by Darren Shan
“I don’t think I’ll bother. I know how clueless you are.”
“Very droll. You should have been a comedian.”
We arrive at the crypt. Octagonal, heavily reinforced, a computerized lock on the door. Sines keys in a code and after a number of clicks it swings open.
“Want me to come in with you?” Sines asks.
“Yes. I want to see the stairs under the coffin.”
We enter. A cold, dry room, The Cardinal’s coffin resplendent in the center, on a huge slab of marble. I examine the inscription—NOBODY TOLD ME THERE’D BE DAYS LIKE THESE—then the coffin and marble.
“There’s a lever at the bottom of the stairs,” Sines says. “Until the Troops came ferreting around, that was the only way to open it. They busted a few locks, so now the coffin slides aside if you push.” He lays a hand on the head of the coffin and demonstrates. It slides two-thirds of the way off the marble slab before coming to a halt, revealing a dark chasm and a set of stairs.
“This wasn’t here originally?” I ask, staring down into the darkness.
“No. They burrowed up from beneath.”
“How come nobody noticed?”
“The room’s soundproof,” Sines explains. “Besides, nobody passes by much—The Cardinal made sure he was put in a secluded part of the building. What gets me is how they knew where to dig. Only three people have access to the architectural plans. Each has been cleared by the Troops. Whoever did this didn’t find out about it through official channels.”
Several flashlights are set on the floor in a corner of the room. I fetch one and click it on. “I’m going to the bottom of the stairs,” I tell Sines. “I won’t be long.”
“What will I do if you don’t come back?” he asks nervously.
“Make up a good story for the Troops and pray they believe you.” I climb up onto the slab, swing my legs over, find the top step of the stairs and start down.
There are forty-one steps to the bottom, where a short tunnel ends in a door. The lock’s on the other side but the Troops must have kicked it open on one of their visits because it swings inward when I push. I step through and shine my light around. I’m at a junction, five crudely cut passages branching out to who knows where. Three of the passages are marked with crosses, where the Troops explored. Tasso told me they found nothing but more junctions and tunnels before giving up.
“You’re here, aren’t you?” I whisper, turning off the flashlight and letting the darkness engulf me. “They’re keeping you where no one can find you. You’re the ace up top, but they rule beneath. These tunnels are theirs. I wonder what they’re doing to you?”
I cough self-consciously. One of the side effects of spending so much time on my own—I’ve started talking to myself. I haven’t gotten to the stage where I’m answering yet, but it can’t be far off.
I linger a minute, feeling the darkness as if it had a tangible, physical presence. I’m sure I’ll be down these tunnels again before this investigation’s over, but for the time being I have no use for them. I’m not going to find Raimi by walking directionlessly into the darkness. I’ll have to work to root him out. The villacs won’t make it easy for me.
I climb back up the stairs, wondering where to turn next. I proved no slouch in the detective stakes last time, but I’m no supersleuth either. The priests will have to strew the path with clues if I’m to progress, otherwise I’ll run around in circles. But I’m sure they’ll help me along, as they did before. The game means nothing to them, only the result. So it’s surely just a matter of time before…
On cue, as my head comes level with the sixth step from the top, I spot a photo standing at an angle. Smiling at the timing, I grab the photo and continue to the top.
“What’s that?” Sines asks, spotting it immediately.
“Someone’s been careless with his holiday snapshots,” I murmur, studying the photo in the harsh light of the crypt. It’s a young, attractive woman. She looks familiar but I can’t place her. Party Central looms in the background. She’s holding a newspaper. I’m sure, once I get it under a magnifying glass, I’ll be able to check the date—the obvious intention of the people who placed the photo there.
“Where was it?” Sines asks, taking the photo from me.
“On the stairs. When was the last time anyone was down there?”
“Yesterday. No…” He pauses. “Late Monday. Four Troops. Lamps, ropes and other equipment had been left at the bottom. They went to retrieve them.”
“They wouldn’t have missed this. It’s been placed here since then, or one of them left it.”
Sines shakes his head. “I was here when they came up. It wasn’t them.”
“You’re certain?”
“Positive.” He hands back the photo.
“Then I won’t bother questioning them.” I start to tuck the photo away. Stop at a memory flash and hold it up to the light. “I know her,” I mutter. “I met her years ago. She worked at…”
The name clicks, but I say it only to myself, seeing no need to inform the good Dr. Sines. Ama Situwa, daughter of Cafran Reed, who ran what was once maybe the city’s kookiest restaurant. I haven’t been there in ten years. I don’t even know if Cafran’s exists any more. But it won’t take me long to find out.
To my surprise, not only is Cafran’s still going strong, but its original owner has held on and is happy to talk with me.
Cafran Reed looks older than his years—gray, stooped, feeble. He spends most of his time in the restaurant—which hasn’t changed much, it’s as gaudily colored as ever—but a manager runs it for him now. Cafran merely mixes with the staff and customers, testing the food, fussing over the music (mostly pop songs from the 1960s and ’70s), waiting for death to claim him.
“Ama Situwa?” he responds blankly when I ask.
“You haven’t a daughter?”
“Alas, no.” He smiles sadly. “I wished for one but it wasn’t meant to be.”
I show him the photo I picked up in the Fridge. “Recognize this woman?”
He has to put on his glasses before he can comment. Studies the photo at length. No hint of recognition in his tired old eyes. “Sorry,” he says.
Cafran invites me to stay for lunch but I reject the offer. Too busy. I’ll eat on the move, a sandwich or bagel to keep me going.
Outside, I use my cell phone to dial the number Tasso gave me yesterday. He answers on the second ring. “Algiers?”
“I want you to check something for me. The list of Ayuamarcans I saw was an old copy my father had stolen from the files of Party Central. Do you have a more up-to-date—”
“I know all the names,” he interrupts. “I used to scan it regularly, hoping a name might jog my memory. Shoot.”
“Ama Situwa.”
He grunts. “One of the last to be added. I asked Capac about her but he never said whether he knew her.”
“Thanks.” I head for home, where I check the newspaper in the photo under a magnifying glass. It indicates that Ama Situwa—an Ayuamarcan, dead ten years—was standing in front of Party Central less than a week ago. I lay the photo aside and don’t worry about it. I know what can be done with digital enhancement. The date on the paper means nothing. I won’t believe the shades of the dead have returned until I see one in the flesh. And even then I’ll reserve the right to be skeptical.
I patrol the streets as my father, flashing photos of Capac Raimi and Ama Situwa, asking people if they’ve seen or know anything of them. My contacts are legion. As Paucar Wami, I’m known to thousands of gang members, store owners, bums, clubbers, pimps, prostitutes and various other creatures of the night. Most fear me and answer openly when I question them, wanting to be rid of me as quickly as possible.
They all know Raimi—or of him—but haven’t seen him since he vanished, nor have they any idea where he might be. No one recognizes the woman. I ask if the blind priests in the white robes have been active of late—I only put this question to the more clued in of my contacts�
��but nobody’s spotted them on the prowl.
The street folk are worried. Although the city has stabilized since Tasso took control of Party Central—that became common knowledge during the last twenty-four hours—the veterans know the lull is temporary. The keg’s still primed to explode, and those who live or work on the streets will bear the brunt of the blast. I urge them to listen for rumors of Capac Raimi and watch for the woman in the photo, but most are too concerned with their own welfare to focus on anything else. I won’t be able to rely on them.
Thursday passes. Friday. Lots of travel, as Al Jeery and Paucar Wami, covering both the day and night worlds. I’ve never confined myself to the east, but that’s where I’m most powerful and I feel uneasy spreading myself further, covering so much ground. Wami’s known and feared in all sectors, but not as respected elsewhere as in the east. Challenges to my authority are more likely elsewhere. I have to tread carefully. Be polite. Rely on bribes as well as threats. Ask permission of the more influential gangs to canvass their territories. It’d be different if I were tracking prey. I could move in, make my hit, slip out. But this investigation could run for weeks or longer. Some degree of diplomacy is called for.
Between flashing snapshots of Capac and Ama, I study the faces of old men on the streets and through windows, my gaze lingering coldly on those bearing even a passing resemblance to Bill Casey. I don’t have the time to fixate on Bill—I have to concentrate on the quest to find Raimi—but I can’t stop looking for him. I also ask a few discreet questions. If he’s hiding in the city, someone other than Raimi and Tasso must know where he is. If I find the ex-cop by myself, all bets are off. Tasso—anyone—can have me once I’m through with Bill. I’ll be done with this world. It can do to me what it likes after that.
But nobody’s seen him. Those who knew him believe he’s dead. I plant seeds of doubt—say I’ve heard rumors that he survived—and leave them to sprout.
In the meantime I continue hunting for Tasso’s lost leader, pounding the streets, offering bribes, listening to the dark whispers of the city in the hope that they’ll tell me where Raimi is.
Saturday. I leave my apartment early, carrying my bike with me, in Al Jeery mode. I trot down the stairs, whistling, and nod to a disinterested neighbor on the ground floor. They never see me as Paucar Wami—I always exit and enter by the back alley and fire escape. Nobody here knows about my double life. Or if they do—if someone spotted me slipping out of my window one dark but cloudless night, and made the connection—they keep it to themselves, knowing that to cross swords with Paucar Wami is to guarantee the kiss of death.
Mounting my bike, I set out to visit Fabio, an ancient pimp who knows more about the seedy secrets of the city than anybody. The old pimp’s on his last legs. If he’s to be believed, he celebrated his 113th birthday this year. Even if he’s exaggerating—and Fabio never was one to stick too closely to the facts—he can’t be far short of that remarkable age. He’s been going as long as anyone remembers. He was a big shot in the days before The Cardinal. When Dorak put him out of business, he turned to pimping and has maintained a stable of women ever since—although in reality these last few years the more loyal of his ladies have been maintaining him, as his strength and eyes have steadily failed. His ears are as good as ever, though.
Fabio’s quarters look no more run-down than they did thirty years ago, and his favorite rocking chair still stands on the rickety porch out front, though he rarely uses it now, as even, getting from his bedroom to the chair is a struggle. Two teenagers—a boy and girl—are on the porch, talking in low voices. I cough loudly as I approach, so as not to alarm them. The boy looks up quickly, identifies me and smiles. “Hi, Al.”
“Drake. Who’s your girl?”
“Name’s Lindie,” she answers, “and I ain’t this fool’s girl.”
“Are too,” Drake grunts.
“Shut up!” she snaps.
I smother a laugh and ask if Fabio’s in. “Nah, he’s out roller skating,” Drake chortles, then looks guilty. “Don’t mean no disrespect. Sure he’s here. Mom’s taking care of him.”
Flo’s been good to Fabio. Although she still ostensibly works for him, it’s been a long time since she turned a trick. Her and a couple of others tend to the ailing pimp, feed him, wash up after him, keep the house in order. They’re genuinely fond of the old goat—Fabio always treated his women decently—but the fact that he’s rumored to have a fortune stashed away somewhere probably doesn’t hurt.
Flo’s in the kitchen, doing the laundry. She beams and gives me a big hug when she sees me. “Good to see you, Al. Fabio was asking about you only yesterday. He’ll be delighted you’ve come.”
“How is he?”
“No better, no worse.” She shrugs. “A bit worse. His voice went last week—couldn’t say a word for a few days—but it came back again. His doctor don’t know how he’s alive—says he should be long dead and buried—but Fabio just laughs and says he’ll go when he feels like it, not a minute before. Tea or coffee?”
“Can Fabio drink beer?”
“He ain’t supposed to, but he does anyway.”
“Then I’ll share a beer with him.”
Flo fetches a couple of bottles. She’s a sweet woman. And Drake’s a good kid. I helped him out some years ago. His brutish father had left him traumatized. My healing powers were functioning then. I got inside Drake’s head and relieved him of his nightmares. He’s never looked back. Last year his father was released from prison and came poking into Flo’s and Drake’s affairs. I warned him off. Didn’t hurt him—for all his faults, he’s Drake’s father, and the boy didn’t want to see him harmed—just told him in no uncertain terms what would happen if he didn’t catch the first train out.
Fabio’s lying flat on his back, eyes closed, breathing shallowly. He looks every one of his hundred-plus years, skin tight around his jaws, skeleton-thin, hands twitching feebly on the bedcovers.
“I don’t want to wake him if he’s sleeping,” I whisper to Flo.
“Too late,” Fabio snaps. He cocks his head—neck muscles quivering wildly—and grins horribly. “I was having a lovely dream—in a sheikh’s brothel and still able to get my pecker up—but you’ve blown that. Sit down and spin me a few lies while I wait to drop off again.”
I take the chair beside the bed and gently squeeze the old man’s hand. I help Flo prop him up—he complains bitterly until we get him settled just right on the pillows—then she opens his beer, sticks a straw in it and leaves. “If he starts choking,” she advises me on her way out, “give his balls a quick tug.”
“See what I have to put up with?” he moans. “Mind, that’s the closest I get to screwing anymore, so I can’t grouch.”
Fabio’s almost completely blind and his eyes stare ahead at nothing while we talk, discussing pills, doctors, old friends, the neighborhood. He’s as up-to-date with local events as always. The fragile pimp might be confined to bed and on the verge of death, but his ear’s as close to the ground as ever.
“Heard you been hired by Ford Tasso to hunt for The Cardinal,” he says after a while. I shouldn’t be surprised but I am.
“Where the hell did you hear that?”
“I got my sources,” he chuckles. “That’s a bad business, Algeria. Those guys play for high stakes. You don’t want to get stuck in the middle.”
“I know,” I answer softly, “but I don’t have a choice.”
Fabio’s head tilts sideways. “Now, I know you can’t be bribed or blackmailed. And I’m pretty sure threats don’t work. So how can it be that the fearsome Paucar Wami don’t have a choice?”
“Tasso has information which I must have. He’ll only exchange it if I find Raimi for him.”
Fabio thinks a moment, then says, “This to do with Bill Casey?”
“Are you sure you’re dying?” I ask suspiciously. “You’re too sharp for an ancient son of a bitch with one foot in the grave.”
He laughs delightedly. “Body might n
ot be worth shit, but I still got a brain. Only thing you’ve cared about this last decade is finding that dead man’s living bones. Ain’t nothing else I can think of that’d get you skittering about on Ford Tasso’s business.”
I nod wearily. “Tasso says he’s alive and in the city. Won’t tell me any more unless I return Raimi to him.”
“Could be lying,” Fabio notes.
“I doubt it. He knows what I’d do if he played me for a sap.”
“Ford Tasso ain’t the sort who worries about retribution.”
“He does where Paucar Wami’s involved,” I contradict him, gently stroking my left cheek, careful not to disturb the paint. “Everyone fears Wami.”
An uneasy silence descends. Fabio’s never understood my need to become the legendary killer, and he feels uncomfortable whenever the topic’s raised.
“Anyway,” he breaks the silence, clapping my forearm with a frail hand. “You didn’t come to pass the time of day. You want to know if I’ve heard anything about Raimi?”
“Yeah. Though I’d have come regardless. I was overdue for a visit.”
“Can’t argue with that,” he smirks, takes a sip of beer through his straw, and leans back further into his pillows. “Don’t have much to tell. I know he went missing in the Fridge, through an underground passage, and I don’t think any of the gangs are behind it—nobody ’round here knows shit about who took him or why. Other than that, I can’t help.”
“Any theories on who’d have it in for Raimi?” I ask.
“Hell, Algeria, everyone has it in for The Cardinal. They need him—he holds this shit together—but that don’t stop them hating him.” He pauses. “Mind, there’s a hell of a difference between those who’d wish him gone and those with the balls to take him on. Eugene Davern might be powerful and dumb enough to try. Those blind priest friends of yours could have done it too.”