Hell's Horizon tct-2

by Darren Shan

  “Can you tell me more about what you do? Do you tell fortunes, locate missing people, speak with the dead?”

  “A bit of everything. I’m a dabbler.” He stood and tidied some magazines away. “I provide whatever my clients wish. If they want their fortune read, I put the crystal ball or tarot to good use. If they want to speak to the dead, I oblige — I’m quite good at throwing my voice. If they want to see the dead, I do that too. Mirrors and smoke. Projected images.”

  “You’re very open about your deception.”

  “I have nothing to hide from those who are not interested in hiring me.”

  “How about dark magic?”

  “I don’t believe in magic,” he snapped. “I trade in tricks, shadows, illusions. Nothing else.”

  “But if your client believes, and wants to see demons and devils, what then?”

  “I turn them away. Illusions stretch so far but no further. I’m good, Mr. Jeery, a professional. But I have my limits.”

  “You don’t dabble in the dark arts at all?”

  “Never. I use Ouija boards and cards, but never in the right way, never—”

  “The right way?” I was on him in a flash.

  “The correct way. The actual—”

  “You just said you didn’t believe in any of that.”

  “I don’t, but—”

  “Then surely any way’s the right way.”

  He dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief and downed another shot of vodka. “I don’t believe,” he said softly, “but one encounters things in my line which cannot be explained, apparitions which cannot be accounted for. Are they demons? Souls of the dead made visible? I don’t know. I simply play games with the forces of the arcane. Games are all I’m interested in.”

  “Was Nicola Hornyak only interested in games?” I asked.

  “No. At first she was happy with what I had to offer — my bag of voices, Incan spirits, clouds of fog and changes in temperature. But she soon wanted to take it further.”

  “How far?”

  “She wanted…” He laughed. “She wanted a lover. A spirit lover. She wanted to screw a demon.”

  “Christ.”

  “I fobbed her off for a time with vague promises — I claimed to be privy to certain ancient rites — but eventually, when pressed, had to say that I was afraid of opening up dark portals which were best kept closed. That sort of garbage.”

  “Why not tell her the truth?”

  “And put myself out of business? I never tell my clients they’re barking up banana trees. You don’t get rich that way.”

  I mused on his words, then asked what happened next.

  “She moved on.”

  “To another mystic?”

  “I’m not sure. She came a few more times, but not as regularly as before.”

  “When did you last see her?”

  “About a month before her death. Maybe three weeks.”

  “Why did she come?”

  “To show me her demon lover.”

  I frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “She came with a menacing-looking black man. According to her, he was her lover from beyond. She wouldn’t tell me how she’d contacted him, but said he was everything she’d ever wanted, and more.” He giggled into a fist. “I’d love to know what he did to convince her of his credentials.”

  “What did he look like?” I asked, though I already knew.

  “Very dark-skinned. Tall. Bald. Tattoos of snakes on both cheeks.”

  “Did he speak while he was here?”

  “No. He remained in the background. She was only here a few minutes. Popped in to show him off and then she was on her merry way. Off to make whoopee with Beelzebub.”

  That clinched it for me. Nic ran into Paucar Wami while playing games, he toyed with her until she ceased to amuse him, then killed her. But I decided to press ahead with a few more questions — if, as I hoped, this interview marked the end of my career as a private detective, I wanted to go out on a high note.

  “You know Nic was wearing a brooch when she was found?”

  “One of mine. Yes. And an image of the sun had been carved into her back.”

  I nodded at the sun symbol attached to the ceiling. “You use Incan spirit guides, don’t you?”

  “Yes. They add an exotic touch.”

  “Could Nic’s death tie in with any of that? Might the killer have been one of your other clients, somebody—”

  “I doubt it,” he interrupted. “The Incas were as brutal as any other conquering nation, but they weren’t savages. Besides, they worshipped the sun. If Nic was intended as a sacrifice to Incan gods — which is what you seem to be suggesting — she’d have been murdered during the day, for the sun god to see. And why murder her at the Skylight? You’ve heard of the Manco Capac statue?”

  I was about to say I hadn’t when I recalled The Cardinal pointing out some cranes to me. “Yes.”

  “That would be the perfect location for a sacrifice. If Nic had been killed there, I’d say pursue the angle. As things stand, a much likelier explanation is that her killer noticed the brooch and copied its design, perhaps to throw a red herring into the works.”

  That made sense, though I didn’t admit it out loud.

  “Did she ever bring anybody else here?”

  “No. I prefer to meet clients on a one-to-one basis.”

  “Who introduced her to you?”

  He hesitated. “One of her friends. I forget her name. She attended a few sessions, then quit not long after persuading Nicola to come. Hasn’t been back. I’ve never had a good memory for names.”

  On impulse, I produced one of the photos of Priscilla I’d taken from her file, the best of a bad lot. “This her?”

  He masked his look of recognition quickly — barely more than a slight lift of his eyebrows — but I’d been trained to notice the most minor body tic. “I’m not sure,” he said. “The face looks familiar but I really couldn’t say.”

  He was lying. Priscilla had lied too — she’d told me she’d never been here.

  I pocketed the photo and stood. “Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Ziegler.” He rose, smiling. “You don’t have any names you could pass on? Other mystics she’d have been likely to visit?”

  He lifted his hands helplessly. “I could give you a dozen. But I’m not part of a network — I rarely make referrals. I have no idea who she may or may not have seen. You can try calling around but I doubt you’ll get very far. Only a two-bit operator would reveal a client’s name, and Nicola was not the sort to get involved with merchants like that. She was cautious. Lighthearted but not light-headed.”

  “Well, thanks again.” I shook his hand.

  “Glad to be of assistance,” he said. “She was a lovely lady. She did not deserve to meet with such a horrible end.”

  “If I need to contact you again?” I asked.

  “Any time. Mornings are best, when I’m at my quietest. But if it’s urgent, any time.”

  “Great.”

  “Take care, Mr. Jeery,” he said and closed the door.

  I hurried down the stairs, the smell of blood rising from the shop below, sticking in my nostrils, to my clothes, my hair. I’d need a shower when I got home — wouldn’t do to visit The Cardinal stinking like a gutted pig.

  The mystic knew Priscilla. And she knew him. I could understand Ziegler’s covering up — client confidentiality — but why would Priscilla lie about something so trivial?

  I waited two hours to see The Cardinal, at the end of which I was told he would be unavailable for the remainder of the night. Cancellations weren’t rare — his time was at a premium. Members of government and foreign dignitaries had been stood up many times before me, so I didn’t take it personally. I rescheduled for three o’clock Sunday afternoon and took the elevator down to the basement, where I changed out of my uniform again.

  A light breeze was blowing at my back most of the way home and I coasted along with it. As I pulled up outsi
de my apartment block a light went on in a car parked several feet farther up. I glanced over and saw Howard Kett hunched behind the wheel, eyeing me coldly. The light went off and I knew he wanted to see me.

  Leaving my bike, I went to see what Kett was after. I let myself in the passenger door. We sat in darkness for all of a minute, saying nothing, Kett staring directly ahead. He was an old-fashioned cop. Big heart, big hands, big, thick head, of Irish descent. Did a lot of community work in his spare time. Solid gold if you were a law-abiding citizen, one of hell’s demons if you weren’t. He had a special loathing for The Cardinal and those who served him.

  “You’re an arrogant son of a bitch,” he finally growled.

  “You came all this way just to tell me that, Howie?” He hated the nickname. “You should have phoned.”

  “I came this morning but you were gone. Been sitting here more than an hour.”

  “Again — the phone.”

  “You were banging that Hornyak kid.” No beating around the bush. The insolence would have startled me if it had been anybody else. With Kett, I expected it.

  “So what?” I said as evenly as I could.

  “Why didn’t you come forward when you heard what happened?”

  “No point. I was out of town when she was killed. Nothing to tell. I figured, if you wanted to question me, you’d come. And here you are.”

  “Did Casey know you were seeing her?”

  “No,” I lied.

  “Bullshit,” Kett snarled. “I always said his friendship with you would be his downfall. If I find out he knew you were involved with her and deliberately suppressed the information, he’s finished. I’ll drum him out myself.”

  “Bill’s my friend, not my confessor.” I leaned back in the seat and flicked on the overhead light. Kett immediately quenched it — he didn’t want to be seen. “What’s up, Howie? Planning to beat a confession out of me?”

  “Like you wouldn’t have a team of The Cardinal’s finest lawyers on me in ten seconds flat if I did.” He prodded me in the chest. “But I’ll tell you this, Jeery, if you bother Nicholas Hornyak again, I’ll do more than slap you around.”

  “What’s Nick Hornyak got to do with anything?” I asked quietly.

  “I know you were pestering him.”

  “How?”

  “I have my sources,” he said smugly.

  “All I did was ask some questions. He didn’t—”

  “You don’t have the right to ask shit!” Kett roared, then lowered his voice. “You were humping the broad — so what? So was every leprous son of a whore with a one-inch excuse for a dick. Don’t interfere, Jeery. This isn’t your business.”

  “Whose is it? Yours?” I laughed. “You don’t have a hope in hell of finding her killer.”

  “That ain’t here and that ain’t there. I’m paid to check on dumb bitches who go and get themselves fucked over. You aren’t. I don’t want you sniffing around.”

  “You can’t stop me.”

  “No?”

  I smiled in the darkness. “No.”

  Kett cursed quietly. “Let’s talk about this reasonably. We don’t have to be at each other’s throats. You were right when you said we probably won’t find her killer, and if you want to waste your time chasing him, I won’t try blocking you — though I could if I wanted,” he insisted. “But I’ll leave you be as long as you don’t go meddling where you shouldn’t.”

  “I’m listening, Howie.”

  “Nicholas Hornyak didn’t kill her.”

  “I never said he did.”

  “So why question him?”

  “That’s a dumb question for a cop to ask,” I chided him.

  “OK,” he bristled. “You wanted to learn more about her, where she came from, what sort of a life she led. You wanted to rub him up for clues and contacts. I get it. But that’s where it ends. Don’t go near him again.”

  “Why? Has he got something to hide?”

  “No. But he likes his privacy.”

  “Don’t we all?”

  “Sure, but Hornyak’s got the money to protect it. He has friends in high places, who know people like me, who don’t like it when he runs to them with tales of being manhandled by some punk ex-humper-of-his-sister.”

  “I didn’t manhandle him. I asked some questions. He answered politely. We parted on good terms. I don’t see what the problem is.”

  “I don’t care what you see or what you think,” Kett sneered. “I’ve warned you nicely — stay away from Nicholas Hornyak. Next time it might not be a cop that’s sent. And it might be more than a verbal warning.”

  “You threatening me, Howie?”

  He laughed. “Now who’s asking the dumb questions?”

  “These friends of Nick’s,” I said slowly. “Don’t suppose you’d care to pass their names on to me, so I could drop them a line and let them know—”

  “Out,” he snapped, reaching over and opening the door. I swung my legs out and stepped onto the pavement. “This conversation never happened,” he hissed. I smiled at him in answer and slammed the door in his face.

  Upstairs I dug out my notebook and jotted down a brief transcription of my encounter with Kett. When I was done I read over what I’d written, scratched behind my ears with the tip of my pen and wondered what it added up to. I’d said nothing to Nick to warrant such treatment. I’d had no reason to suspect him of any involvement with the murder. Until this.

  It didn’t make sense. Sending Kett after me had only raised my suspicions. I found it hard to believe the sharp guy I’d found playing pool in the Red Throat would make such a clumsy move, implicating himself when there was no need. He might be toying with me — using the ever-serious Kett to mess with my head — but so soon after his sister’s death?

  Something was foul. Howie or Nick had made a dumb move by coming down on me. But the fact that I couldn’t figure out which it was, or why they’d done it, hinted that I was dumber than both of them. The sooner The Cardinal pulled me off this crazy case and put me back on patrol at Party Central, the better.

  8

  I was passing a peaceful Sunday morning in bed, enjoying the lazy silence, when someone knocked on the door. I groaned, shrugged off the covers, pulled on a pair of shorts and a shirt, and went to see who it was. I discovered a skinny mulatto kid on the landing, leaning on a skateboard almost as big as himself.

  “Help you, son?” I said as pleasantly as I could.

  “Al Jeery?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Fabio asked me to fetch you. Says he needs your hands.”

  It had been a couple of years since Fabio last called but I knew instantly what he wanted. “Give me a few minutes to change,” I said, and slipped back inside.

  I asked the kid where we were going when I was dressed but he wouldn’t tell me — insisted on leading the way. He hopped on his board, waited for me to mount my bike, then set off, cutting a fair pace through the quiet streets. I had to be sharp to keep up, especially when he turned corners in a screech of dust and vanished halfway down dark alleys while I was struggling to brake and correct my course.

  It was a muggy day and I soon began to wish I’d stuck with the shorts, but it was too late to turn back. I just had to sweat and bear it.

  My guide led me deep into the south of the city, its literal heart of darkness, where members of the Kool Kats Klub feared to tread. It was familiar territory — I’d grown up here — but I hadn’t been back much since marrying Ellen and moving out.

  The skater stopped outside a six-story building of sorry-ass apartments, most of which were occupied by squatters or those existing just above the poverty line. “He’s in 4B,” the kid sniffed.

  “Thanks.” I started up.

  “Hey! He said you’d tip.”

  I eyed the grifter suspiciously. I doubted he’d have skated all the way over and back unless he’d been paid in advance. But I have a soft spot for cocky runts, having been one myself. I tossed a balled-up note that he caught in midai
r. Leaped back on his board and disappeared. Didn’t occur to him to thank me.

  I climbed the creaking stairs to the fourth and found Fabio in a chair outside the apartment, sipping a beer, waiting patiently. Fabio was the city’s oldest pimp, a hundred and three if rumors were to be believed. He’d been a big shot once, long before The Cardinal came to power, but these days he eked out a meager living from a handful of aging ladies of the night. He called them his retirement posse.

  “Morning, Algeria,” he greeted me in his slow drawl.

  I took his wrinkly, age-spotted hand and shook it gently. He’d been good to me when I was growing up. Running errands for him had kept me in pocket money and he’d watched out for me when my mother died.

  “How’re the hands?” he asked, turning them over to examine my palms.

  “Haven’t used them a lot lately,” I sighed. “Not since you last called me out. The drink put paid to that.”

  “You’re off it now though, ain’t you?”

  “Trying.”

  Fabio stroked the smooth palms. “Reckon you can still work the magic?”

  “I’ll try,” I said, “but I can’t promise.”

  “That’ll do for me.” He stood and pushed through the open door. A large black woman was on the floor of the tiny but tidy living room, playing with a boy no more than six or seven years old. She looked up at me and smiled.

  “Algeria, this is Florence,” Fabio introduced us. “Flo, this is Al Jeery, the guy I was telling you about.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Jeery.” She had a warm voice.

  “Same here, ma’am,” I replied, then cocked an eyebrow at Fabio. “Her or the kid?”

  “The kid. Father’s doing fifteen — killed a guy in a brawl. Used to be pretty free with his belt when he was around. Maybe worse, but we ain’t sure about that. Kid’s been having nightmares for months. Flo’s tried explaining that he don’t have nothing to fear, the bastard’s locked up and won’t be coming back, but it ain’t helped. He’s a bright kid but falling to pieces. Barely sleeps, tired all day, gets into fights. She had to take him out of school.”