by Darren Shan
“Awaiting orders,” Frank says.
“Don’t you have any initiative? I’ve just throttled the chairman of one of the most profitable pharmaceutical firms in the city. The race to replace him has already begun. I want one of our men in there. See to it.”
“Yes, sir!” Frank salutes smartly.
“Right away, Mr. Tasso!” Jerry mimics Frank’s salute.
“Pair of fucking clowns,” Tasso grumbles as they exit, but the left side of his mouth lifts into an amused half-smile. “Take a load off, Algiers.” I grab a plastic chair and sit opposite him as he eases himself into the soft leather chair. “How’s life been treating you?”
“Better than you,” I comment.
He chuckles. “I’m a mess, sure as fuck, but I’ll take punks like Ron Pena any day, crippled or otherwise.”
“Pena was a nobody. Will you be able to take Eugene Davern when he comes?”
Tasso grimaces. “Let’s not dwell on that. Get you something to drink?”
“I’d rather skip the preliminaries and find out why you called me in.”
“As you wish.” Tasso rubs the wrist of his right arm, then moves up to the elbow. “You heard about Capac and the Fridge?”
“Jerry filled me in.”
“Ever meet him?”
“Raimi?” I shake my head. “Saw him a couple of times.”
“A strange kid,” Tasso reflects. “Cold and alien inside. Dorak was a mean son of a bitch, but he was human. I don’t know what the fuck Raimi is.”
Tasso tosses a doll at me. It’s a dead ringer for Capac Raimi. It reminds me that this room used to be full of dolls—absent now.
“I locked them in a cupboard,” Tasso explains as I stare at the bare walls. “Never could stand those fucking mannequins. Had to put up with them when I was playing second fiddle to The Cardinal.”
“But when the cat’s away…”
“Exactly.”
I turn the doll around, examining it idly. “Think he’s dead?” I ask.
“He can’t be killed.”
I smile, keeping my eyes on the doll so that Tasso won’t see the grin. “You never struck me as the gullible type.”
“I’m not. But I’m telling you, Capac Raimi can’t be killed. He’s immortal.”
“I’ve heard the rumors. I don’t believe them.”
“I’ve seen it firsthand. He’s been shot, knifed, blown to pieces, pushed off that balcony. The fucker keeps coming back. I don’t know how, but he does. His remains dissolve away and a few days later he forms a new body and returns. If you think I’m going senile, check with Jerry and Frank. They’ve seen it too.”
I shift uncomfortably in my chair. “If that’s true, why are you worried?”
“He’s never been gone this long. Normally he returns within three days. At a stretch, four. Never longer. This time he’s disappeared. I don’t know where he is. And I don’t think he’s going to make it back on his own.”
“But if he can’t be killed…”
“I don’t know how to explain it!” Tasso roars. “If I could, I wouldn’t need to turn to you.”
“Speaking of which… What do I have to do with your missing Cardinal?”
Tasso’s left hand creeps to his right shoulder and he kneads the flesh firmly. If he were sitting at an angle to me, the right side of his face would show all the vitality of a corpse.
“Capac came to see me the week before he vanished,” Tasso says. “He was agitated. The city’s going to hell and he wanted to halt its slide. He believed the villacs—they’re blind priests—”
“I know who they are,” I chip in softly.
“—Were responsible for the unrest. This wasn’t the first time they’d clashed. Capac had his own way of doing things. The villacs didn’t approve. He felt they were undermining his authority. He asked me to step in for him, freeing him to deal with them. I refused. The following weekend he wound up at the Fridge and nothing’s been seen of him since.”
I dwell on that a while. “Why return to the hot seat now, when you wouldn’t before?”
“Guilt,” he answers directly. “I thought Capac could handle things. I didn’t take his offer seriously. If I had, maybe he wouldn’t be on the missing list and this city wouldn’t be on the brink of war.”
“It’s a bit late in the day to put things right.”
Tasso shrugs (only his left shoulder rises). “If I’m late, I’m late. Point is, I’m here and I need your help.”
“I still don’t understand what you think I can do. I have no idea where Raimi is.”
“You can find out,” Tasso says evenly. “I think the villacs have him and I think you’re the one person who can deal with those blind sons of jackals and persuade them to set him free.”
“Why would you think that?” I frown.
“Stuff Capac told me over the years. I know about the Ayuamarcans, your father and how, aside from Capac, you’re the only survivor of Dorak’s phantasmagoric army.”
“You remember Paucar Wami?” I hiss.
“Not clearly, but Capac told me all about him.”
I’m trembling. That won’t do. I need to be composed. I count silently until I’m in control. When I reach twenty-two and my hands are still, I speak. “Even if there’s a link between Raimi and me, what makes you think I could find him?”
“I’ve been here since Friday,” Tasso says. “But it was only last night, when this was dropped on my desk, that I thought about you.”
Tasso tosses an envelope to me. Warily, I slide the flap open. A large playing card slips out—the jack of spades. An ordinary card in most respects, except two tiny photos have been glued over the faces of the jacks, one of Capac Raimi, the other of me, in Al Jeery guise. Across the middle of the card runs a printed message, written in red ink on a white strip of paper. THE BLOODLINES WILL MERGE.
I read the message twice, glance again at the photos, then place the card back in its envelope and return it to Ford.
“You’re right,” I say quietly. “The villacs have him.”
“Any idea what it means?” he asks. “About bloodlines merging?”
“The priests have a vision. They want to make this city the center of the world. They believe in a sun god, and they think he’ll bless them if the conditions are right and ensure their longevity until the end of time. That can only happen if three bloodlines come together in a chakana of blood—Blood of Flesh, Blood of Dreams, and Flesh of Dreams.”
“I haven’t the slightest fucking clue what you’re babbling about,” Tasso says.
“Raimi told you how the Ayuamarcans were created, how Dorak and the priests wove them out of thin air, molding their features after people he saw in dreams?”
“Yeah,” Tasso says cautiously.
“Capac’s supposed to be a creature of the dream world—hence, Blood of Dreams. The villacs are human—Blood of Flesh. As the spawn of an Ayuamarcan and a human, I’m meant to be the blood of Flesh and Dreams—Flesh of Dreams. The way they told it, if I hooked up with them and Raimi, and we worked as a chakana—a three-tier team—this city would be ours and we’d rule forever.”
Tasso looks perplexed. “I’m still not sure I follow. But you’ve confirmed what I thought—you and Capac are mixed up with the villacs and thus with one another. That’s why you’ve got to look for him. If I send others, the priests will kill or repel them. Those bastards only spare those they have a use for. If they have a use for you, you might be able to go places the rest of us can’t.”
“Maybe,” I concede guardedly. “But I’m not interested in Raimi or the priests. The less I have to do with them, the better.”
“You’re turning me down?” Tasso asks blankly.
“Nothing could make me throw in my lot with those blind bastards,” I answer directly. “Money won’t sway me and threats won’t scare me. I won’t get involved and that’s all I have to say about it.”
I rise, aware that I’m taking an enormous chance, prepared to fig
ht if I have to, sure I won’t get very far. But Tasso makes no move to stop me. He lets me get to the door, then says, just loudly enough for me to hear, “Bill Casey.”
I come to a halt, eyes closing as I groan. Deep down I knew he had something up his sleeve. I just didn’t think it would be this compelling.
Turning to face him, I wait for him to continue.
“You fascinated Capac,” Tasso says. “When you adopted Wami’s look and name, he had you investigated. He found out everything he could about you, much of it from Dorak’s files—the old Cardinal had a shitload of material on you.
“Bill Casey admitted in a letter to the cops that he fucked up your life. He told them he masterminded the murders of your girlfriends and ex-wife. But he never provided a reason. Capac guessed it was linked to your father. He figured Paucar Wami hurt Bill Casey, and this was Casey’s warped way of hitting back at his tormentor—through his son.”
“Smart thinking,” I comment icily.
“Capac’s as cunning as they come,” Tasso huffs. “What he didn’t understand was why you assumed your father’s position. Casey tormented you, but he died in the explosion that almost killed you. That should have been the end of it. Unless, of course, he wasn’t really dead.”
Tasso slides the photo-decorated jack of spades out of the envelope and studies it while elaborating. “Capac figured Casey must have rigged the explosion and walked away, that your Wami disguise was a ruse to tempt him out of hiding, so that you could settle the score.”
“A certified genius,” I snarl.
“There’s more,” Tasso says, laying the card down. “As The Cardinal, Capac had informants everywhere, ears and eyes in places the rest of us don’t even know about. He set his people looking for Casey.” A carefully calculated pause. “They found him.”
My strength deserts me. I stumble against the door and pant for breath, eyes shut, fighting off the madness bubbling to the surface. “Bill’s alive?” I wheeze.
“And living in this city.”
My eyes open. Everything goes cold. “Where?”
Tasso stares at me evenly. “I’ll only tell you that once Capac’s been safely returned.”
“No!” I bellow. “Tell me now!”
I start toward the old man in the chair, insane with vengeful desire, not about to be denied. I’ll tear Tasso limb from limb if that’s what it takes. If he thinks he can dangle Bill in front of me like a carrot, then snatch him away, he’s seriously fucking mistaken.
“Don’t do it, Algiers,” Tasso says softly, and the unexpected gentleness in his voice unnerves me. “If you attack, I’ll fight to the death. I’ll kill you or you’ll kill me. The latter’s the more likely outcome, but it won’t get you Casey’s address. It’ll only earn you an early execution at the hands of my Troops.”
There’s no arguing with that. I wish I could throttle it out of him, but I know him too well. Violence isn’t the answer, not this time.
“A deal,” I growl. “The address first. If it’s on the level, I’ll see to my business with Bill, then search for—”
“Negative,” Tasso barks. “Capac first, then Casey. That’s the offer. Take it or leave it.”
Inside my head I count to ten. Thinking of Bill and his sad expression when he explained how he set about wrecking my life. Twenty. Remembering the explosion, the aftermath, slowly coming to the realization that he might still be alive. Fifty. Dwelling on ten years of murder and craziness. Eighty. Looking ahead, exploring alternatives, seeing only one way forward.
On ninety-six I let out a long breath. “If you’re bluffing…”
“I’m not.”
“OK.” I pull up the chair I was using earlier and position it in front of the makeshift Cardinal. I sense eager demons gathering around me, in anticipation of the chaos and bloodshed that’s sure to follow. “Tell me where you want me to start.”
3
déjà vu
It’s been a long time since I played detective. Ten years ago a woman was murdered in the Skylight hotel, and The Cardinal (nudged by the villacs) assigned me the task of finding her killer. That was my one and only case. It was enough. I learned and suffered more during the course of that investigation than any shamus should. A true baptism of fire. I swore I’d never endure such torment again.
But here I am, at the heart of another mystery, facing the same dangers as before. At least this time I’m aware of the risks and don’t have as much to lose—my previous trial robbed me of my friends, my lovers, my entire way of life. But I’m sure, if the villacs are behind this, they can find some fresh way to stick a knife into my back and twist it.
I spend most of Tuesday in Party Central, interviewing those closest to the missing Capac Raimi, getting a feel for the man. Tasso tells me Raimi had been seeing faces from the past—Ayuamarcans. He believed the ghosts of the dead had been revived again. Tasso shows me a photo of Paucar Wami—the real deal, not me in disguise—but I dismiss it.
“That could have been taken anytime,” I snort.
“But Capac saw him a few weeks ago. These pictures are from a security camera, and cameras don’t lie.”
“Sure they do,” I retort. “The villacs probably hired a ringer to startle Capac, then slipped old footage of Wami into the camera to make it seem real.”
“I don’t know,” Tasso mutters. “Capac seemed convinced.”
“More fool him,” I grunt and move on.
Shortly before Raimi struck out for the Fridge, a woman appeared in his office and “freaked the living shit out of him,” in the words of Jerry Falstaff. Raimi knew the woman. They exchanged words but as he moved toward her she jumped from the balcony. Jerry was assigned the task of cleaning up the mess. When he took a team downstairs, he found no trace of her broken body.
“Could it have been a projection?” I ask.
“No chance,” Jerry says.
“So what happened? She disappeared midair? Sprouted wings and flew?”
Jerry smiles sourly. “It’s more likely a net was extended out of a window to catch her. But I never did have a fancy imagination. Maybe it was wings.”
Jerry’s levelheadedness is refreshing. It’s comforting to find that not everyone in Party Central has succumbed to the forces of witchcraft and voodoo, that some can reason logically. That said, when I quiz him about Raimi’s immortality, he reads from the same book as Ford Tasso and Frank.
“The guy returns from the dead—fact. Every time he’s killed, he comes back a few days later on a train from a place called Sonas. He rematerializes on the train, though we’ve had people on it, watching for him, and they’ve never seen him regenerate. He somehow does it when nobody’s looking.”
“You know how crazy that sounds?”
“Of course. Early on, I searched for logical answers—clones, lookalikes, twins—but the truth’s the truth. Capac Raimi comes back from the dead. You learn to accept it when you’ve been around him a while.”
Arguing’s pointless—Tasso, Frank and Jerry can’t be shaken from their absurd belief—so I don’t bother. Instead I gather what relevant facts I can—who his friends were (he didn’t have any), where he liked to hang out (apart from trips to a gym with a pool, he worked nonstop), and if he had any untoward habits (clean as a whistle)—then return home with midnight fast approaching. I spend a few hours writing up notes and playing with theories, then hit the sack, where I toss and turn, obsessing about snakes, dead people, blind priests, sun gods and a nine-fingered ex-cop—alive and in the city.
I rise before dawn, tired and irritable, and squat in the shadows of my living room, thinking about Bill, wondering what he looks like now, what he’s doing, where he’s spent the past ten years. Tasso’s news both thrills and depresses me. Thrills, because the years of murder and madness haven’t been a waste—my quest is justifiable and revenge can be mine. Depresses, because Tasso could be lying—or Raimi could have lied to him—and I have a sick fear that even if it’s true, Bill will drop dead of old a
ge or flee before I can descend on him in all my fury.
As desperate as I am to get my hands on Bill, I put thoughts of him on hold. I have a deal with Tasso to honor. Raimi must be found before I can focus on my dearest friend and most hated enemy. Where to start in my search for the missing Cardinal?
As the sun rises I focus all my mental faculties on the Raimi problem, and the answer soon presents itself. Start where Raimi was last seen—the Fridge. After a quick breakfast and a hundred push-ups, I cycle to the morgue. I’m in Al Jeery guise, so I use the bicycle I’ve had for fifteen years. I save the motorcycle for when I’m Paucar Wami, storing it in a nearby garage.
I’m no stranger to the Fridge, its false exterior (it looks like a deserted factory) and gleaming, coffin-lined halls. I’ve dropped off many bodies here, friends and foes of The Cardinal and his crew. I even have my own access code, though it has to be renewed every three months and only admits me to a small, self-contained section at the rear of the morgue.
Once I’ve parked and entered, I tell one of the assistants that I’d like to see Dr. Sines. He’s head honcho, though he was just one of many pathologists on the books when I first made his acquaintance ten years ago. He’s one of the select few who know that Paucar Wami and Al Jeery are the same man.
“Mr. Jeery,” he greets me with a curt nod, coming from an operating room, his hands encased in blood-smeared plastic gloves.
“Dr. Sines.” We’ve known each other for a decade, but have never dropped the formalities. Sines is an associate, not a friend. I prefer it that way. I’m safer without friends.
“Dropping off or picking up?” he quips. A standard joke.
“I’ve been hired to find Capac Raimi. I want to see where he disappeared.”
Sines stares at me. “I didn’t think you were into detective work these days.”
“I’m making an exception this once. I have clearance. You can check with Jerry or Frank if you don’t believe me.”
“If it’s all the same, I will. Nothing personal.”
One phone call later, Sines leads me through a maze of casket-lined corridors to Ferdinand Dorak’s crypt. “We’ve had a hell of a time since Raimi vanished,” the doctor mutters, peeling off his gloves as we walk and discarding them. “Hordes of Troops swarming around, interviewing everyone, upsetting everything. I’ve been quizzed on five separate occasions. I suppose you’ll make it an even half-dozen?”