Hell's Horizon (23 page)

“Well, this beggar had plenty to say, so he couldn’t have been—”

I stopped, remembering the blind man at the building site. “These blind men… They don’t dress in white robes, do they?”

“You know of them?”

I told him about the strange fall of rain and the vision.

“Most peculiar,” he mused. “I would love to have a vision. Perhaps I should ask those eyeless Incan wonders to—”

“
Incan
?” I interrupted sharply.

“I believe they are of Incan extraction.”

I told him about the front of the postcard. He became agitated when I spoke of the highlighted eleventh month.

“
Ayuamarca
,” he muttered, although I hadn’t mentioned the name.

“It means something?”

“You know of The Cardinal’s many files and dossiers.” Wami spoke hesitantly. “One of his most secretive is titled
Ayuamarca
. It is a list of ghost names, people who have been written out of existence and memory.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Nor do I, completely. But it is of great importance to The Cardinal. No wonder he jumped when our mystery killer snapped his fingers.” I started to ask about the list, only to be silenced by a gesture. “Be quiet. I am thinking.”

Moments later, Wami nodded unhappily. “A sacrifice. It must be.”

“You’re talking about Nic?”

“I am talking about
you
. The Cardinal said he withheld information in order to test you. I think that is a lie. He played dumb because he was afraid.”

“Of what?”

“Being exposed or eliminated—I am not sure. He is fanatical about the Ayuamarca list. I believe he would sacrifice anyone to protect it.”

“You’re not making sense,” I groaned.

He leaned in close and there was a cold fire burning in his eyes. “That note to The Cardinal was a warning. In effect it said, ‘We want Al Jeery. Give him to us. We know about Ayuamarca, so help us,
or else.
’

“You are being sacrificed, Al m’boy. Somebody wants your head and The Cardinal is delivering it, no questions asked. He has no interest in testing you. He only wants to see the back of whoever it is that’s threatening him. You have been cast aside like a pawn to protect a queen. That is the bad news. The good news is”—he grinned grimly—“you are not alone. I am part of this game too, and I will stick by you to the sweet or bitter end.”

He clasped my neck and winked. I forced a smile, although in truth the thought of having a monster like Wami on my side depressed more than comforted me.

18

T
he more I thought about it over the next handful of days, the more it seemed like a paranoid delusion of my father’s. It wasn’t that I trusted The Cardinal more than his hired killer. I just found it impossible to believe he could have his arm twisted the way Wami believed. The Cardinal ran this city. Nobody could harm or scare him, certainly not a collection of blind men in robes.

Wami had an old copy of the Ayuamarca file, but when he presented it to me it failed to assuage my doubts. It was nothing more than a few sheets of paper bearing dozens of names, most crossed out. According to Wami, these were people he’d once known but no longer had any memory of, people who had vanished from the public psyche, who to all intents and purposes had never existed. I agreed it was most passing strange (as he put it), but behind his back I was starting to think that I was dealing with a schizophrenic psycho who’d murdered Nic and then forgotten he had killed her.

He was a strange man, my father. He must have been in his late sixties but he was in incredible shape, fitter than I’d ever been. The lethally assured grace with which he moved, the speed of his thoughts and his capacity for reading a situation in an instant made me feel as if my years with the Troops had been nothing more than kindergarten training.

No matter how warm a front he put on for my sake, he was at heart as cold and distant as the stars. His world was one of death. If I mentioned the weather, he’d sigh and remark, “It was on a night such as this that I killed my first nun.” If I asked for his recollections of our time together when I was a child, he’d say, “I would bounce you up and down while your mother was out working, tuck you in for a nap, slip out to slit somebody’s throat, return in time to feed and burp you.”

I asked him for the names of some of my siblings one night but he refused to divulge any. None of his children knew of the others and he preferred it that way. I argued with him—what if I started an affair with a half sister?—but he laughed and teased me, “Maybe you already have.”

We were focusing on Nicholas Hornyak. Ellen still hadn’t gotten back to me about Ziegler, the blind Incas wouldn’t say anything and there was nothing in Breton Furst’s file of any use. Nick was our boy. Wami wanted to snoop after Priscilla too but I warned him to stay away. I said I’d keep my own tabs on her.

We dug up every clipping on Nick that we could find and scoured them for any hint of scandal. He was hardly clean, but his vices ran no further than sexual kinks, drugs and friends with dubious pasts. No hint that he was into murder.

So we shadowed him, followed him everywhere, Wami trailing after him on his motorcycle, keeping me informed of his position over a cell phone as I cycled along behind. He was easy to keep up with by day, since he spent most days in bed. When he got up, he’d mope along to the Red Throat or a similar establishment and pass the time drinking and playing pool.

Nights were trickier. He bounced from one club to another like a pinball. We lost him a few times, in cabs and when he ducked out unseen amid a crowd, but we usually managed to pick him up again. When he retired for the night—home or a hotel—one of us would leave to catch some sleep while the other stood watch.

We stopped taking notes and photos after the first night, as it became clear that there was no point—he moved in loose circles and met scores of people. Unless we saw him with somebody who looked especially dangerous, or someone we recognized, we took no notice.

He didn’t go anywhere out of the ordinary. Just pubs and clubs, parties and orgies. After four days I knew it was hopeless—if he was in league with the killers, he was being kept at arm’s length. Shadowing him would lead nowhere.

Wami was more philosophical about it. Time, he said, was a great provider. Trailing after Nick left our foes with time on their hands, time to plot, grow restless and reveal themselves.

Nevertheless, by the weekend he was leaving me alone more than he was partnering me. He said he was exploring alternative avenues of inquiry, but I think he was just tired of the lack of bloodshed and was using the time to do a bit of freelance killing, of which the less I knew the better.

I kept in touch with Priscilla by phone, even managed to drop in on her at work a couple of times. We didn’t talk about that night in my apartment, when we could have easily become lovers, but we discussed all sorts of aspects of our lives—dreams, aspirations, past lovers. It was early days, but I had the feeling something was growing between Priscilla and me. I didn’t know if that was good or bad—things were complicated enough as they were—but I couldn’t control it, so I rolled with the flow and let the situation develop as it might.

Ellen invited me over to her place Sunday afternoon. I called Wami and told him I wouldn’t be tracking Nick, and why.

“My ex-daughter-in-law,” he chuckled. “I should come with you and introduce myself.” I knew him well enough by now to know he was joking. I asked if he’d cover Nick for me. He said he would but I felt he was only saying it to appease me. I didn’t care. I was starting to lose interest in the Hornyak heir.

Ellen looked divine, dressed in white, a blue ribbon through her hair. I used to love combing those fine, blond locks. If I had to say what I missed most about her, it would be waking up in the early hours of the morning to find her hair spread out on the pillow and gently combing through it with my fingers.

She’d cooked pasta, which we quickly devoured. Stuck the dishes in the washer, retired to the balcony—she had a nice apartment overlooking the river—and made the most of the weather. She noticed my faint bruises—a memento of my run-in with the KKK boys—and inquired about them. I made up a story.

“Now,” she said when I finished. “Rudi Ziegler.” She pulled a file out from beneath a chair. Licked the tips of her index and third fingers and flicked over the first page. “That’s his real name, by the way, not an alias.”

“I know.”

She glared. “You might have told me. I spent days tracing his roots.”

“Sorry.”

“Well,” she sniffed, “you probably know the rest as well. No police record, never in trouble. Fills out his tax forms, operates aboveboard. Worth a small fortune. He started out with very little, a meager inheritance when his father died, which he used to launch and advertise the business. A couple of office jobs when he was younger, but most of his life has been devoted to magic. I tried finding out who he studied under but he seems to have picked it up from a variety of sources, fairground fortune-tellers and the like. Never married. No children.”

She zipped forward a few pages. “I attended four meetings. The first time, it was just the two of us. I told him I’d been having odd dreams and wanted to explore the spiritual plane to make sense of them. He read my palms, did the tarot, the usual rigmarole. I said I’d like to try a séance. He promised to phone when a place came up. Said it might take a few weeks—my karma had to be compatible with the group’s, or some such hogwash. Called a couple of days later to say he’d found the perfect companions. I went along to three sessions.”

“Anything happen?”

She chuckled scornfully. “Lots of fog, strobe lights, eerie noises and shaking of tables. He’s got a crystal ball and he conjured up some images. Spoke in voices. I was disappointed—it was so fake. The others seemed to enjoy it but I’m not sure they believed it was real any more than I did.”

“Nothing dark or magical?”

“No. I asked after the third séance if there was anywhere further to go. Said I wished to make meatier contact. Told him I wanted to dance with demons.”

“You didn’t!”

“
You
told me to say it.” She couldn’t hide an impish grin.

“How did he react?”

“He said he wasn’t that way inclined—he was more involved with gods of light than demons of the dark—but he could pass me on to people who were. He gave me a couple of names.”

“That sounds more like it.” I rubbed my hands together. “I hope you didn’t go visit these guys.”

She shook her head. “I got your leads. The rest is up to you.” She handed me a sheet of paper with two names and addresses. They meant nothing to me, so I laid the sheet aside, to investigate later.

We discussed the case and how I’d been progressing (I told her nothing about Paucar Wami or the Fursts), then talk turned to love. Ellen asked if I’d been seeing anyone. I told her I had. Was it serious? I thought of the way my heart leaped when Priscilla kissed me, and said it might be.

“How about you?” I asked, as you do when someone makes inquiries of that nature.

She smiled nervously. “Actually, I think I might be falling in love, Al.” She awaited my reaction.

I stared out over the river. It was a surprise—there’d been nobody meaningful in Ellen’s life since our marriage dissolved. A month ago the news might have sent me running back to the bottle, but after all that had happened these last few weeks, it didn’t seem as earth-shattering as it once would have.

“Anybody I know?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“You going to tell me the name or do I have to guess?”

She hesitated. “Not yet. I don’t know how involved we’re going to get. I’m not at the stage where I want to make a public commitment.”

“So why mention it?”

“In case word leaks. So you don’t feel like I’ve been going behind your back.”

“We’re divorced,” I reminded her. “You can do what you like.”

“I know. Still, if it was
you
and things were getting hot and you didn’t tell me, I’d be hopping mad.” I knew what she meant. As far apart as we’d drifted, there would always be a special bond between us.

“Well?” she asked when I said nothing. “What do you think?”

“Does it matter?”

“You know it does,” she said softly.

“I don’t know the guy,” I protested. “How can I have an opinion?”

“Who says it’s a guy?” she smirked.

“You don’t swing that way,” I laughed.

“Maybe I’ll surprise you. But seriously, what do you think? Are you jealous?”

“No,” I answered truthfully. “I’m delighted for you. It’s great. I wish you all the best. I’ve only one question—can I give you away at the wedding?”

“There won’t be a wedding. One was enough. Besides, it wouldn’t be appropriate.”

“Why not?”

“You’ll see,” she grinned and said no more about it.

She kissed my cheeks before I left and rubbed my nose with hers. In the old days, that would have been the sign for our lips to meet. Now it was simply a nice way for two close friends to say goodbye.

“Give me a ring if anything comes of the Ziegler tips,” she said.

“I’ll be sending over the finest bouquet of flowers if one of these names leads anywhere,” I vowed.

“And be careful. I don’t want the killer carving you up like that poor girl.”

“I’ll watch my back, kemosabe.”

“See you ’round, Grasshopper.”

Then I slipped away, to spend the rest of the day wondering about her new beau. Whoever he was, he’d better treat her well—better than
I
had—or I’d be after him. No matter how heavy things got between Priscilla and me, Ellen would remain the true love of my life. Nobody would do the dirty on her as long as I was on the scene.

The names of the two mystics led nowhere. No outstanding connections to any of the key players, though Priscilla had been a customer of one. I asked her about him. She said he was graver than Ziegler but no more genuine. Nic had never been to him.

Apart from the two names, there was nothing in Ellen’s report of any use. I hadn’t expected anything—it wasn’t as if I thought Ziegler would talk openly of human sacrifice—but I was disappointed all the same. I’d agreed with Wami that if nothing happened with Nick over the next few days, we should shift our focus to Ziegler. Since Ellen had produced no dirt, that would mean more shadowing, more long hours of hanging around.

I felt glum on Tuesday when I rolled home shortly before midnight and hit the sack. I was sleeping soundly these times, too exhausted to dream. So when I jolted awake in the middle of the night, I thought something was wrong. For a few seconds I couldn’t hear over the sound of my pounding heart. When my hearing returned, I realized it was only the buzzing of my cell phone that had disturbed me. I checked my watch—three a.m., for Christ’s sake!—groaned and reached blindly for the phone.

“This had better be a matter of life or fucking death,” I snarled, expecting the mocking tones of my father. But it wasn’t.

“The public phone in front of the library. Be there, ten minutes from now.”

“Who—,” I began, but the caller had hung up. I sat on the edge of my bed trying to place the voice. When I couldn’t, I rolled off and got dressed. I might be walking into trouble but I was too tired to care. I thought of calling Wami but there wasn’t time for him to come over.

As I headed for the door, my eyes flicked to the mantelpiece and I slowed. The black, gold-streaked marble I’d found in the trout’s mouth and placed there was missing. For a moment I was sure someone had stolen it. But that was crazy. More likely it had rolled onto the floor. I didn’t have time to look for it, and anyway it wasn’t important. I’d forgotten about it by the time I unchained my bike.