Hell's Horizon (25 page)

“And you are the son of a son of a bitch. No matter. Where are you? You were supposed to be shadowing our target this afternoon.”

“I’ve been busy. A lead fell into my lap.”

“Do tell,” he said eagerly.

“Not over the phone. Listen, I want you to try and find Charlie Grohl. He’s one of Nick’s lovers. He was with him in the Skylight. He lives out of town.”

“Any idea where?”

“No.”

“That might take some time.”

“It’ll be time well spent.”

“Very well. I will wrap things up sooner than planned and apply myself to the tiresome task. Will you be joining me tonight?”

“Tomorrow.”

“I will miss you. Good night, son.”

“ ’Night,” I threw back gruffly, hating him for his murderous ways, hating myself more for turning a blind eye to them. There were times, trailing Nick, when Wami was vulnerable. The opportunities to take a stab at him had been ample. Maybe I could have put him out of the city’s misery by now.

But I needed him to find Nic’s killer. I was putting my own selfish motives before the welfare of millions, any one of whom could be next on Wami’s hit list, and it churned my stomach to think of it.

I tucked myself into the comfortable bed when I got back and stared out the window at the clear sky. Living in the city, it was easy to forget about the stars. I recalled the old myths that our destinies were written in the skies and fell asleep thinking, if everything were mapped out for us in advance, how much simpler life would be. I need feel no guilt if I believed I was an agent of fate. I could blame my complicity on destiny and sleep the sleep of the just.

I caught an early train back to the city and arrived home before ten. Bounced up the stairs brightly, only to find my key wouldn’t turn. Taking it out, I got down on a knee and peered into the keyhole. Some clever bastard had filled it with glue. It was the third time this year. A bored kid, no doubt. One day I’d catch him and…

I got to my feet, took aim and kicked at the lock. It busted and the door burst open. I dumped my overnight bag on the sofa and croaked to the stale, gloomy room, “Welcome home!”

I brewed a mug of coffee and drank it slowly, then set out again, swinging the door closed behind me. I cycled to my friend Danny’s hardware store. It was out of my way but Danny was an old pal. I’d met him through Bill, who used to work for him when he was a kid, many years ago.

Danny was behind the counter. After Fabio he was probably the oldest guy I knew. He was found more often in the back these days. He’d been threatening to retire for ages but everybody knew he wouldn’t. He laughed when I walked in with a scowl. “Not the lock again!” he hooted.

“If I ever get my hands on the little bastard…”

“Maybe it’s a locksmith,” Danny grinned. “The guy who owned this place before me used to pull that trick when business was slow. Glued up locks and waited for the calls to flood in. He got busted a few times but that didn’t stop him. He was a mad old buzzard.”

“You never tried it yourself, of course,” I smiled.

“Certainly not,” he said indignantly, but I could see him reddening around the throat. “Same make as before?”

“Unless they’ve devised a glue-resistant model.”

He asked about Bill as I was paying for the lock. I told him he was fine and mentioned the fishing trip we’d been on. Danny used to come with us before his health deteriorated. He sighed and asked me to let him know the next time we were going—he’d come along if his doctor OK’d it. I promised I would, waved away my change and wished him well.

Back home, two squad cars were parked outside the building and cops were in my apartment, talking softly. I hesitated in the hallway, wondering whether to proceed or beat a retreat. I decided to face them—maybe someone had noticed the busted lock and called them in to check on it.

I knocked loudly as I entered. I didn’t recognize the three young officers but smiled as if they were friends. “Help you any?”

“Al Jeery?” one of them asked.

“Yes.”

“Yes,
sir
!” another snapped.

I sighed inwardly—assholes everywhere. “Yes, sir,” I mumbled.

“We’d like you to accompany us across town.” It was the one who’d spoken first.

“What for?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“Not yet, punk,” the asshole snarled.

“What if I don’t want to go?”

“It would be better if you did.” The first cop again.

I yawned to show I wasn’t worried. “OK. I’ll come quietly.”

“Thanks,” the first cop said.

“Jerk,” the asshole added.

The third stayed silent.

I peered in the window of the bagel shop as I was passing. Two more cops were inside, talking with Ali, taking notes. Ali looked numb. He was shaking his head and appeared to be crying. A bad sign.

They ran me across town, sirens blaring, saying nothing. They avoided the roads to the station. I checked their uniforms in the glow of the streetlights. They looked real but I had a bad feeling. I was between two of them on the backseat but I wasn’t cuffed. I could maybe grab a gun from one of them, force them to let me out.

I was finalizing the plan when we pulled up at the Skylight. I immediately let it drop. The uniforms were real, and I had a premonition of what lay in store. The dismayed faces of the staff in the lobby confirmed my worst suspicions. By the time I reached room 812 and saw a corpse draped over the bed, it was something of an anticlimax.

The ranking officer was called Vernon Ast. Bill had introduced us on a couple of occasions. He was grim when he stepped in front of me and asked if I could account for my whereabouts the previous night. I told him I’d been out of the city and could produce witnesses if required. (I grinned inwardly as I thought of Kett taking the stand in my defense.)

“I hope that’s true,” Vernon sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose. “I know Bill thinks highly of you.”

“Who is it?” I asked, nodding at the naked female.

“You don’t know?” I shook my head. “We found a credit card, sunglasses, a sock. Your name on the card. The rest of it’s probably yours too.”

“A thorough frame,” I noted, smiling tightly. Was it Priscilla? Had the bastard who murdered Nic made an end of another of my girlfriends?

“You want to ID the body?” Vernon asked. “You don’t have to. If you want to consult a lawyer…”

“The suspense would be the end of me.”

I walked slowly to the corpse, feeling time contract, barely aware of the police clearing a path, drawing back from me as if I had the plague. She was lying facedown. The killer had been even more brutal this time. It looked as if they wouldn’t be able to make an accurate count of the puncture wounds.

I stopped at the foot of the bed, noting something shining in the pools of blood. My right hand darted forward before anyone could stop me. My fingers brushed aside jagged, fleshy folds and closed around a hard, cool ball. Lifting it to the light, I examined a familiar black, gold-streaked marble.

“Recognize it?” Ast asked quietly.

“It’s from my apartment. I don’t know how it got here.”

“You’d better put it back.”

Replacing the marble—which had unnerved me more than the body—I rounded the bed, reaching a position where I could view the face. It was half-smothered by a pillow. I had to kneel down for a decent look.

I was expecting Priscilla, but as I knelt I realized the hair was wrong and the legs were too long. I smiled with relief. This woman was taller, broader, a beautiful head of long… blond…

My stomach dropped. I no longer had to see the face. I knew by the hair, strong yet soft to the touch. Hair I’d combed a thousand times with my fingers.

I tried not to think her name. I focused on the hair, driving all else from my thoughts, for fear the truth would madden me. Fanned out on the pillow the way I remembered so well, only now flecked with the red fingerprints of death.

I obsessed on her hair as they read me my rights and led me down the stairs. Her hair as I was bundled into a car and driven to the station. Her gleaming, blood-smeared hair as they processed my details, then locked me away.

When I was finally alone and the hair couldn’t keep the name at bay any longer, I whispered it to myself, feeling my heart wither and my world burn.

“
Ellen
…”

part five

“the blood of dreams”

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.