by Darren Shan
I grunt neutrally and let the reference to the villacs pass. “You think Davern could be involved?” I ask instead.
“Maybe. Doubt he is, not by the way he backed down in the northwest when Tasso took over, but if Raimi don’t return and warfare erupts, Davern’s the most likely to ride it out. That gives him good reason to want Raimi out of the way—and extra good reason for you to be careful if you go sniffing around after him.”
I spend a further half hour with Fabio, talking over old times. He’s deteriorated a lot since my last visit. His voice cracks every so often, and there are times when his thoughts wander. Resilient as he is, I doubt he’ll see out the summer. Death’s been a long time coming for Fabio, but now that it has him in its jaws, it’s swiftly grinding him down.
Talking tires the ancient pimp. When he starts to doze, I trail off into silence, then rise silently and leave. I slip Flo some cash, tell her to call me if she needs anything, let myself out—Drake and his girl have moved on—and stroll away, idly planning for the funeral that is surely close upon us.
I hadn’t seriously considered the possibility that anyone other than the villacs had abducted The Cardinal. I still believe the priests were behind it—the card Tasso received supports that theory—but perhaps they operated through a third party. If they did, Davern seems as logical a choice as any, and as worrying—if the Klan-spawned Kluxers come to prominence, they’re bound to target the black gangs in the east.
Having slipped back into Paucar Wami’s flesh, I spend the rest of Saturday learning more about Eugene Davern. I know him by reputation only, and though I’ve taken out a few of his men in the past, those I killed were peripheral to his operation, and he had sense enough not to make an issue of their deaths. He’s an easy man to investigate. My contacts practically line up to spill the beans on the ex-Klansman. Within hours I know the whereabouts of several of his hideaways, the names and addresses of three of his mistresses and the nights he visits them, how many men he has with him at any one time in any one place. He guards himself cleverly, but if I need to get to him, I can.
If Davern authorized the kidnapping of Capac Raimi, there are very few men he would dare trust with such a charge. According to the grapevine, there are only four he trusts implicitly. His younger brother, Ellis. His best friend since childhood, Dan Kerrin, who isn’t a Kluxer. And two of his closest lieutenants, Hyde Wornton and Matthew “Millie” Burns. If I don’t come up with anything else, I’ll start shadowing the quartet in case one of them is sitting on Raimi.
I’m exploring a warehouse of Davern’s on the docks when my phone vibrates shortly after midnight. I check the digits but don’t recognize them. That troubles me—strangers shouldn’t have access to my number—but I answer anyway.
“Yeah?” I grunt, not giving my name away.
“Is this Paucar Wami?” a man asks nervously.
“Who wants to know?”
“Terry Archer. I’m night manager of the Skylight.”
I know him. Haven’t seen him in a long time. No idea why he should be ringing me or how he got my number. “What do you want?”
“Ford Tasso told me to call and gave me your details. We…” Archer stops to lick his lips.
“Go on,” I prompt him.
“There’s been a murder. One of our customers has been killed. A woman. Her back was sliced up into a sun-like symbol.” I go cold, my mind snapping back ten years. “She was killed in room—”
“—Eight-twelve,” I finish, staring ahead blankly into the darkness of the warehouse.
“Yes,” Archer says, surprised. “How did you know?”
“I’ll be with you as soon as I can. Don’t let anybody near the body.”
“I’ve already sealed off the room. Nobody gets in without my—”
I cut him off. Within a minute I’m out of the warehouse and on my motorcycle, tearing across the city, propelled by the spirits of the bloody past.
The Skylight underwent a renovation last year. It was shut for almost six months while old rooms were demolished and rebuilt, walls repainted and papered, fresh carpets laid, new furniture moved in. The Skylight’s reputation as the city’s key draw for the rich and famous had dwindled since Ferdinand Dorak’s death, but now it’s streets ahead of its rivals again, more luxurious than ever, up-to-date with all the latest technology and boasting five extra floors.
One thing hasn’t changed—no CCTV. Anonymity is guaranteed in the Skylight. The doors are guarded by Troops, but that’s it as far as security goes.
Terry Archer’s waiting for me in reception, puffing on a Marlboro. Life goes on as normal around him—word of the murder hasn’t leaked yet. I draw startled stares and a few gasps when I enter—people don’t expect Paucar Wami to walk boldly into the Skylight—but nobody interferes.
Archer’s flanked by two Troops, who grip their weapons tightly and eyeball me mercilessly. I’m sure they’re two of his best, versed in the ways of fighting and killing. I’m just as sure I could take them without moving into middle gear.
“Mr. Wami,” Archer greets me, ditching the cigarette and extending a hand.
I ignore it—Paucar Wami doesn’t shake hands—and snap, “Eight-twelve. Now. And lose the bodyguards.”
Archer gulps loudly, then nods at the Troops. “I’ll take him up myself.”
“Are you sure, sir?” one of them asks. “Maybe we should come along to—”
“Ten of you couldn’t save him if I had murder on my mind,” I cut in, then start for the elevators ahead of Archer, who wastes a moment chastening his Troop before hurrying after me, catching up as the doors slide shut.
We say nothing until we’re on the eighth floor. I march toward the room, remembering the way from before. Eight-twelve was where my girlfriend, Nicola Hornyak, was left to die. It’s also where my ex-wife, Ellen, was murdered.
“When was she found?” I ask.
“Less than an hour ago,” Archer says, trotting to keep up. He’s put on weight since I last saw him. “I rang Mr. Tasso immediately—that room has a history and I guessed he’d want to know about it—and he put me on to you.”
“Was the room signed out to anybody?”
“Yes, but…” He grimaces.
“Tell me,” I grunt without slowing.
“It was booked under the name of Al Jeery,” he says quickly, “but I’m sure he has nothing to do with this. I know Al and he’s not the sort who—”
“Enough!” I come to a stop. So they—whoever they are—used my name, just in case memory failed me. The extra touch was unnecessary. An insult.
I study Terry Archer. He knows me as Al Jeery but doesn’t recognize me in my Paucar Wami guise. I want to keep it that way. “I’ll check on Jeery,” I growl. “If he’s innocent, he has nothing to fear. If he isn’t, I’ll deal with him.” Archer nods, terror in his eyes. “And don’t tip him off in advance.”
“I won’t!” Archer gasps. “I swear!”
We reach 812 and Archer passes a golden card through the computerized slot. A light blinks twice. He produces another card—also gold, but with red stripes in the upper left corner—and swipes that as well. “I double-coded it, to be extra safe,” he says smugly. With a beep the door opens and we enter, lights coming on automatically. A flat-screen TV on the wall broadcasts a message. “Welcome to the Skylight, Mr. Jeery. We hope you enjoy your stay.”
On the bed, a naked woman lies facedown, hands tied together over her head, a gag in her mouth. Her back has been cut to shreds and a rough circle can be glimpsed through the dried blood, several straight lines running from its rim, representing the rays of the sun.
“This happened before,” Archer says, closing the door. “Nine or ten years ago, two women were killed in exactly the same—”
“I know,” I stop him, moving closer to the bed, studying the floor for clues. “I want the room dusted. The woman too. A full examination. Call Alex Sines at the Fridge. Tell him to come in person. I want him to report directly to me.”<
br />
“What about Mr. Tasso?” Archer inquires.
“If Tasso wanted to be personally involved,” I bark, “he wouldn’t have sent you to me.”
Archer cringes at my tone and says no more.
I carefully tilt the dead woman’s head to one side and study her face, emotionlessly taking in the familiar contours and eyes, noting how relaxed she looks in death. I bet Sines finds strong drugs in her system when he slices her open. Nobody dies serenely when in pain. She must have been doped out of her senses.
“Know her?” I ask Archer, gently lowering the head. Al Jeery wants to close her eyelids. Paucar Wami sneers at the sentimental touch.
“No,” he says shakily.
“I do.” Standing, I unroll the plastic gloves and pocket them. “Ama Situwa,” I sigh, not loud enough for Archer to hear, then make a quick exit, to retire for the night and consider what the hell this means.
4
paperwork
Ama Situwa. Ayuamarcan. Lost to the world ten years ago. Returns
(how?)
and gets killed in the Skylight
(why?)
in room 812. Not much of a biography. No hints of who she was or how she lived. Was there a specific reason she was chosen to die instead of anyone else I know? And is the corpse really Ama Situwa? I still don’t buy into this resurrection business, though it’s getting harder to discredit. She could be someone who merely looked like the woman I remember. An elaborate red herring.
Sines will be able to help on that front. He’ll take fingerprints, dental impressions and DNA samples. Check them against the records. I’m sure there are no files on Ama Situwa—the villacs did a thorough job of removing all traces of the Ayuamarcans—but if this is another woman, we might strike it lucky.
I doze off while sitting next to my tiny living room window, contemplating the various twists and possibilities. I dream of room 812 in the Skylight and the three women who’ve been murdered there, Nicola Hornyak, Ellen Fraser and
(until proven otherwise)
Ama Situwa. In my dreams I’m present at the executions, which blend together into one nightmarish scene of perpetual murder. I stand by the foot of the bed as Nicola’s tied down. I hear Ellen scream. She calls my name and I reach to help, but I’m powerless. A large woman—Valerie Thomas, one of the villacs’ tools—pushes me away and laughs. A blind priest wraps his arms around me and holds me as Priscilla Perdue carves a symbol into Ama Situwa’s back, her knife impossibly large, the blood impossibly red. As it pools on the floor, faces form—Capac Raimi’s, Leonora Shankar’s, mine. No, not mine… my father’s. The real Paucar Wami smiles at me and murmurs, “Reasons for a refund, hmm, Al m’boy?”
As I’m trying to think of a reply, Wami’s face explodes in a geyser of blood that splatters the walls and ceiling. The blood covers me. It’s hot. I scream. And suddenly I’m lying on the bed and a villac is carving the flesh of my back to pieces. Incredible pain. He’s chanting. I’m screaming. Nicola, Ellen and Ama Situwa stand in a semicircle in front of me, naked, making love, laughing at my misfortune. The carving lasts an eternity.
“Flesh of Dreams,” the priest sings, and the women echo him. I cover my ears with my hands (not thinking to attack my tormentors with them), but the sounds penetrate the bloodstained flesh and bones. High-pitched, shrill, driving me to the verge of madness. I open my mouth to shriek. Blood gushes. And still the ringing of the women’s voices… ringing…
My eyes snap open but the noise follows me out of my dream. Heart racing, I look for blind priests, then realize it’s only my phone. Letting out a shaky breath, I wipe the last images of the nightmare from my thoughts and dig my cell out of a pocket. “Hello?” I answer, checking my watch. 04:19.
“Jeery? It’s Dr. Sines.”
I sit up. “What’s wrong?”
“Your corpse—the woman in the Skylight.”
“What about her?”
“She vanished.”
For a moment I think I’m still dreaming, but that impression is short-lived. “Where are you?” I ask.
“The Fridge.”
“I’ll be right over.”
As I slip on my shoes, I think I hear someone whisper, “Flesh of Dreams.” But it’s only a residue of the nightmare.
“How the fuck could she disappear?” I roar, punching the door of Sines’s office and kicking a spare chair out of my way. I’ve been here ten minutes and my rage has increased with every passing second. The doctor sits at his desk, impassive, waiting for my fury to pass. If he’s afraid of me, he masks it well.
“Tell me again what happened,” I snarl, leaning on the desk, putting my face close to his, watching for the slightest trace of a lie.
“I’ve told you three times already,” he says, meeting my gaze without blinking.
“So tell me a fourth!”
“You think it will help?”
“Start talking or I’ll help you through the fucking window.”
Sines sneers. “Quit chewing the scenery. It doesn’t become you.”
“You think this is a joke?” I yell. “You think this is a fucking—”
“Sit down. Stop shouting. Take deep breaths. Hold your hands out until they stop shaking. Then I’ll tell you again—for the last time,” he adds pointedly.
I want to rip out his eyes, but that wouldn’t do any good, so I pick up the chair, sit and breathe. Eventually my teeth stop chattering and the veil of rage lifts. “I’m sorry I shouted.”
Sines nods. “Better.” He launches into his story, keeping it brief. “I oversaw the initial examination of the corpse in the Skylight, as you requested. Made sure the area was dusted for prints and that nothing was disturbed.”
“Did you dust the body?”
“Yes, but only to check for obvious, clumsy traces of her killer. There weren’t any. I was saving the in-depth study for when I got back to the Fridge. Once I’d done all I could in the Skylight, I had her transferred to a gurney, then downstairs to the hearse.”
“Why a hearse?” I interrupt. “Why not an ambulance?”
He withers me with a smile. “Ambulances are for hospitals, where they treat the living. This is a morgue. We don’t have much use for resuscitative—”
“OK,” I snap. “I only asked.”
“As I was saying,” he continues, running an arrogant hand through his hair, “we transferred the body to the hearse. I was with it the entire time. We collapsed the legs of the gurney, slid it inside, strapped it down, locked the doors. The driver and I got in and set off. We made good time. Opened the doors when we got here, slid the gurney out, and the body wasn’t there.” He coughs. “I can’t explain how, but it vanished in transit.”
“Just like that?” I snort.
He glares at me. “I know how it sounds, but there’s no way it could have fallen out or been abducted. We were with it the whole way. You can check the hearse, but I assure you there are no false panels or gaping holes in the floor.”
“Bodies don’t vanish into thin air,” I remark icily.
“I agree,” he sighs, “but as Sherlock Holmes was fond of saying, when all other probabilities have been eliminated, what remains, however improbable, is the real shit.”
“I don’t think he put it quite that way,” I smile.
“You could be right.” Sines stands and heads for the door. “Let’s go give the hearse the once-over. You won’t believe me until you’ve seen it for yourself. Who knows, you might find something I overlooked. To be honest,” he mutters with uncharacteristic humility, “I rather hope you do.”
The hearse is inviolate. No secret panels in the sides, a solid floor, reliable lock. I suggest someone might have forced the lock while the hearse was stopped at traffic lights. “Impossible,” Sines says. “Traffic’s nonexistent at four in the morning and we were in a hurry to get back, so we broke a few rules of the road and didn’t stop for any lights.”
“Somebody on the roof? They could have worked on the lock while y
ou were driving, slid out the body and…” I stop, realizing how weak that sounds.
Sines shrugs. “I thought of that too. It makes more sense than the suggestion that the body simply vanished, but it fails to account for the alarm.” Sines closes the doors at the back of the hearse, locks them, then takes out a different key and tries to insert it into the lock. A siren blares, which the doctor quickly silences by hitting a button on the hearse’s key fob.
“We’ve had bodies stolen before,” he explains. “The alarms have been standard issue for twenty years. They’re updated annually to keep ahead of those with a talent for break-ins. To cling to the roof of a moving car, and not be seen, and unlock the doors without triggering the alarm…” He shakes his head.
I stare at the lock, then circle the hearse again, racking my brain for an explanation. Sines watches expressionlessly. When I return, he says, “Know what I’d recommend as a doctor?”
“What?”
“Go home. Sleep it off. The mystery will still be here in the morning. It won’t be any clearer, but you’ll be in better shape to deal with it.”
And since there’s nothing else I can do except stand here and go mad, I follow the good doctor’s advice.
Surprisingly, I sleep soundly, no nightmares, waking in the early afternoon on an excessively hot Sunday. Over a bowl of cereal, I reflect on my visits to the Skylight and Fridge, and where I go from here. The more I think about it, the more I’m drawn to the theory that Ama Situwa (or whoever was killed in the hotel) wasn’t a random plant. The previous women killed in 812 were both closely linked to me—my girlfriend and ex-wife—so I’m sure there’s a reason why this latest sacrificial lamb was chosen, other than the fact that we met briefly ten years ago.
To get to the heart of that reason, I’ll have to find out more about Ama Situwa. If the woman in 812 was a ringer, I’ll deal with that later. For the time being I’ll take the line that it was really Situwa.