As the guys made ready to depart, I ushered Nimrod aside.
“Are you okay?”
“Are you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re . . . different. Almost as if you left a part of yourself back at the Inseine. Did Goliath’s Skull do something to you?”
“No, I’ve just had a change of focus, is all. With what’s been happening lately, I’ve let myself get spread too thinly, and everything’s unraveled. I’ve decided I’m not going to allow that to happen anymore. Each of these events is connected, so from now on I’ll concentrate on one thing at a time and start pulling the threads tight. That way, the knot will come to me, and then we can do what we do best. Kill.”
“Fair enough, I just wanted to —”
“Anyway,” I said, “what’s been the holdup here? I’d have thought the three of you would have unearthed something by now.”
Nimrod gestured to the hundreds of jars surrounding us. “Where to bloody well start? It’s been like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack.”
On a whim, I took out the last clue and read it again:
Kill jars,
Pickled remains of past grievances,
Both great and small,
Marinating now upon their shelves,
Preserves of the most succulent variety.
Mine to savor when the fancy takes me,
Sweet rich marrow,
Toothpick finger-bones,
Toasting your accomplishments,
And flensing the taste of you from memory.
We’re obviously in the right place. But with so many jars to choose from . . . ?
As I considered the conundrum in front of me, Don Pérignone came blustering back into the room, spouting instructions.
“. . . seen the dimensions of the chamber, I’ll only need, what? Twenty of the medium-sized panels, twenty-four, tops? That way I can keep up the mystique, maintain my collection, and still leave you more than sixty to play with. So, if you let me. . .”
Of course! It’s his collection. His accomplishment. He started it. If anyone would know the specifics of what’s inside . . .
“Pérignone,” I called, “a quick word.”
The Don left off what he was doing and strode toward me. As he did so, I glanced at the last few lines of the rhyme again.
“Reaper?”
“How long have you been amassing body parts?”
“Phew, that’s a good one.” He pursed his bottom lip. “It must be going on fifty . . . yes, fifty years now.”
“And how well do you remember your former victims?”
“Depending on how much they pissed me off, or how good they tasted, I can remember most of them. One of the quirks of hell, I suppose. Why?”
I showed him the section of the stanza that was bugging me.
“By any chance, would these words make you think of someone in particular? You know: because of what their death meant to you, or because of the opportunities their torture and execution opened up?”
Pérignone scrutinized the specified passage and narrowed his eyes. He read it again, and his aura flashed as the cogs turned over in his mind. Suddenly, a broad grin split his face and he mumbled, “The Snail!”
“The who?”
“The Snail: Sebastian Escargot. He was the first major boss I ousted to take charge of operations south of the river. Quite an achievement, as he’d built up his connections for over two hundred years before I came along. I’ll always remember him screaming about how he would pluck out my eyes with his bare hands for daring to cross him.”
He laughed at the memory.
“What did you do?”
“I ripped out his tongue and ate it in front of him. He still insisted on making a noise, so I cut off his fingers for good measure. Once I’d stripped them of flesh, I used them as toothpicks to clean my teeth. He was very stringy from what I remember . . .” The Don’s eyes misted over as he recalled the experience. “. . . and then I smashed out each one of his molars with a hammer and chisel. I popped everything in a special jar and kept them on my desk for a while. Just like the Snail himself, actually. I kept him alive too, and gradually feasted on him, little by little, bit by bit, until there was hardly anything left.”
My heart skipped a beat.
“And where is that jar now?”
“I’m not sure. Because it was so small, I ended up stashing it behind the main bar, along with one or two other little mementos. Al added some of his own, over the years. Whenever we got a bit melancholy, we used to get wasted together on Cursevoyeur cognac, and raise all sorts of crappy toasts to ‘absent fiends’.”
“Is it still there?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. I’ll go and check.”
Pérignone rushed off in the direction of the main salon. Time seemed to slow down, wade through treacle, and then stop. After what seemed like an eternity but was actually a mere three minutes later, my agony was over.
The Don blustered his way back into the chamber carrying an insignificant-looking pot in his hands.
“Here it is,” he crowed, “the seal seems to have perished, but the contents appear intact.”
A slight chinking noise became apparent the closer he got.
I took the jar from him and held it up to the light. Twelve white teeth and two sets of finger-bones clinked against each other inside the glass . . . and nothing else.
The sense of disappointment was overwhelming.
But I thought . . . ?
“Hang on a second.” The Don sounded a little confused. “That doesn’t look right.”
“What doesn’t?”
He tapped the side of the jar. “One of the molars looks as if it’s got a filling. The Snail’s teeth were perfect. So either that’s not his, or . . .”
“Or someone went to the bother of removing it, drilling a hole, and putting it back.”
I twisted the lid free, emptied everything into my hand, and poked through the contents.
“Here you go.”
The tooth in question was now glaringly apparent, as the silver amalgam did indeed look oddly out of place against the otherwise pristine collection.
This is new, very recent in fact. There’s absolutely no tarnishing.
Adjusting my senses, I looked within the crown.
There’s something inside.
“Do you have any tweezers?” I mumbled. “Or anything else amongst your torture gear that will help me hold this without —”
Out of the corner of one eye, I saw Pérignone waggling a small leather wallet at me. It contained a set of dental instruments.
“I took the liberty of fetching these,” he explained. “It seemed to make sense at the time. You want to examine a cavity, you need the proper equipment.”
With a grin and a flourish, he held up a small torch in his opposite hand.
This one’s on the ball . . . “Nicely done. Follow me.”
We three trooped over to the reception desk and laid everything out. The Don switched on the flashlight, and held it above my head.
I selected a pair of pliers and held the tooth in place. Then I used the tip of a probe to dig beneath the cap of the filling. It lifted away much more easily than I expected, and I realized it must have been positioned like that deliberately.
This was just a plug. A temporary lid to protect whatever’s inside.
Next, I chose the smallest excavator I could find to tease the edge of a tiny white-looking piece of fabric from within the cavity itself. Once the tip was exposed, I picked out some forceps and lifted the material free.
“Is that human skin?” Nimrod asked.
“It certainly is, treated to withstand prolonged immersion in chemicals.”
Just what the doctor ordered, eh?
I shook the vellum gently, and because of its processing, it unraveled before our eyes to reveal a small rectangular message, measuring only half an inch by one inch. For the benefit of Nimrod and the Don, I linke
d with them telepathically and enlarged the parchment in their mind’s eye so they could read the passage for themselves.
It said:
An apostolic number
Lines the walls where vipers bite.
But beware,
My kiss can poison hearts
And bring ruin to saviors.
A bargain to slavery,
For a mere thirty pieces of silver
Revealed the hand of the betrayer.
Remember,
Everyone has a price.
Who will you disown before the end?
“This is written in a different hand,” I mused. “Do you see how the letters maintain their form throughout the text? And the style is less . . . prosaic.”
“Cream?” Nimrod suggested. “But what’s he trying to tell us?”
“Er, isn’t it obvious?” Pérignone said. “Don’t forget what I heard while I was still in that bloody river. ‘Beware the betrayer’s kiss’? Does this relate to the identity of one of the Blue Suit traitors?”
“It must do,” Nimrod enthused. “Jesus Christ was betrayed by Judas Iscariot, one of his apostles, for thirty pieces of silver. Judas literally screwed over mankind’s savior for what was the price of a slave in those days. Look at the analogy.”
“You’re right,” I grasped Nimrod by the arm. “And did we not investigate a certain matter recently where they employed a lawyer who just so happened to be called . . .”
“Judas!” we shouted together.
Pérignone spluttered. “Someone took out a contract on you?” He looked aghast. “Are they insane?”
“I’ll tell you about it another time,” I replied. “For now, I want the address of that bastard they use to legalize the contracts. Nimrod, we need to . . .”
The Don had gone abruptly silent and was staring intently at the clue on the desk. He seemed to be muttering something under his breath.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
He didn’t answer immediately, and appeared to be working something out in his head. I cut him some slack, as he was proving to be as sharp as a button.
“I hope you don’t mind my saying,” he offered, “but you might be missing another aspect to the message.”
“In what way?”
“Well, it’s just that the poem tells us the apostolic number relates to a viper’s bite. Now, I know my Bible as well as anyone else. Our Lord Satan was likened to a snake that bit God’s savior in the heel. But that doesn’t explain why the number twelve would ‘line the wall’ in the place ‘where vipers bite.’”
“So what are you getting at?”
“This has a double meaning. It’s giving us a location.”
“A location?”
“Yes, an address here in Perish. I think the ‘vipers bite’ part is directing us to Place Venôme — a huge square in the First Horrondissement, originally built as a monument to the glory of Louis XIV’s armies. Now it’s an up-market set of apartments and hotels.”
Bugger me!
“This may be the start of a wonderful relationship.” I stared at the Don with newfound respect. “Just keep doing what you’re doing, and I think you’ll find your new lease of life quite rewarding.”
Then I turned to Nimrod. “Put an info-request in on that address and grab your stuff. It looks like we’re taking an unexpected trip.”
*
The Hansom cab rattled past, forcing those pedestrians still out at this hour to jump for cover. Muddy water and goodness knows what other detritus sprayed in multiple directions at once, drenching those too slow or inebriated in a disgusting blend of festering liquids. Drunks and vagabonds lying in doorways or staggering along the sidewalk cursed and raised fists in outrage.
The hell-horse and carriage disappeared into the smog, the only evidence of its passing the resonant clip-clop of hooves and the clatter of steel-rimmed wood on cobbles, fading into the night.
Lambeth, in Victorian London, had been a dangerous place at any time of the day; Lambsdeath, its underworld counterpart here in the Juxtapose level of hell, all the more so. And yet a respectably dressed gentleman in top hat and tails sauntered through the vapor trails and dingy back alleys without a visible care in the world.
Every now and then he would tarry above a mysterious pile of rags or cardboard-layered den, and offer the occupants a pull from his silver hip flask. Very few refused; all were a source of amusement to their benefactor.
Doctor Thomas Neill Cream paused from his ministrations to chuckle and take his fill of the foul night air.
It’s good to be back. I should have returned here long ago. He glanced about. This place holds so many memories, even if it is but a shadow of my former hunting grounds.
A drugged-up, spaced-out whore staggered past, one customer on either arm. Inured to the consequences of their actions, the trio ignored him as if he didn’t exist and shambled off toward their inevitable appointment with flesh-eating insects and reassignment.
It lacks the sophistication of Perish, I’ll admit that, but Juxtapose is the perfect place for those wishing to hide. So many eras, and little pockets of time. All out of sync, mixed together in a broth of menacing discontent and confusion.
Somewhere far off in the shadows, Cream’s latest victims began retching and convulsing as the strychnine took effect.
Time to call it a night, I suppose, and see if my new subjects have managed to capture our prize. If this worked, it’ll certainly put the cat among the pigeons.
As swiftly as he dared, Cream strolled out into the street and raised his cane.
“Good sir? Over here, please.”
A large Clarence carriage rumbled toward him out of the gloom. Its lantern cut a fitful nimbus of light through the haze, and for a moment it appeared as if the cab with its asp-maned hell-horse would ride straight over him.
Instead it clattered to a stop and the teamster looked down, silent and suspicious, his whip raised and ready for mischief.
Cream waved an old godless florin between two fingers. “Lambsdeath Palace Road. And there’ll be another where that came from if you can get there in less than ten minutes.” He flipped it upward with his thumb.
The driver snatched the coin from midair and bit into its silver surface without the slightest sign of embarrassment. Satisfied, he pulled off his cap and placed his prize within a fouled handkerchief concealed beneath it. After a final check of the vicinity to ensure they wouldn’t be accosted by thieves or worse, he sat back without a word and waited for his passenger to climb aboard.
They set off with a jerk, and soon Cream was surfing the mists toward his new home.
Yes, it’s nice to be back. And although working on my own again will require some adjustments, at least I now possess certain utensils that should vouchsafe the success of my endeavors.
Chapter 18: Where Vipers Bite
The Don’s description hadn’t prepared me for Place Venôme. At seven hundred feet in length and four hundred in width, the opulent plaza paid tribute to the perfection Satan occasionally paraded before hell’s denizens to tease the unwary and bait the ambitious.
Ornate Corinthian pilasters upheld a series of tiered pediments whose rustic yet ostentatious setting made one wonder if infernity’s royalty had been invited to a “Palaces for Sale” extravaganza, an “in your face” taster of how sublime afterlife could be were it not for our Master’s twisted perversions.
This is a bit flash for a lawyer. They either pay him far too much or he’s definitely on the take . . . and I’m going with the latter.
The Venôme Column dominated the center of the square’s broadest thoroughfare. More than one hundred feet in height, and originally built to commemorate Napoleon’s greatest victory at Austerlitz in 1805, the column had been adorned by four hundred and twenty-five bas-relief bronze plates, each displaying a scene from Roman Emperor Trajan’s conquests. But that was in the land of the living. Here in hell, His Satanic Majesty had commandeered the memorial and turned it into
a testament to his enduring cruelty and ubiquitous authority.
I scrutinized the pillar from our vantage point at Rue de Talôn. The decorative frieze now portrayed the extent of Lucifer’s domain and the depth of suffering inflicted throughout the many circles of the underverse. The statue on top had also been replaced by a colossal dragon rearing up on its hind legs, wings flared. Mounted upon a field of the dead and dying, its powerful jaws spat realistic flames toward the heavens, perfectly encapsulating the mood of eternal defiance.
Hateful rays of Paradise punctured the cloud base and flickered across the crown of the edifice, adding a final touch that made it appear as if the scales of the beast were engorged with power.
Way to go, Boss!
Inspired, I decided to study the lay of the land.
So, what have we actually got here? “Hmm. Apartments, houses, and a selection of consulates. A whole bunch of up-market hotels and several top-quality tailoring establishments . . .” I nudged Nimrod in the ribs. “Look at that! There’s even an office of the local Department of Injustice. The sneaky fucker hid himself right out in the open amongst the Perishian elite.”
Nimrod wasn’t paying attention, being deeply engrossed in thought.
“I recognize this place from somewhere,” he mumbled. Then his phone buzzed to alert him to an incoming text. “Hang on a minute. I think our request results are coming in.”
While I waited, I altered my astral sensitivity so I could zoom in on the front doors and assess which was our target. My attention soon concentrated on the pristine exterior of a property in the southeastern quadrant. I refined my efforts and allowed my seeker-sense to bleed inside. Keeping things as light as I could, I gently expanded my consciousness to filter through the interior.
It appears to be empty. I’d better check the rear access points —
“By any chance, we’re not going there, are we?” Nimrod said.
My expanded perspective snapped back into my skull like a released elastic band. Nimrod was pointing to the exact building I had been watching.
“Yes, why?”
“Bloody hell. I knew I’d seen this place. Chopin.”
Hell Bound (Heroes in Hell) Page 26