City of the Snakes tct-3

by Darren Shan

  “Some men are harder to keep down than others,” I murmur.

  “We killed you,” Gico says again, stubborn to the last. “You’re dead. I pushed you over.” He looks to Frank and Jerry appealingly. “We killed him!”

  “Time to return the favor,” Frank grunts and gives the signal. His Troops circle the traitors.

  “No!” Gico howls, trying to break through to me. “You’re dead! We killed you! We—”

  A Troop clubs him over the back of the head and he falls limp to the floor. The others are swiftly subdued, even the normally fierce Cathal Sampedro. I tend to have that effect on people when I return from the dead.

  “Take them to the yard,” Frank says, and his Troops bundle the prisoners out of the office, down the hall to the elevator. The executions will be short and unceremonial. No need for me to be present.

  “Nice to be back?” Jerry asks.

  “There’s no place like home,” I agree, testing the chair, making sure Gico hasn’t tampered with it.

  “I’d love to stay and chat,” Frank says, “but I’ve got work to do. Three years is a long time. It’ll take awhile to get back into the swing of things.”

  “You’ll manage,” I reply confidently, then call him back as he heads for the door. “One last thing. There’s a photo I’d like you to look at.”

  “This the guy you were asking about before?”

  “Yes.”

  The weekend before I was killed I called Frank, having guessed what Gico Carl and his companions were planning, to check that he was willing to return as head of the Troops. While on the phone, I tested his memories of Paucar Wami — Dorak’s most sinister and singular Ayuamarcan apart from me. I asked if he recollected a famous serial killer who’d terrorized this city and worked for The Cardinal. He didn’t, but maybe the photo will jog something inside him.

  “This was taken last Saturday,” I explain, digging through my drawers for the photo and tossing it across the desk. “He stood close to a security camera out back and stared straight at it for a full minute.”

  The photo’s of a tall, lithe, extremely dark-skinned man.

  Bald. Strange green eyes. Tattoos of colored snakes adorn both his cheeks. He’s dressed in dark pants and a black leather jacket.

  Frank breathes out heavily through his nostrils, then looks at me warily. “That’s a photo of Al.”

  “Al Jeery?”

  “Yeah.”

  I shake my head. “No. It isn’t.”

  I know Al Jeery as intimately as you can know someone you’ve never actually met. I became interested in him when he chose the name of Paucar Wami and adopted his guise. I’ve had him shadowed, researched and photographed in any number of compromising positions. This isn’t him.

  Frank studies the photo again. “Sure looks like Al. Jerry?” Jerry and Frank were both colleagues of Al Jeery’s long ago.

  “I’ve seen it already,” Jerry says. “I thought it was him too, but Capac’s right — it’s someone else.”

  Frank squints. “Yeah, I see it now. His ears are smaller, his face is slightly sharper, his contact lenses are a darker shade of green.”

  “I don’t think they’re contacts,” I say softly, retrieving the photo.

  “Who is he?” Frank asks.

  I’m reluctant to voice the crazy words, but I force them out. “I think he’s Paucar Wami.”

  “That’s the name Al uses,” Frank notes.

  “I mean the original Paucar Wami. The Ayuamarcan who popped out of existence ten years ago when Dorak died.”

  Frank and Jerry share an uneasy look. They never quite believed my tales of the Ayuamarcans. They’ve seen me return from the dead, so they know there’s more to this world than meets the eye, but there are some things they find hard to get their heads around.

  “Never mind,” I mutter. “It’s not your problem. Focus on running the Troops. Leave me to worry about the ghosts of the past.”

  Frank opens his mouth to say something, can’t think of anything, salutes and exits. Jerry shuffles after the departing Frank Weld, leaving me alone in my aerie to brood.

  Paucar Wami isn’t the only ghost who’s come back to haunt me. There have been others. People who never truly existed, who died, who’ve lived these last ten years only in my memories. Until this one was captured on film, I thought I was imagining them. Now I’m not sure.

  Sighing, I slide the photo back into its drawer and leave the puzzle for another day. There’s much to be done. I’ve been gone less than three days, but a lot can happen even in that short a period. Time to catch up on the state of play, reassert my authority and let people know that The Cardinal’s back from the dead… again.

  2: the relic

  The city’s most exclusive nursing home, Solvert’s, is situated in a quiet corner of Conchita Gardens, a park built during Ferdinand Dorak’s time. Dorak’s wife, Conchita, pleaded with him to do something beautiful and unexpected for her birthday one year. He responded with the park. He could be a sentimental old goat where Conchita was concerned.

  The Cardinal left behind a trust fund to pay toward the upkeep of the park, and I chip in with my own annual contribution, making up the shortfall, in tribute to the memory of Conchita Kubekik, who was a dear friend of mine.

  Thomas drops me at the front of Solvert’s. I’m recognized as soon as I enter and the staff scurry to look busy — nobody wants to get mixed up with a notorious gangster like me. Finally I flag a nurse and ask to see Ford Tasso. She gulps nervously and scampers ahead, leading the way. I could find it myself, but they don’t like visitors walking around unattended. Ford isn’t the only ex-gangster on their books. They worry about assassinations.

  He’s sitting outside in a wheelchair, under a leafy tree, enjoying the spring morning. He’s an impressive sight, even from the back and seated, as broad and rocklike as ever.

  I relied on Ford heavily when I took over. I’d still be depending on him if a stroke hadn’t rendered him inactive.

  I thank the nurse and cough to announce my presence. “No need to throw a fit,” Ford wheezes. “My ears are good as ever. I heard you coming.”

  “Hello, old friend.” I bend to shake his left hand. His granite features haven’t softened with time. If anything he looks rougher than ever, his face impassive and deathly gray on one side. The stroke hit him hardest down the right, paralyzing his face and arm, almost destroying his leg. He can get around on his feet when he has to, but walking’s slow and painful, his right leg dragging leadenly with every labored step.

  “You must be in deep shit to come here,” he grunts.

  I smile wryly. We both know I wouldn’t waste time on a social visit. Sitting on the grass, I grimace. “Deep as it gets.”

  He pivots to face me and waits. It’s been four years since the stroke. For six months he wasn’t able to speak. Gradually he learned to produce sounds, although at first his slur was so bad that even his full-time nurse couldn’t understand what he was saying. With untold hours of practice and treatment, he’s trained himself to speak again. He talks slower than he used to, and occasionally he’ll stumble on a word, but he’s more coherent than he has any right to be. The doctors didn’t think he’d survive the first year. I guessed differently. Death will have to go a full twelve rounds with Ford Tasso before it forces him out of the ring.

  “How’s life?” I ask.

  “Not bad. Still in sex therapy. I sustained an erection for three minutes a couple of days ago. My best yet.”

  “Still refusing Viagra?” I grin.

  “I don’t mess with voodoo shit like that. Don’t need it.”

  “Why are you worried about your staying power anyway?” I ask. “Not like you’re going to get any action here.”

  “I like to be prepared for anything,” he sniffs, then fixes me with his left eye (he lost sight in his right but refuses to wear a patch). “Enough of the crap. What’s wrong?”

  “You heard about Gico?”

  “Him and Cathal
killed you and seized control. Didn’t last long.”

  “They never do, but that’s not the point. Gico and Cathal were two of my best. I thought I could rely on them.”

  “Maybe they got greedy,” Ford suggests, rubbing the flesh of his gray right wrist. His circulation is poor down the right. He has to work on his muscles continuously when he’s by himself.

  “No,” I mutter. “Fear motivated them. They thought I wasn’t in control. They saw me as a weak link. If my closest aides don’t have faith in me…”

  Ford nods slowly. “I’d heard things weren’t so hot. Tell me more.”

  I fill him in on all that’s transpired since my last visit two years ago. The city’s heading for riots. Old gangs have splintered, new gangs have formed, fighting is rife. I’ve tried holding things together, but they refuse to pay heed. I’m the most powerful force in the city but I’m not obeyed as Dorak was. People fear me, but they don’t respect me.

  Ford listens silently. When I run out of words, he mulls the situation over, then asks, “And the villacs?”

  “Keeping low. I’m sure they’re behind a lot of the unrest but they’re doing it subtly, without showing their hand.”

  Ford grunts. “I told The Cardinal to take them out years ago, but he was always in awe of them.”

  “It’s not just the priests. Others oppose me, men who’d never have dared face up to Dorak. Eugene Davern’s one.”

  “The guy who runs the KKK?” Ford asks, surprised. The Kool Kats Klub has always been a hive of racists, but we never had to worry about them in Ford’s time. Rich white kids talking big. Harmless.

  “Eugene’s moving up in the world. He’s been uniting supremacist gangs under one flag for the last few years. They call themselves the Kluxers. I know,” I laugh as Tasso groans. “Dumb name. But they’re serious. They’ve abandoned the hoods and burning crosses of the Klan. Expanded steadily. Davern’s never once asked for my blessing or sought my approval. He’s an independent operator, and others are following his lead.”

  “So eliminate him,” Ford barks. “A dawn raid, corpses galore, Davern’s head on a plate… that’ll put paid to that.”

  “We don’t do it that way anymore,” I sigh. “The corporation’s in the process of going straight. Taking Davern out would set us back ten or fifteen years.”

  “Maybe things need setting back. Christ knows, you can afford to wait.”

  “I guess. But…” I don’t know how to explain it. Bloodshed doesn’t deter me but I want to conquer by intrigue and cunning, not brute force. The game must remain interesting if it’s to entertain me for eternity. My greatest fear is waking up one morning, the rest of time stretched out ahead of me, only to find myself with nothing to do.

  Ford reads my thoughts and chuckles mirthlessly. “You have to get real, Capac. Dispose of your enemies. Kill those who look at you crosswise. Be merciless. It’s the old way but the only way.”

  “Wise advice.”

  “Which you’ll ignore.” We smile at each other. He understands me better than anyone ever has, with the exception of my creator. “So why come see an old fart like me if you’re not gonna listen?”

  I shrug. “I thought you might have something more constructive to say. I was hoping the serenity of retirement would have opened your mind to fresh ways of thinking.”

  “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks,” he snorts, “and I’m as old as they come. Quit pissing around, Capac. Why are you really here?”

  He’s seen through me, as I knew he would. Time to come clean. “I’m frightened, Ford.” A pause. “I’m seeing ghosts.”

  Ford doesn’t remember the Ayuamarcans. Like everyone else in the city, he forgot about them in the wake of The Cardinal’s downfall. But I’ve filled him in about them before, so he knows what I’m talking about.

  “I’ve been catching glimpses of Ayuamarcans for weeks now,” I tell him. “Y Tse was the first.” Y Tse Lapotaire, real name Inti Maimi, one of The Cardinal’s rare failures. He was supposed to succeed Dorak but he didn’t work out. A colorful figure when I originally knew him, he dressed in robes, daubed himself with paint, wore the most overstated jewelry he could find.

  “He was in a crowd of people outside the Skylight. I’d gone over to greet some business associates but I had to wait to get in. Some rock star was staying and groupies had gathered out front. While I was relaxing in the car, I saw Y Tse. He was ten or twelve feet away, staring at me silently. At first I didn’t recognize him — it’s been a long time — but then he raised his arms above his head and bellowed, ‘The time is ripe, friend Capac!’ ”

  “That means something?” Ford asks.

  “He said the same thing to me the first time we met. The words struck me like a bullet. When he saw that I realized who it was, he smiled, waved, then disappeared into the crowd. I raced after him but the crush was too great. By the time it cleared, he’d vanished.”

  Ford clears his throat. “Might have been someone who looked like him.”

  “No. A few days later I saw him again, lurking in front of Party Central. I sent Troops after him but they lost track of him after a couple of blocks. Said it was like he disappeared into thin air.”

  “But they saw him?” Ford interrupts.

  “They saw someone. They couldn’t describe him accurately. Said they didn’t get a good look at him. Then, a week later, I saw Leonora Shankar and Conchita.”

  “Leonora’s the woman you say founded Shankar’s restaurant?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Conchita would be Conchita Kubekik, Dorak’s alleged wife?”

  I nod. As far as Ford and everyone else remembers, The Cardinal never married. They think Conchita Gardens was named after a local Indian girl.

  “What were they doing?” Ford inquires.

  “Swimming.” In response to his quizzical look, I elaborate. “I go for a swim every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday, schedule permitting. I use the Kargan pool — not conveniently situated, but it’s longer than most. You can really stretch yourself there.”

  “Fascinating,” Ford grunts impatiently. “The women?”

  “They’d been sitting by the side of the pool for ages. I didn’t pay much attention. It was only when I paused at the end of a lap to catch my breath that I saw them. I was dumbstruck. I stood in the water at the shallow end, mesmerized, for maybe five minutes, until they rose and slipped into the changing room. Then I charged after them and tore the place apart.”

  “I bet that made you popular with the ladies,” Ford comments drily. “But it was for nothing, right? You couldn’t find them?”

  “Not a trace,” I sigh. “That’s when I started to think I might be losing it. I had myself checked and drew a clear bill of health, but that was little consolation. I spotted them several times over the next few weeks, together, with Y Tse, singly. I ignored them. Didn’t waste time giving chase. I figured, if they were products of my imagination, running after them was useless. If they were real, they’d make contact in their own time. Then this.” I pass the photograph of Paucar Wami to him.

  “Al Jeery,” he says immediately. Ford knew Jeery too, before the guy lost his marbles and took to the streets as Paucar Wami. Thought highly of him. I wanted to drag Jeery in, find out what he knew about the Ayuamarcans. Ford convinced me to leave him alone — said the guy had been through enough.

  “Look again,” I tell him, and he studies the photo some more.

  “It’s like Al,” he rumbles, “but it’s not. Some guy made up to resemble him?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe this is the guy Jeery made himself up to look like — the real Paucar Wami.”

  “I thought Wami was a myth,” Ford says uneasily. Like some other people, he has vague recollections of the serial killer. I don’t know how fragments of Wami’s existence survived The Cardinal’s passing, but they did. He’s not a substantial figure — he exists in the minds of those who knew him as a creature of shadows — but part of his evil legacy lives on.

>   “Wami was real, an Ayuamarcan. And on the basis of that photo, he’s back.”

  “You’re sure it’s not a ringer?”

  “He’s not someone you forget in a hurry. That’s Paucar Wami. I’d stake my life on it. And if he’s real, the others probably are too.”

  Ford passes back the photo. “I don’t understand this — I never really did — but let’s say it’s on the level. Why does it bother you?”

  “Wouldn’t you be bothered if ghosts returned to haunt you?” I snap.

  “Sure, but I’m human. I can be killed, so I’d have reason to worry. You don’t.”

  “I’m not so certain I believe that anymore,” I mumble. “The Cardinal made me immortal, but he reserved the power to destroy me. He could have wiped me out before he died, if he’d had a mind to. If someone else has the same kind of power — and if Wami and the others are real, only somebody as gifted as The Cardinal could have brought them back — maybe they can eradicate me too.”

  Ford’s good eye half closes. “Didn’t think of that.”

  “I didn’t either until this photo materialized. Now it’s all I can think about.”

  Ford chuckles bleakly. “How does it feel to be faced with mortality again? Must be a shock after all these years.”

  “Don’t mock me,” I growl, but he only laughs at my tone.

  “That explains why your knees are shaking. But why come to me about this? If the Grim Reaper’s got you in his sights, what can I do to help?”

  “The villacs must be behind this. I need to find them, confront them, stop them. But I can’t chase the priests and run this city at the same time. I need someone to—”

  “Whoa!” Ford stops me. “If this is going where I think it is, forget it.”

  “I need you,” I press. “Frank’s back in charge of the Troops. He’ll do a good job, but he’s not Cardinal material.”

  “I’m not either,” Ford grunts.

  “But you could fill in for me short-term,” I insist. “You’re still closely identified with Dorak. People would obey you. You could keep things ticking over while I sorted out my problems. Think about it — back in charge, everyone having to kiss your ass. You’d love it.”