. One of the men who’d accompanied me from the first cavern gently redirected my head so that I faced the platform again.

“We are villacs, the priests of the sun,” the young man intoned. “We are the builders of this city, the architects of its future. You are a spirit of destiny, of our planning and making. Great things will come of our union.”

“That’s nice,” I giggled.

“We would tell you of our plans but it is not time. First you must be cleansed. You cannot join us as you are. Only the pure may serve.”

The man on the throne spoke again. The young man listened. I staggered on my feet and tuned into the sound of dripping water. This made no sense to me but I was happy enough to go along with it in my drugged, spaced-out state.

“Unclean as you are,” the naked man resumed, “it is time to draw your blood. This city was built on a chakana of blood and is sustained by it.”

“What’s a chakana?” I asked.

“A three-stepped cross. Chakanas are sacred to us. We have always operated on three levels, three different realms of existence. In this city we have forged a chakana of blood streams. The blood of man, of the sun, and of dreams. For centuries the streams have run separately. Soon they will merge and there will be one stream — a chakana — which will feed this city eternally.

“You are here because you are a son of Dreams made Flesh. You will form one-third of our new chakana. We bring you here to prepare you for the day of union, to make you aware of the glorious destiny to which you were born.

“Blood,” he hissed. “All revolves around the sap of the living. You thirst for blood. Your women have been murdered and you live to avenge their deaths, yes?”

My eyes narrowed. “Ellen,” I sighed.

“She was killed for the chakana. Your other lover too. Sacrificed for your destiny. Slain, that you may grow in spirit and move toward—”

“You killed her!” I screamed, surging forward, only to find my way blocked by the two men who’d been my guides.

“We did not kill your women,” the man on the platform vowed. “The murderer resides elsewhere.”

“Who killed them?” I shouted. “Tell me or—”

“That is for you to discover,” he interrupted. “Answers must be earned. Blood must find its own way.”

“Fuck blood!” I screamed. “Tell me who killed Ellen or I’ll—”

The blind man on the throne barked an order. It was commanding enough to silence me. He got to his feet and walked to the edge of the platform, passing the naked man, who averted his eyes. The blind priest continued speaking, empty eyes fixed on my form.

“My master says you must show respect,” came the translation.

I was afraid of this sinister man but the memory of Ellen drove me to snarl, “Fuck respect.”

The blind man stiffened, then chuckled and mumbled something to his servant.

“My master says your blood is hot and that is good. Respect will come later. He can wait. For now you must lend us your hands.”

I stared down at them. The blind priest reached into his robes and produced a curved dagger. I took a nervous step back. “You’re not taking my hands,” I moaned.

“We don’t intend to,” the young man laughed. “We need only your blood, and little of that. Step forward.” I shook my head and jammed my hands behind my back. The priest with the mole began to chant, then made a beckoning motion with his knife. Suddenly I was stumbling toward him involuntarily.

I stopped at the platform. I wanted to flee but was under the blind priest’s spell. He leaned forward, took my left hand, laid it on his head, said something under his breath, lowered my hand and kissed the palm. Next he made a quick slice with the knife across the soft flesh. Maybe because of the dust, I felt no pain.

I thought he was going to lick the blood off but he didn’t. He let it drip to the platform, where it disappeared as though absorbed by the stone, then repeated the ceremony with my right hand. Finished, he stepped back, handed the dagger to one of the priests behind the empty thrones and resumed his central position.

“It is done,” the naked man said. “The blood of Flesh of Dreams is diminished. To replenish it you must take blood in anger. By doing so, the way for the union will be open. Take him back now,” he said to my guides. As they stepped forward to escort me away, he addressed me a final time. “When next we bring you here, it will be to celebrate the union of the blood streams. On that day every question will be answered.”

“No,” I mumbled, shaking my head. “I want to know now. You’re going to tell me. I won’t leave until you do. I’ll tear you apart if I have to, but I won’t—”

As I was making the threat, I stepped onto the platform, only for a shock to course through my body like a flood of electric eels. It was as if I’d rammed my fingers into a live socket. I was hurled through the air. The world went white, then red, and I knew nothing except dreams.

Bill was standing over me when I returned to the land of the living, slapping my face lightly. “Al?” he asked softly. “Are you OK?”

“Where am I?” I groaned, sitting up.

“My place,” he said. “You’ve been asleep for two whole days. I thought you’d never wake.”

“The cavern,” I sighed, remembering parts of my underworld adventure, though full recollection wouldn’t come until later.

“What?”

“The cavern. The platform. I was…” I bent forward and examined the soles of my feet, expecting to find burnt patches, but they were unmarked. “Where was I found?” I asked, wriggling my toes.

Bill frowned. “You’ve been here, sleeping.”

“Not two days ago. I was out cycling.”

Bill shrugged. “You were here when I got back, dead to the world.”

“That can’t be. The cavern. The priests. They took my blood. They told me—”

“You’ve been dreaming,” Bill chuckled.

“No! It was real. I was—”

“OK,” he said, taking a step back. “You were cycling in a cavern. I believe you. Now, are you gonna get up and dress or do you want to cycle some more?”

“Later,” I muttered, scratching my head, trying to remember everything. “I’m starving. I’ll have breakfast, then…” I stopped. My suit was hanging from the back of the door. “What’s that for?”

Bill took my hands and squeezed tightly. “It’s Thursday.” When that didn’t register, he added sorrowfully, “Ellen’s being buried today.”

21

The funeral was devastating. Ellen’s mother was a vibrant, forceful woman, in the normal run of things capable of taking anything life threw at her. She lost her first child to crib death — came to terms with it. Cancer drove her husband to an early grave — she survived that too. But Ellen’s death was one blow too many. Hysteria descended. She wept throughout the service, keening like a professional wailer, pounding her knees with bunched fists.

Ellen was buried on Glade Hill, a carefully tended cemetery perched above the city like a bird’s nest. The cost of burial was outrageous — nearly everyone I knew went for cremation — but Ellen feared fire and had often expressed her desire to be buried.

None of her family knew about Nic Hornyak, or that Ellen was dead because I’d drawn her into my sordid little world. I had that much to be grateful for — I couldn’t have attended otherwise. But being blameless in their eyes did nothing to ease my conscience. If anything it made matters worse. There I was, mixing with the innocent, accepting their condolences with a wan smile, a sad shrug. I felt lousy. Hypocritical. Guilty.

The service came to an end and cars began pulling out of the drive. I’d have been happy to stay by the grave but I was expected at the house for the wake.

As I hunted for a lift — Bill had driven me here, but kept to the back of the crowd and slipped away before anyone else — a fleet of five black Cadillacs wound their way up Glade Hill and came to a halt not far from the gates. A tall, bony figure stepped out of the middle car. I had to double-check to make sure I wasn’t imagining things.

It was The Cardinal.

He blew into his cupped hands, as if there were a chill in the air, then nodded at me and got back into the limo. I went to see what was going on.

I stood by the open door of the Cadillac and stared in at The Cardinal, who was rubbing his arms and gazing out the side window uneasily.

“Get in,” he snapped. “I hate the great outdoors.” I got in without a word. “Take you anywhere?”

“You know where the wake’s being held?”

He nodded and the chauffeur passed word on to the other cars. He said nothing until we were off the hill and shadowed by ugly gray buildings.

“The city looks prettier from the fifteenth floor of Party Central,” he noted, nose crinkling. “I’d forgotten how seedy it is up close.”

“It’s home,” I said softly.

“Hmm.” He opened a mini-refrigerator and produced two bottles of mineral water. “If you have to travel, this is the only way.”

“What are you doing here?” I asked, dispensing with the chitchat.

“You didn’t come to see me. I wanted to check that everything was good between us.”

“I’ve just buried my ex-wife. How could everything be good?”

“I said between us. I’m aware of your grief. I share some of it — though I didn’t know the woman, I know how much she meant to you and I feel partly responsible for what happened.”

“So you should,” I snarled. “You as good as murdered her.”

“No,” The Cardinal sighed. “I had nothing to do with Ellen Fraser’s death. I know you’ve teamed up with your father behind my back — that was hardly likely to go unnoticed by my network of spies — and I suppose you’re suspicious of me, given the degree of secrecy you’ve sunk to. But I don’t know why your ex-wife was killed, nor Nicola Hornyak, and I certainly don’t know who did it.”

“Wami thinks you allowed us to be set up,” I said. “He thinks you were spooked by that Incan card and played along because you were afraid.”

“He’s not far off the mark.” The Cardinal sipped his drink. “I’ve never run from a challenge or retreated out of fear. It’s not in me to back down. But I’ve learned to play my cards right and sometimes it suits my purposes better to lay low rather than attack. This is one such instance.

“When the postcard came, I was furious. If I’d been twenty years younger, I’d have torn the city apart till I found the prick who thought he could fuck with me, and taught him a valuable lesson. But my blood doesn’t run as recklessly as it did. I had other problems to deal with. Though it galled me to play along, it was the right thing to do. So, yes, I threw you in at the deep end. But I’d no idea it would end like this.”

“Would it have made a difference if you had?” I asked.

“It might. I know the pain of losing a wife. I would wish it on no one.”

“That’s right,” I murmured. “You were married once. Drove her crazy. Walled her up in the Skylight.”

“You’re treading on thin ice, Al,” he growled.

“Do I look like I’m worried?”

“You should be. I could have you…” He stopped with a curse. “I didn’t come to make threats. I came to clear my name before you did something stupid. I’m not your enemy and you’ll only waste your time treating me as one.”

That was debatable, but it was big of him to come, so I didn’t want to provoke him. “The blind priests say they know who killed her,” I told him instead.

“You’ve had contact with them?”

“Yes.”

“They spoke to you in English?” The news startled him. “I didn’t know they were capable of common speech. Tell me what they said.”

I gave him an abbreviated version of my encounter with the villacs. “Of course they could have been lying,” I concluded. “About not killing Nic and Ellen.”

“Doubtful,” he replied. “I don’t see why they should drag you all the way down there just to lie to you.” He stroked his chin with his twisted little finger and glanced away. “Did they explain why they referred to you as Flesh of Dreams?” Though he phrased the question casually, I could tell it had significance for him.

“No. They babbled on about blood and something called a chakana, but none of it made sense.”

“Did they mention the word Ayuamarca at any point?”

“No.” But I didn’t tell him that Paucar Wami had.

“Curious,” he muttered, then made a dismissive gesture. “Enough about the blind fools. The investigation — do you wish to continue?”

“It’s too late to stop,” I responded.

“Nonsense. I can remove you from the case and set another team on it. Fuck my blackmailers. If you like, you can leave the city and not return until everything’s been cleared.”

“I’m not running,” I told him. “And I don’t want you interfering. Ellen’s killers are mine. If anyone gets in my way…”

The Cardinal chuckled. “I was right about you, Al. You were wasted in the Troops. Very well, the case is still yours. Good luck.”

“I won’t need luck. I have this.” I opened my jacket to flash my.45.

“As persuasive a tool as any,” The Cardinal noted drily, and said nothing further during the remainder of the journey.

The wake was held in a large house belonging to one of Ellen’s cousins. Family and friends milled around, talking in low voices, drinking heavily, smoking as if the tobacco industry were about to go out of business.

There was a huge grate for an open fire in the main room. Somebody lit it in the afternoon, despite the glorious weather, and I retreated to its side when I couldn’t take one more comforting pat on the back. I would have left but that wouldn’t have been polite, and for once in my life I wanted to do the decent thing. For Ellen’s sake.

I sat by the hearth, watching the flames, cold as I’d ever been. After a slow, lonely half hour, Deborah — Ellen’s elder sister — approached. “Holding up?” she asked, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. I nodded numbly. “Mom’s taking this badly. We’re worried sick about her.”

“Some people take things like this worse than others. She’ll come to terms with it eventually. You just have to make sure you’re there for her when she needs you.” The platitudes came naturally. “You seem to be bearing up OK,” I noted.

She glanced around to make sure we were alone, then spoke quietly. “Remember Donny, my son?”

“Sure. He was a real terror. Must be thirteen, fourteen now?”

“Fourteen,” she confirmed.

“Is he here?”

“No. He’s in the hospital.”

“Oh?”

“It’s cancer.” A confidential whisper. “Just like Dad.” I stared at her. I hadn’t cried since finding Ellen dead at the Skylight, but I came close to it then.

“Is it serious?” I asked stupidly.

“He’s dying. They’ve operated twice without success. He’s there again today. We didn’t tell him about Ellen. He’s going to die. In a few months we’ll be back here mourning again. That’s how I’m so calm. I’ve been preparing for a funeral.”

“Is that why your Mom’s so shattered?” I asked.

“Mom doesn’t know. We wanted to keep it from her. We’ve kept it quiet from most of the family. We live outside the city, so we don’t see them much. We were going to tell them after this operation, if it fails. Now though…” She looked over at her weeping mother. “Excuse me,” she sobbed, voice cracking, and hurried away, shaking helplessly.

I sat there, thinking of Ellen, her mother, Donny. Everyone was drifting around like zombies, drinking too much, talking about the past, their jobs, their kids, but not about Ellen. They didn’t want to discuss the dead, not like at most funerals. Ellen’s corpse was lying peacefully up on Glade Hill, but might as well have been here, in the middle of the room, the way people were acting.

And it was all my fault.

I thought about the coffin being lowered. The words of the priest, trying to comfort the mourners. The sound of the earth as it hit the lid. She’d looked so healthy laid out before. The killer hadn’t touched her face. She could have been sleeping, except I knew that Ellen slept with her mouth open and was never still. She was forever moving, wriggling her toes, snoring, scrunching up her face. But not anymore.

I had to do something. The hunt for the killer would come later, but I couldn’t wait that long. Rising slowly, I tracked down Bob — Ellen’s brother — and asked if there was a pack of cards somewhere. He looked bemused by the request but fetched one. I located a spare room and asked Bob to guard the door for me.

“What’s going on, Al?” he grumbled.

“Trust me,” I said. “I want to help.”

Then I went to find Ellen’s mother. One of Ellen’s aunts was trying to console her. I pushed the aunt aside as politely as I could and took the distraught woman by the arm. “Mrs. Fraser, I’m so sorry,” I said.

She wept still, not resisting as I led her away.

“I’ve got something to show you, something Ellen would have wanted you to see.”

“Ellen?” There was painful hope in her voice, as if she believed I could bring her daughter back from the dead.

“Yes. This way, please. It won’t take long.” At the door of the room I told Bob to let no one in. There was doubt in his eyes but he did as I said, not wishing to create a scene.

I sat Ellen’s mother on the bed and turned on the light. Took the cards out and shuffled them. “I want you to watch the cards, Mrs. Jeery. I’m going to show you a trick.”

“A trick?” she echoed uncertainly.

I smiled and slapped four cards down, faces up. “Don’t worry. It’s a good trick. Now, pick a card, but don’t tell me what it is…”

She was eager for consolation and didn’t fight as I created a world of colors, followed by the connecting tunnel. There was so much unhappiness inside her, I knew I couldn’t relieve her of all her pain, but sometimes a little is enough. If she could get through the next few days, she’d hopefully find the strength in herself to continue after that.

She wasn’t quite so haggard-looking when I led her from the room, and she began circulating, thanking people for coming, offering to help make sandwiches. Bob was bursting with curiosity but didn’t push me for an answer, just slapped me on the back and let his eyes express his thanks.

After that it was back to the fire and thoughts of Ellen. I’d been able to forget her while helping her mother, but now the memories returned with a vengeance and for the longest time I sat there, slumped in the chair, staring at the flames.

Finally, mercifully, the wake drew to a close. I bid Bob and a couple of others farewell. Ellen’s mother hugged me and told me Ellen had loved me. Then I was clear, free to get down to the only thing that mattered anymore, the business of bloody, final, uncompromising revenge.

22

Bill was sitting in his excuse for a garden when I returned, drinking a can of beer, several empties scattered around him. I packed my bag, wandered outside and told him I was going back to my apartment. He wasn’t happy, but I said I couldn’t stay with him forever. He’d been great, I couldn’t have pulled through without his help, but it was time to stand on my own two feet and get on with life. He told me to take advantage of his hospitality anytime, no matter what the circumstances.

Ali spotted me pulling up and rushed out to commiserate. I thanked him for his kind words but didn’t stay to chat. He told me to call in if there was anything I needed. I said I would, then hurried up the stairs, eager to make a start.

Somebody had fixed my door. Probably Bill. Also, the fridge and freezer were stocked, the bed had been made and all the notes that had been strewn around the place were in boxes, tidied away. I threw my bag down and started pulling out the notes. I hadn’t gotten through two of the boxes when the door to the bathroom opened and Paucar Wami stepped out.

“Al m’boy,” he croaked, “you’ve come back to your dear ol’ pappy.”

I laid the box down. “How long have you been in there?”

“Most of the day.” He flopped into a chair. “I had a feeling you would return after the funeral. I was expecting you earlier. What delayed you?”

“The wake.”

“You stayed for that? I detest wakes. Everybody speaks so well of the dead. Nobody mentions the infidelities, the scams they pulled, the people they betrayed. I worry that somebody will throw a wake for me when I pass on.”

“I don’t think there’s much chance of that,” I replied icily.

“You might be surprised,” he grinned. “Enough beating about the bush. You have had your time of mourning. On to business. Have you learned anything new?”

I thought of the marble and sat down opposite him. “There’s something I have to ask. You won’t like it but I’m going to ask anyway.”

“Go ahead.” He looked interested.

“Did you kill Ellen?”

He frowned. “You suspect me?”

I told him about the marble, black with golden streaks, how I’d discovered it, how it had gone missing and turned up in my locker, how it had been found on Ellen.

“You think I left it on her?” he asked. “That I rolled the marble your way in the first place, meaning I’ve been fucking with you from the very start?”

“Maybe.”

Wami stared at me in cold silence, then slid a dagger out of a pocket. He pressed it into my right hand and placed the blade against his bare, unprotected throat, offering himself to me.

“If you doubt, destroy,” he hissed.

I stared at the blade and the hairless flesh of his throat. I took a deep breath. As agile and powerful as he was, he couldn’t stop me if I decided to kill him. One flick of my wrist and he was a dead man.

I started to lower the knife. Wami grabbed my hand and pressed the blade back against his throat. “Be sure,” he snarled. “I have never volunteered my life before. I will not do so again. Be sure of me or kill me.”

I withdrew the knife. He didn’t stop me this time.

“I had to ask,” I muttered.

“No. But you did, and it is perhaps just as well. Now we know where we stand.” He pocketed his knife. “With the dramatics out of the way, I will ask again — anything new?”

“You first. What’s happened since Ellen was…?” I didn’t want to say it.

“Nothing much. Nobody knows who killed her. The room at the Skylight was officially vacant. The police do not know whether it was a copycat killer or the original.”

“The original,” I snapped.

“Of course. No luck on the Charlie Grohl front. I have been following young Nicholas, without joy. I tracked down the two leads of Ellen’s — I found them by going through your notes — but they knew nothing of her or Nicola Hornyak.”

“Did you kill them?” I asked quietly.

“One of them. The other was a crook with political connections. I let him live in case I have use for him in future.”

“How come you didn’t hit on Ziegler?”

“I was saving him for when you returned. We will go after him together, father and son, a proper team. Now, what news with you?”

For the second time I related the story of my underground sojourn. Wami sat through it uncommonly slack-jawed.

“I know of the tunnels and caverns,” he noted at the end. “I have explored them. But I never came across anything like that.”

“Can you make sense of what the villacs said?” I asked.

“No.”

“Flesh of Dreams means nothing to you?”

“Should it?”

“It did to The Cardinal.” His eyebrows rose, so I told him about our meeting.

“It grows more incredible by the minute,” he sighed. “The Cardinal leaving his fortress to declare his innocence. I never heard the like.”

“The Cardinal knows about the villacs and their plans,” I said.

“That does not surprise me.”

“I thought their rantings about blood streams, Flesh and Dreams were gibberish, but if The Cardinal takes them seriously, so should we.”

“Absolutely,” Wami agreed.

“So find out,” I told him.

“How?”

“Torture a few blind men. Take The Cardinal out back of Party Central and beat the truth out of him. I don’t care. That’s your concern. My hands will be full with Nick and Ziegler.”

“Why divide? Let us pursue Nicholas and Rudi together, then—”

“No,” I cut him short. “If either was responsible for the murders — or knows who was — he’s mine. Same if you find the killer — leave him for me.”

“You grow greedy, Al m’boy,” Wami murmured. “You want all the fun.”

“To hell with fun!” I shouted. “This isn’t a game anymore. I loved Ellen. Can you understand that, you black-hearted son of a bitch? Do you know what love is?”

“Please,” Wami winced. “Spare me the pop lyrics.”

“Don’t joke,” I growled. “I’m serious.”

“How can you be serious about a little thing like murder?” he protested. “We all die in the end. She is dead — accept it and forget her. It is not like the two of you were still an item.”

“That doesn’t matter. I loved her.”

“Love,” he sneered. “It is the basest of emotions. Love owns the weak — owns, cripples and destroys.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ve never loved. You can’t understand it unless—”

“But I have!” he exclaimed. “I do. I love death.”

“Hardly the same thing as loving a human,” I noted.

“It is better,” he insisted. “Death is the only mistress worth love because she owns us already. Loving one of your own is a form of slavery. Only by learning to love death can one taste freedom. By acknowledging the bonds of our mortality, we are freed to explore the loops that form the chains of life.”

“I’m not going to get philosophical with you,” I said. “Love whatever the hell you want. I loved Ellen and I’m gonna find her killer and murder him. Alone. If you’ve got a problem with that…”

“Al,” he tutted. “Sons should not pit themselves against their fathers. It runs contrary to the laws of nature.”

“Will you leave the killer to me?” I asked.

“If I do not? Will you raise your hand in anger?”

“If I have to.”

“And if I raise mine in return?”

I didn’t answer. Wami studied me, then shook his head with disgust. “So be it. The killer is yours.”

“Thank you,” I responded coolly.

“You know,” Wami smiled, “I almost envy you. It has been many years since I took a life in anger. Nothing compares with that first drawing of blood, the thrill of…” He stopped when he saw a shadow pass across my face. “Did I say something amiss?”

“Just something similar to what the blind priests told me.”

I thought about what the naked man on the platform had said. “You must take blood in anger.” Perhaps it was wrong of me to go it alone. Maybe that was what they wanted, and I was playing into their hands.

“You are having second thoughts,” Wami noted.

“Some,” I admitted.

“You want to change your mind?”

I considered it thoroughly. “No. I don’t like the idea of flying solo but this is the way it must be.”

“As you wish.” He started for the door. “If you require assistance, you know how to find me.”

“You’ll remember your promise?” I called him back. “You won’t act without contacting me?”

“Unless it is unavoidable.”

“Wait.” I stopped him as his hand was on the knob. “You said you only loved death, that nothing else was worth loving. Does that mean you don’t love me?”

He squinted as if I were kidding him. “You interest me as few other humans do. I have certain fatherly feelings for you.”

“But not love?”

“Perhaps if you were dead,” he chuckled drily, and let himself out.

The Red Throat was almost deserted when I got there, shortly after it had opened for the day. There was no sign of Nick, but I hadn’t expected him this early. I ordered a mineral water and found a corner where I could sit back and observe.

Nick turned up a couple of hours later. He looked rough, as if he hadn’t had a lot of sleep, and was dressed in a T-shirt and jeans. He stumbled to the bar, ordered a drink and looked around. Frowned when he saw me, then came over.

“My old friend Al,” he commented, running the cool surface of the glass across his forehead as he sat down. “More questions?”

“Feel up to them?”

“Not really. I went on a bender last night. Still, if you ask nicely…”

I stood and nodded toward the toilets. “Want to do it in there?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve come over queer,” he snorted suspiciously.

I forced a smile. “Afraid not. I just want to talk in private. It won’t take long. Will you come?”

He laughed. “Be careful with your words, Al.” He set off ahead of me, hips swaying, smirking over his shoulder. I grinned bleakly in return.

The room was brightly lit and empty. “You know,” he said as I closed the door, “this isn’t the first time I’ve been in here with a friend, but the management really doesn’t like—”

I was on him. I jammed his mouth shut, grabbed his left arm and jerked it behind his back until he screamed into my palm. I stopped short of snapping the bone, rested the arm, then jerked it up again, harder, not releasing the pressure until I heard it break. I held him in place, muffling his screams, then swung him around and unleashed a flurry of punches to the walls of his stomach. As he doubled over, I grabbed the back of his head and slammed him face-first down onto the floor, not hard enough to knock him out, but with force enough to smash a few teeth.

He slumped when I let go, groaning pitifully. I let him get his breath back, then kicked him cruelly, stomach, thighs, the soft parts of the arms. I steered clear of the groin, saving it for later.

When he was whimpering softly I took a break. I washed my hands in one of the basins, studying my face in the mirror, barely recognizing the vicious, hateful image. I didn’t like what I was doing and what I had yet to do, but a quick mental fix on Ellen as she lay in the coffin set me up for round two.

Nick was sobbing, trying to stanch the flow of blood from his mouth with his unbroken arm, building up his breath to scream for help. I took out my gun and tapped it against the side of the basin. His breath caught. I dried my hands and turned to face him.

“If you scream, I’ll have to shoot you.”

“What is this?” he asked through a mouthful of blood and broken teeth. “Taken up gay-bashing?”

“Gay’s got nothing to do with it.”

“Then what?” He spat out a couple of teeth and began crying. “Christ, Al, what the fuck—”

“I want to know about Ellen.”

He stared, bewildered. “Who?”

“Ellen Fraser. My ex-wife.”

“Don’t know her.”

“You heard about the copycat killing at the Skylight?”

He stared. “No,” he whispered.

“I want to know who killed her.” I pointed the gun at him.

His eyes were wide with terror. “I don’t know anything about it,” he spluttered.

“I’ll shoot you in the leg first,” I said. “Your left. Then the right. People will rush to investigate when I open fire, so I’ll have to work quickly. That means moving straight to your groin. Ever seen someone shot through the balls? Not a pretty sight.”

“It wasn’t me,” he moaned.

“I don’t believe you,” I said, crouching to give him a better view of the gun. “Tell me what you were doing in the Skylight when your sister was killed. Lie once and I shoot.”

Nick stared at the gun, gathered his wits and began painfully. “It was meant to be a joke. We’d done it before.”

“Done what?”

“Swapped partners.” He wiped his mouth with his good hand. “Nic arranged for rooms with interconnecting doors. Both our guys were into bondage. The plan was to tie them up, then swap places and…”

“You mean you’d screw Nic’s guy and she’d get off with yours?” He nodded. “Seems like hers was getting the worst of the bargain.”

He showed his broken teeth, all bloody. It might have been a grin. “She had a dildo…”

“Cute. Go on.”

“I got there before Nic and went into action. About half past ten, I looked in her room. She wasn’t there. I kept my guy going another hour, then I put the mask on him and went to see if Nic had turned up.”

“Why the mask?” I asked.

“To protect his identity. I left him tied to the bed, slipped into 812 and…”

I waited for him to continue. He didn’t. “And? ” I snapped.

“I saw the state of her back. How still she was. I thought she was dead. So I ran.”

“She was still alive then,” I roared. “You might have been able to save her.”

“Thanks for reminding me,” he replied bitterly. He was crying, but not from the pain. “I should have checked. I should have gotten help. But I panicked, fled for the stairs. I stopped on the third floor, ducked into a bathroom and cried till I was dry. Then I went back — the longest fucking climb of my life — and got my clothes. I should have let my guy go, but I just left him there — I wasn’t thinking straight. I took an elevator down and slipped out. Nobody noticed. That was it.” He looked at me with scared, small eyes, awaiting my verdict.

“Who was the man with Nic?” I asked.

“I don’t know. And she didn’t know who I’d be with. That’s how we always did it.”

“Did you see anyone or hear anything?”

“No.”

“Any chance the guy you were with — Charlie Grohl — knows more than you do?”

“He was tied up,” Nick said quickly. “Gagged.”

“Maybe later, after you left,” I suggested.

“No,” he insisted, but there was something in his denial which jarred. For the first time I got the feeling that he wasn’t playing straight.

“Remember what I said I’d do if I caught you lying?”

“I haven’t lied!” he yelped, scrabbling backward.

“Did Charlie Grohl say something to make you suspicious?”

“No. I swear. He knows no more about it than me.”

“I don’t believe you.” I pointed the gun at his groin. “Three seconds, Nick. Spill the beans or kiss goodbye to your greens.”

“Al, don’t do this. You—”

“One.”

“People will hear. They know your face here. They’ll—”

“Two.”

“I swear, I don’t know who it was, I haven’t—”

“Three.”

“No!” he screamed before I fired. “There was no Charlie Grohl!”

My eyebrows creased. “Come again?”

“It’s a name I made up. But I only did it to protect his identity. He said he’d kill me if anyone—”

“It’s an alias?” I shouted.

“One of my first lovers was called Charles Grohl. His name sprang into my—”

“Forget that,” I silenced him. “Who was in the room with you?”

Nick hesitated the briefest of moments. Then, shoulders slumping, he said, “I was with a cop called Howard Kett.”

I helped Nick clean himself up and called for an ambulance. He said he wouldn’t press charges because he knew how upset I was, but added that he never wanted to see me again, not even if I found out who murdered Nic. I felt ashamed, but for Ellen I’d face all the shame in the world. I left Nick cradling his arm and waiting for the medics, then tracked down Howie.

He was on the phone in his office when I walked in, brushing past the startled officers outside. I yanked the cord from the wall, cutting him off in mid-sentence.

“What the fuck!” he yelled, stumbling to his feet.

“I know about you and Nicholas Hornyak,” I said, sitting down.

The rage drained from his face and he fell back into his chair. One of his colleagues came to the door and asked if everything was OK. Kett nodded and told him to close the door. For a long time he sat staring at me, saying nothing. Finally, “We met a couple of years ago. Bill and I busted him one night. I got chatting to him. A few months later we ran into each other and—”

“I’m not interested in ancient history,” I snapped.

“I don’t make a habit of it. But sometimes I just—”

“The Skylight, Howie,” I growled.

“My wife has no idea. She guessed I was having an affair, but thinks it’s with a woman. You mustn’t tell her. My life’s over if she finds out.”

“Tell me what happened at the Skylight or I’ll phone her now,” I threatened. That brought him out of his daze.

“How much do you know?” he asked.

“Nick paid Breton Furst to turn a blind eye so you could slip in unseen. He tied you to the bed and masked you. Furst freed you later.”

“I went home,” he said. “I rang Nick to chew him a new asshole but he couldn’t be reached. I spent most of the week trying to contact him. A couple of days before I learned about the murder, a photo turned up on my desk, of me and Nick, in the room. Naked. No note. Just the photo. I stormed over to Nick’s. I thought the photo was another of his sick jokes, like chaining me to the bed and vanishing, but he swore he knew nothing about it. He told me how he found his sister.”

“That’s when you turned up at the Skylight, looking for her body?”

“Was it, fuck!” he snorted. “If I interfered, someone might’ve found out about me and Nick. I kept the news to myself. But the next day I got a call at home, a man’s voice. He asked if my wife would like a framed print of the photo. I asked what he was after. He told me about Nicola and said I was to pick up her body after I called The Cardinal and invented a story about a snitch.”

“What did he tell you to do once you’d recovered the body?”

“Keep the news that the corpse was a week old to myself, and treat it like any normal homicide victim. Which is what I did. A few days later I got another call. This time I was told to go around to your place and tell you to keep away from Nick. I knew it’d make you suspicious but my hands were tied.”

“I wondered what you were up to,” I grunted. “It made no sense.”

“That’s because they were setting us up. I could see that from the start. Broke my fucking balls to play into their hands.”

“And Allegro Jinks — you were told to send Furst to look for him? That story about his mother was a crock of shit?”

Howie nodded. “I found a message in the pocket of my pants one morning.”

“Any more messages since?”

He shook his head. “When I got back from holiday and heard about your ex, I thought they’d be in touch, but so far, nothing.”

“If they contact you again, I want to know.”

“I can’t make any guarantees.”

“I’ll tell your wife about you and Nick if you don’t.”

He laughed bitterly. “And the others will tell her about us if I do. Screwed however I turn. Look, Jeery, much as I hate you, these are scum of a different order. I’ll do anything to help you fuck them up. But I have to blow with the wind. They scare me more than you do.”

“You’re not much of a man to have in my corner, Howie.”

“Never claimed I was,” he retorted. He nodded at the door, inviting me to leave.

“One last question. Ellen — any leads?”

His face softened. “It’s not my case. I’ve steered clear of it. I’m not even listening to office gossip. Bill can probably tell you more about it than me.”

“If you learn anything, will you let me know?”

“If I’m able,” he replied.

I left. The last thing I saw as I let myself out was Kett lowering his head into his hands, groaning quietly. Another time and place, I could almost have felt sorry for the bastard.

Rudi Ziegler wasn’t surprised to see me. “Come in,” he said glumly and took me through to the parlor. He sat at the table and played with his crystal ball, head bowed over it. I gave the room a quick once-over before sitting. I’d made up my mind to start softly — more softly than I had on Nick — but if I had to get vicious, I would.

“You know why I’m here?” I asked.

“I heard about Ellen. I’m sorry.”

“Did you know she was my ex when she came to see you?”

“No. She never mentioned Nicola or you. I wouldn’t have known the two of you were related if your name hadn’t been mentioned in the news.”

“That’s your story.”

He looked up. “You think I’m lying?”

“Two of your clients go under the knife, exactly the same way, exactly the same place. Coincidence?”

“Maybe,” he muttered.

I placed my gun on the table. “You’re in deep shit, Rudi. Talk.”

He put his face in his hands and breathed deeply. His eyes were raw with tears when he looked at me again. “I never knew it would go this far,” he sobbed.

My fingers slid away from the gun.

“I knew nothing about Ellen, but Nicola… It was her idea. She wanted to be carved. It was meant to be a symbolic sacrifice. There was a ceremony, by the base of the Manco Capac statue. It concluded with the symbol being cut into her back. There was pain but she welcomed it, offering it up to the god of the sun. I said rites before, during and after the carving. That was it. We cleaned up, bandaged Nicola, said our farewells, and I headed home.”

“Nic stayed?”

“I thought she’d left too, but she must have doubled back, or met her killer elsewhere.”

“You didn’t kill her?”

“No!” he yelped. “I worship the sun, life, the positive aspects of the universe. I would never—”

“So who did?” I challenged him.

He chewed his lower lip nervously. “I don’t know,” he lied.

“Who arranged the sacrifice?”

“Nicola. I organized the ceremony but she initiated it.”

“She didn’t plan on being killed?”

“Hardly.”

“What about the carving? You did the praying. Did you handle the knife as well?”

“Yes,” he said quickly. Too quickly.

“You’re lying.”

“No.” Sweating now.

“Who was it?” I pressed. “Who sliced her?”

“Nobody! We were the only—”

His eyes flicked to a spot behind me. My training kicked in and I threw myself to the left, not even pausing to grab my weapon.

A gun exploded. A bullet screamed past the spot where I should have been and hit Ziegler in the chest. He went down silently. Blood and splinters of bone arced from his breast, spraying the table and floor. He might not have been dead before hitting the floor, but there wouldn’t have been much in it either way.

“Shit!” the assassin cursed. Feet shuffled. A silver barrel glinted. I lunged as the second shot was fired, feeling it tear through the heel of my shoe, somehow missing my flesh. Then I was on my assailant.

I drove my head into his stomach, my fist into his face. He grunted, gave a couple of inches, then rooted his feet to the floor and struck at my head with the gun. I took the blow on my shoulder and punched again. He stumbled. Blood was flowing from his nose or mouth. I grabbed his legs and pulled. He fell heavily.

I scrambled up his body to pound his face. When I got there, I paused with shock. It wasn’t a man — it was a large, mean, bullheaded woman. I knew her, but before I could place her name, she went for my eyes with her nails.

I rolled away just in time, though she scratched my cheeks pretty badly. With a growl she pushed after me, scuttling across the floor in a grotesque, arachnid fashion, teeth gnashing at my flesh, hands scrabbling for a hold.

I backpedaled swiftly, trying to make space for a counterattack. I struck at her face with both feet. She took the blow on her giant breasts. It slowed her but didn’t put her down, and she was on me again moments later, saliva spraying, teeth seeking my nose.

I hooked my fingers under her gums and pried her away. I tried kneeing her groin but only caught a meaty thigh. She slammed her own knee forward and fared better, driving much of the wind from my sails.

We thrashed about and crashed into the table, her hands around my throat. Something heavy rolled off and thumped to the floor. My mind put a shape to the sound. I jerked one hand back and punched the side of her head a few times without any effect, so I grabbed an ear and tugged. She screamed and drew away.

I let go of the ear and hit both sides of her neck with the inner edges of my hands. She screamed breathlessly and sank down, gasping for air. I slid across the floor and grabbed the crystal ball, which was what had toppled from the table moments before. It was cracked but intact. I got to my knees, raised my hands and slammed the glass globe down over her head.

There was no swift recovery from a blow like that. I had plenty of time to truss her up, tend to my wounds and check Ziegler’s corpse before she came to.

I studied her as she groaned and returned to life. I had her name now — Valerie Thomas, the maid-with-attitude from the Skylight.

When her eyes opened, she found herself staring down the barrel of my.45. She looked up at my scratched, bloody, determined face. And she laughed.

“Men!” she snorted. “Always resorting to guns to settle battles.”

“You drew first,” I reminded her.

“That was business. An execution. Once the fight began, I wouldn’t have used it, no matter what. Only a coward goes for a gun in a fight.”

“You killed Ziegler,” I said.

She tried hunching her shoulders but I had her tied too tight to move. “So?” she smiled. “He was a puppet. Ziegler was a fool who couldn’t tell the difference between fantasy and reality. He dug his own grave.”

“Did you kill Nic too? And Ellen?”

“Your lovely ex-wife,” she cooed.

“You killed her?” My finger tightened on the trigger.

“Eligible Ellen. So sweet. So naïve.”

“Did you kill her?” I screamed, jabbing the gun into her mouth, giving her a taste of the pain to come if she didn’t talk.

She spat the gun out. “No,” she coughed. “I didn’t kill your precious Ellen. But I saw her die. I watched her lips widen in a silent scream and her back arch. I saw the terror in her eyes as the blade bit into her soft flesh.” She laughed again, cruel as an eagle’s cry. “So beautiful. So helpless. So terrified. She called for you. ‘Al! ’ After all you got her into, she didn’t blame you. People that stupid deserve to die.”

Finally, after so much time, tears came. I cried pitifully, thinking of Ellen in this vile creature’s grasp, crying out for me, dying with my name on her lips. My legs went numb and I collapsed and wept.

“Poor Al,” she crooned. “Poor Ellen, poor Nic, poor Rudi. So many victims. I feel like spilling a few tears myself.”

“Shut up!” I screamed, then trained the gun on her again. “Who killed them?”

“My lover,” she replied. “My wily, sensual, murderous lover.”

“The same one Ellen said she was in love with?” I guessed.

“What a fool. It’s easy to love one so strong and imaginative, but to miss their dark heart, the evil at their core… Ellen was doomed from their first kiss.”

“Tell me his name,” I snarled.

“Love knows no names,” she laughed.

“Tell me the fucking name or I’ll kill you!”

“Go ahead,” she said. “I have no fear. There’s nothing in dying that scares me. Kill me, little man. Send me to my sun god and damn yourself in the process.”

I took that in and blinked slowly. “Are you in league with the villacs?”

“Who?” she deadpanned.

“The blind priests.” She smirked knowingly and didn’t answer. “OK. Just tell me who killed Ellen.”

“I told you — my lover.”

“His name, bitch. His name!”

“What’s in a name?” she chuckled. Then, seriously, “Find out for yourself. Embrace the sun, worship its god, and you will learn.”

“Don’t waste my time with talk of gods,” I warned her. “Tell me who killed Ellen or so help me…”

“What? You’ll torture me? Try, little man. I’m a hard nut to crack. I know pain. Do your worst. I’m up to anything you can throw at me.”

“We’ll see about that,” I said grimly, then twisted her over and ripped her shirt open. I’m not sure what I was planning. I’d learned all sorts of terrible techniques during my time with the Troops. I knew the places that hurt most, the everyday instruments I could use to heighten the pain, how to prolong it. I’d sworn never to put that knowledge to use, but in that room my resolve crumbled and good intentions went up in wreaths of bloodstained smoke.

However, upon my removal of her shirt, the option of torture was removed. I discovered a grotesque map of pain beneath the cloth. Her flesh was burned, cut, whipped beyond recognition. Pins were stuck in her, the heads glinting like tiny silver stars. Bandages covered fresh, deep lacerations and scars. Acid burns, wounds with salt rubbed into them, sores that were pustulant and seeping. She was a walking advert for sick masochism.

I threw the shirt back over her, nauseated. There was nothing I could do to this woman that hadn’t already been done.

“You see?” she whispered proudly. “My god fed me pain, thus placing me beyond it. He is gracious, generous, wise. If only more knew the beauty of being in service to one so powerful, they’d…”

I left the woman babbling about gods and the like. I could listen to no more. I thought about pleading with her, trading her life for answers, but I knew she’d laugh at such offers. Perhaps I should have tried to trick the truth out of her but I was in no state for intrigue. I was weeping like a baby.

I called Bill before leaving. Told him what I’d learned, where to pick up Valerie, what had happened with Ziegler. He told me to stay where I was, but I couldn’t. I said I’d be in my apartment. He started to say that wasn’t good enough, I had to remain at the scene, but I hung up and walked away, into a world more awash with pain and grief than I’d ever thought possible.

23

Valerie confessed to all three murders — Nic, Ellen, Ziegler. Told the police I had nothing to do with any of them. Made no mention of an accomplice or lover. I didn’t contradict her story. They thought they had their killer, the case was closed. Why piss on their parade?

An eager reporter uncovered the connections between myself and the female victims. For a while I was an outstanding news story, a determined lover who exposed the murderer and handed her over for trial. A public hero, a role model for children everywhere. I was chased by news crews around the city. Bill and Kett kept them off my back, Bill because he cared, Kett for fear I’d implicate him.

Valerie was dead a couple of days after her confession. Hanged herself in her cell. Nobody knew how she got the rope, but the police didn’t care. She’d have gone to the chair in any case — this saved the city time and money.

The media went into a feeding frenzy when Valerie killed herself. It was the perfect end to the story and all they needed to cap it was an interview with me. They hounded me mercilessly till Bill called in a favor from the mayor and he got their editors to call them off.

The days blurred into one another as I sat in my apartment, staring at the walls, thinking about Nic, Ellen, Valerie. I should have been chasing the mystery lover, the man who lured Nic and Ellen to their deaths and inspired Valerie to lie herself to ruin. But I was too tired. A great depression had settled over me. I just wanted to sit in darkness and weep.

Wami and The Cardinal rang to congratulate me. I accepted their praise with barely a murmur, telling neither the truth. They’d have dragged me out of myself if they had known the case was still live.

I stopped washing and shaving. Wore the same clothes day after day. I ate rarely and unhealthily. Lost myself in memories of Ellen. The world made no sense any longer. All that seemed real was Ellen.

Bill and Ali tried to help. They brought fresh food and cleared away the trash. Some mornings I awoke to find one of them had slipped my clothes off while I slept and laundered them. They held one-sided conversations with me, chattering on, pretending all was well. I tried responding — I appreciated the effort they were making — but hadn’t the strength. I was like a lobotomized half-wit who could only stare, drool and nod my head occasionally.

I stayed away from the bottle. Even during my lowest moments, I resisted the temptation. I was a pathetic wreck, but part of me knew I could haul myself out of this wretchedness in time. If I drank, there’d be no coming back. This mess of a life would be for keeps.

In the midst of my sorrow, Priscilla Perdue breezed back into my life. She turned up one day, demurely dressed and smiling uncertainly. “I tried calling,” she said, “but you didn’t answer. I had to come. I’ll leave again if you want me to.”

I said nothing, only ushered her in.

Her nose crinkled when she saw the state of the apartment. Neither Ali nor Bill had been up for a few days and I’d really let things slide. Dirty dinner trays, filthy clothes, overflowing garbage cans.

“Is it the cleaner’s year off?” she quipped.

“If you don’t like it, piss off,” I snarled.

She started for the door.

“Wait,” I called her back. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m saying or thinking half the time. Don’t go. Please. Sit.”

She looked around. “I’d rather stand if it’s all the same.”

I managed a thin smile. “So. Here you are.”

“Here I am,” she agreed.

There was a long silence.

“Anything in particular you wanted to talk about?” I asked.

“Oh, Al.” She threw herself into my arms. I toppled backward onto one of the socks-and-underwear-strewn chairs, dragging her down with me. “What that woman did to your wife was awful. I don’t know how you didn’t rip her throat open. If it was me, I’d have…” She started to cry.

“It’s OK,” I said, stroking her hair, thinking about Ellen’s. “It’s over. She’s dead. There’s no need for tears.”

She wept a while, then looked at me hopefully. “It is over, isn’t it? She did kill them?”

“She confessed, didn’t she?”

“I know, but…” She gulped and sat up straighter. “I can’t stop thinking about that night I went to the Skylight to meet Nic. She definitely said she was bringing a man. I’ve been reading the papers daily. According to them, Valerie acted by herself. The reporters say she was mad.”

“They got that much right.”

“And the rest of it?”

I knew why she cared. If Valerie had been a lone crazy, and the guy Nic brought to the hotel wasn’t involved, it absolved Priscilla. She needn’t feel guilty if it had been a random attack rather than a client of Nic’s who might not have killed her if Priscilla had been there.

I wanted to lie, as I’d lied to the others, so she could sleep easier, free of the demonic imps of guilt that plagued my every moment. But as I stared into her eyes I found myself telling her the worst of all things — the truth. She listened silently, clutching my hands. At the end she said nothing for a while, then finally stuttered, “She could have been lying.”

“She wasn’t.”

“She was an evil, crazy she-devil. She knew the game was up. It might have been one last sly twist of the knife, to leave you wracked with doubt.”

“No,” I sighed. “It wasn’t a trick. I was face-to-face with her. I know.”

“But—,” she began.

“I know!”

“Then the killer’s still out there,” she whispered, shivering.

“Yes.”

“I’m scared, Al.”

“Me too.”

“Really scared. Ellen was your wife and Nic was your lover. What if this guy’s working his way through every woman you’ve been close to?”

“There are a few old girlfriends whose numbers I wouldn’t mind giving him,” I laughed, but she refused to see the funny side.

“I could be next,” she said.

“Why? There’s been nothing between us.”

“Not yet.” She leaned forward and kissed me. I pushed her away.

“What are you doing?” I snapped. “You just got through telling me I’m a jinx and now you—”

“That’s why I’m scared,” she interrupted, silencing me with a second kiss. “If we’d had something in the past, I could run. But what we’ve got is now and in the future. I can’t run from that.” She kissed me again.

“This shouldn’t be happening,” I sighed, returning her kisses. I felt one of her hands slide into my lap. I ran my fingers through her hair, then down to her breasts. “It’s madness.”

“I don’t care,” she gasped as my fingers tightened on her breasts. “I’ve been so frightened since Nic died, terrified every time a door swings open. When I read about your wife, do you know what my first reaction was? Thank God it wasn’t me.”

She shifted her weight. Undressing and caressing each other, we rolled, so I was underneath and she was on top.

“You could be signing your death warrant,” I said, mouth dry as she peeled off her underwear.

“At least I won’t die alone,” she replied, lowering herself onto me, guiding me with one hand, digging into the flesh of my neck with the fingernails of the other.

There was no more talking for a long time after that.

She moved into my cramped apartment the next day. I wasn’t sure I wanted this — there was something unhealthy about a love affair forged courtesy of a brace of murders — but found myself powerless to resist. As much as Priscilla needed me, I needed her more. I’d been going mad on my own, and without someone to cling to, I was most certainly doomed.

Ali found us together that afternoon. He walked in unannounced, as he usually did, and stopped when he spotted the beautiful naked woman by my side. He exited rapidly, ears burning, apologizing profusely. Just before he left, his head poked round the door for a sneak look at Priscilla. That produced my first genuine smile in a long time. I squeezed her tightly and cuddled up close, burying my face in her hair, trying not to compare it with Ellen’s.

She didn’t bring much with her — a small bag of clothes, underwear, shoes, cosmetics — but enough to make it clear this was more than a one-night stand. She also brought spirits and liqueurs. I didn’t like having them in the apartment, or the way she left the tops open so they filled the rooms with their sickly-sweet scent, but I didn’t say anything. She needed the drink, and I understood that. I’d just have to be stronger while she was around.

She slipped out to work every morning and returned as early as she could. We’d make love or talk or simply hold one another. Cook a late dinner, eat slowly, make love again. Most nights we didn’t get to bed before two.

Bill was delighted. He thought Priscilla was the best thing that could have happened to me. He had dinner with us in the apartment a couple of times and we sat around talking, none of us making mention of Ellen or Nic.

One night, when conversation did turn to the murdered women, Priscilla blurted out the truth about Valerie Thomas. She’d been drinking a lot. Bill said something about being glad Valerie was dead. Priscilla snorted and said, “One down. Now we just have that fucking boyfriend to—”

She caught herself. Tried to backtrack. But it was too late. She caught me glaring at her, burst into tears and fled to the bathroom. A stunned Bill prevented me from going after her.

“Something you want to share with me, Al?”

Since there was no point trying to hide it any longer, I told him the truth about Valerie, her god, the boyfriend.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” He sounded more pained than outraged.

“It would have been my word against her confession.”

“You know only too damn well which I would have believed,” he growled.

I nodded. “I should have told you, even if I kept it quiet from the others. But…” I wasn’t sure I could explain. “I want out of this, Bill. I’m sick of suspects, clues, twists, death. I want to drop the whole sorry sack of shit and pretend it never happened.”

“Do you think you’ll be allowed to?” he asked softly. “Do you think the bastard who killed Nic and Ellen will stop? Whatever his motives, he’ll come after you, or Priscilla, or somebody else. I wish to God you’d never gotten involved in this mess, but you’re in it now. The time to quit passed long ago. Drawing in on yourself like this serves no purpose. It only leaves you — and those close to you — open to attack.”

“I don’t care.” I locked gazes with him and said it again for added effect. “I don’t care. That’s why I didn’t tell you about Valerie, why I holed up. I don’t have the energy to worry anymore. I can’t fight any longer.” Tears were rolling down my cheeks. “When they took Ellen, I went crazy. I was capable of anything. But then I confronted Valerie and saw the hate in her. Something snapped. I was ready to fight to the very end. Now it seems useless. So I’m walking away from it.”

“But this isn’t the right time to throw in the towel. You’re vulnerable.”

“Fuck it. If they want to kick me while I’m down, or kill me, let them.”

“This isn’t you speaking,” he said sadly.

“It’s me, Bill,” I assured him. “What’s left of me.”

When he went, it was with a vow to carry on the investigation. He swore he wouldn’t rest until the real culprit was brought to justice. He’d even bend the law if he had to. Snap it in two if that was required. It was the first time I’d heard him speak like that. I didn’t like it, but if he wanted to waste his time chasing ghosts, let him. I was through trying to sort out other people’s problems for them.

Priscilla apologized when she emerged. I told her not to worry, took her in my arms and we made love. And for the first time I realized how mechanical our lovemaking was.

I started going for walks while Priscilla was at work, long, punishing walks, during which I strove to clear my mind, concentrating on my lungs and leg muscles, oblivious to everything else.

Bill called a couple of times to say he was following leads. I lent him my notes and files, even material that was for Troop eyes only. I neither encouraged his investigation nor tried to dissuade him. As far as I was concerned, it was his life and he could do what he liked with it.

Frank got in touch, sounding me out. I said I was considering a return to work, but wanted more time to think about it. He never mentioned Ellen, Valerie or any of that, though I knew he must be frothing with questions.

I studied a calendar one morning and realized it had been almost two months since Nic met with her end, three and a half weeks since Ellen went the same way, and only — I had to count three times before I’d believe it — ten days since Priscilla moved in. Ten days! It felt like months. I wondered if time was moving as slowly for her as it was for me.

I returned from a walk to discover Priscilla sitting in the living room, looking troubled. She was tapping a small parcel on the table in front of her. I sensed danger. I almost turned tail and ran. But where would I go?

“Buy something?” I asked, closing the door.

“No. I mean, yes, I had a half day and I was shopping, which is why I’m home early. But my bags are in the bedroom. I got…” She stopped and pushed the parcel away. “Nice walk?”

“Lovely.” I sat beside her and gave her a quick squeeze, eyes fixed on the box, which was wrapped in brown paper, something scrawled across the top.

“I ran into a blind beggar on my way back,” she said, and the ice in my stomach spread. “He gave me that.” She pointed at the box. “I thought it was a religious book. I started to tear it open. Then I saw the name and decided to leave it.”

I studied the name. Block letters. AL JEERY. No address, just my name.

“Do you think it’s a bomb?” Priscilla asked.

I smiled grimly. “I doubt it.”

“Maybe we should call the bomb squad anyway, or take it to someone who knows about these things.”

“I know. I learned about explosives in the Troops.” A lie, but it calmed Priscilla. I picked up the box and shook it gently, listening intently, as if I could tell from the noise whether it was safe.

“It’s not a bomb,” I said, faking confidence.

“Thank God,” she sighed, relaxing. She glanced at me and licked her lips. “Are you going to open it?”

I nodded. “But you’d better go to the bedroom and lock the door before I do.”

“But you said—”

“I know. But it’s as easy to be safe as sorry.”

She half-rose, hesitated, then sat again in spite of her fear. “No. If you stay, I stay too.”

I unwrapped the paper. It peeled away, revealing an unremarkable cardboard box. I handed the paper to Priscilla, who crumpled it up and held it in front of her lower face, as if it would protect her from the blast if there was one.

I ran my fingers around the join between the lid and the box — no trace of a wire. I thumbed up the section of the lid closest to me, lifted the other end a few inches, shifted the lid clear of the box and laid it on the table. Inside was a cloud of pink tissue.

“What is it?” Priscilla asked.

“Tissue,” I told her, rubbing part of it between my thumb and index finger.

“Nothing more?” she frowned.

I studied the rosy stain on my finger, put it to my mouth and tasted blood. “There’s more,” I said quietly.

Parting the folds patiently, I burrowed through the layers of tissue, noting the way the pink hue darkened the deeper I went. Near the bottom, on a tiny silver tray, I uncovered the source of the blood — a severed human finger.

Priscilla moaned but I was less disturbed. When you’ve found a head hanging from your ceiling in the middle of the night, a lone finger isn’t that much of a deal.

“Don’t touch it,” she pleaded as I leaned forward. I ignored her and picked it up by the tip. It was a white male’s, wrinkled and blotched. Sliced clean through, just above where the first knuckle would have been. Still warm, so it had probably been amputated sometime that morning, maybe early afternoon.

There was a note on the tray, almost unreadable because of all the blood that had soaked into the paper. I had to hold it up and squint to decipher the words, and it fell apart as I was laying it back into the box.

“What did it say?” Priscilla asked.

“ ‘Guess whose, Al m’boy.’ ” I turned the finger around on my palm, closed my own fingers over it and squeezed softly. The sly motherfuckers. I had thought that nothing could make me care or draw me back in. But as Bill had predicted, I was wrong. My tormentors knew exactly which strings to pull.

“What does that mean?” Priscilla asked.

I shook my head and lied. “I don’t know.”

“Who do you think it belongs to?” When I didn’t answer, she pinched me and snapped, “Who? ”

I relaxed my grip and revealed the finger. My hand was stained with blood. In all the red, it could have been anybody’s. But I had no doubts. I propped the finger on the table so it was standing vertically, then said sickly, “It’s Bill’s.”