Hell's Horizon

by Shan, Darren

  “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 t
he 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 aw
ash 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.