Hell's Horizon

by Shan, Darren

  I made the marksman—two houses to the left, second-story window—and fired. But I was on the ground with a handgun. He was in an elevated position with a rifle. I should have saved my ammunition.

  The glass in the rear window of the car shattered over the girl. She shrieked with pain and covered her face with her hands. She fell out of sight and for a few seconds I thought she was going to stay there, out of harm’s way. Then she sprang up like a jack-in-the-box, yelling about her eyes, pleading for help, calling for her mommy. There were two soft popping sounds—like damp lips peeling apart—and she cried no more.

  I was on one knee now, gun braced, focused on my target. I hit the window—no small feat from where I was—and the sniper drew back. My eyes swiveled to the youngest of the Furst children, the sole survivor. He was by his father, tugging at the dead man’s bloodied shirt, bawling, too young to understand what was happening but old enough to realize something was seriously amiss.

  I should have held my position or ducked behind the car, but how could I leave a kid out in the open, at the mercy of a killer who had shown none?

  Praying the sniper wasn’t back in position, I dived toward the boy, grabbed him with my left arm, pulled him off his feet and spun around.

  A bullet nicked the top of my right arm. Red spray arced up into my eyes. I held on to my gun, useless though it was now that I was temporarily blind. Stumbling, unaccustomed to the weight of the child, I fell on my ass, presenting a ridiculous target. I started to pull the boy into my chest, planning to turn over and shield him, so at least one of us might walk away from this, but before I could make the ultimate sacrifice his face disappeared in a howl of red and I found myself staring down into a nightmare of blood, bone and brains.

  Cradling the boy in my arms, I let my gun drop and waited for the killer to finish the job. Seconds passed. I thought the sniper was reloading but eventually, as stunned neighbors crept from their houses, it dawned on me that he’d wrapped up for the day. I’d been spared.

  As I gazed at the lifeless swath of bodies through blood-filmed eyes, I found little to be grateful for. In the face of so much tragedy it seemed that this must be the most cynical act of charity since God let Lot go but turned his wife into a pillar of salt, just for looking back.

  I refused to surrender my hold on the boy until the ambulance arrived. I sat in a cooling pool of blood and rocked him lightly to and fro, unaware of the pain in my arm, heedless of the crowd forming around me, staring dead ahead at nothing.

  The first cops on the scene approached me warily, eyeing the gun, shouting at me to kick it away. An old man—the one who’d been washing his car when the madness began—stepped into their path and told them what had happened, how I’d been injured trying to save the child. They relaxed after that and lowered their guns. One asked if I was OK. I nodded. Did I want to let go of the kid? I shook my head.

  When I eventually handed over the boy—they put his tiny body on a gurney, covered it with a sheet and wheeled it away—a medic crouched beside me and attended to my arm. A light graze. Nothing a bandage and a few days rest wouldn’t cure. The supervising officer checked to make sure I didn’t require hospitalization, then had me loaded into the back of a squad car and escorted to the local precinct for questioning.

  They went easy on me, allowing for shock, asking if I wanted anything, a drink, something to eat, a lawyer. I replied negatively to all offers and told them I just wanted to tell my side of the story and go home.

  Three cops handled the interrogation (polite as they were, that’s what it was). One was in uniform, one in a suit, the third in casuals. They gave their names but I found it easier to identify them by their clothes. The one in uniform was an asshole, and though he refrained from harassing me, he was the least sympathetic of the three. They noted my particulars, name, address, occupation. Their ears pricked up when they heard I was in the Troops. I saw Uniform’s eyes narrowing.

  “Do you have a license for that gun?” he asked, even though he could tell by the make that it was standard Troop issue.

  “Yes.”

  “Breton Furst was in the Troops too, wasn’t he?” Casual asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Were you good friends?”

  “I never saw him before today.”

  They glanced at one another, then Casual gave Uniform a nod. “So what were you doing at his house?” Uniform blurted out.

  I had to think quickly to come up with a lie that would sound legitimate. It wasn’t easy after what I’d been through.

  “Breton works—worked—at the Skylight. My post’s at Party Central but I was thinking of changing. I’ve been trying to find out whether switching to the Skylight is a good career move or not. One of my friends said to try Breton—he’d been at the Skylight nearly six years, so if anyone knew the setup, it was him. I called today. He said he was going on a picnic but I could tag along and we’d discuss work over a hot dog and a beer.”

  “Do you drink a lot?” Uniform asked.

  “I’m teetotal these days but Furst didn’t know. As I said, we hadn’t met before.”

  “Go on,” the cop in the suit encouraged me softly.

  “There’s not much more. I got there, walked over to greet him, next thing I knew…” I drummed my fingers on the table, putting sounds to the volley of bullets the marksman’s silencer had muted.

  “You didn’t see the assassin?” Suit.

  “I saw where he was but couldn’t get a make on him.”

  “Any idea who had it in for the Fursts?” Uniform.

  “No. I didn’t know them.”

  “You don’t think it was connected to your being there?” Suit.

  “No.” A bald-faced lie.

  “No chance the sniper was after you?” Uniform asked, and even his colleagues looked embarrassed by the question.

  “Yes,” I said, smiling grimly. “But he was a lousy shot. An accidental ricochet accounted for the five others.”

  “Must have been the same rubber bullet that killed Kennedy,” the casually dressed cop chuckled, then looked contrite when Uniform turned on him.

  It went on in that vein for hours. When they made up their minds that I was unbreakable or innocent, they let me go. New clothes had been purchased for me during the interim and I was led to the showers to wash. I could hear reporters clamoring for news. The suited cop stepped into the locker room as I was slipping on my socks and asked if I wanted to confront the media. I said definitely not.

  “What about my name?” I asked. “Was it released?”

  “No, but it’ll probably leak.”

  “Any way of holding it back?”

  He shrugged. “We won’t be able to keep the press quiet, but your guys might. The Cardinal’s more accustomed to glossing over scandals than we are.”

  “What happens when I leave? Am I free to come and go as I please?”

  “Sure. Stick around the next few weeks, in case we need to get in touch, but I doubt you’ll hear from us again, not unless we catch the guy who did this.”

  “Think you will?” I asked.

  He snorted.

  When I was ready to leave, he told me there was someone waiting to escort me home. I’d been expecting one of the Troops but it was Bill. “Tasso called and told me,” he said. “He thought you’d rather I came to pick you up than one of the party faithful.”

  I smiled weakly. “He was right. I guess I have you to thank for the clothes.”

  “I picked them up on the way. Want to go back to your place or mine?”

  “Yours. I can’t face home.”

  “Give me a moment to clear it.” Bill told the officers on duty where he was taking me, gave them his number if they wanted to get in touch, and asked them to let him know if they turned up any evidence. A few of them knew him and he had to spend a couple of minutes chatting. He made his excuses as soon as was politely possible, led me out a side door, tucked me down in the backseat of his car and started for home. As we turned our
third corner, I asked him to switch on the radio and I spent the rest of the journey listening to some MOR station, not saying a word, thinking about the boy and how light his lifeless body had felt in my arms.

  Bill lived in a crumbling old house in the suburbs. A wreck of a place, but it was his family home and he loved it. I entered ahead of him while he parked the car. I ran my eyes over some of the many bookshelves in the hallway while I waited. Bill was a bibliophile. He owned thousands of books, rare first editions, some of them hundreds of years old, many signed by their authors. He spent a small fortune on his hobby. Had most of Dickens, Hemingway and Faulkner—his three favorite writers—and a fabulous collection of mystery novels.

  Bill kept the books neatly stacked on innumerable shelves throughout the house. They were valuable but he didn’t believe in locking them up. He kept them where he had ready access to them. He read and reread them all the time, even thumbed down the corners of pages to mark his place. Librarians and fellow bibliophiles would have shot him if they’d known of his irreverent handling but Bill didn’t care. He collected for himself and didn’t give a hoot what happened to the books when he passed on. “When I die and go to hell, the books can burn or rot,” he often declared. “I’ll have protected them as long as I’ve had a mind to.”

  “I got an Ellroy novel last night,” I said as Bill entered.

  “Ellroy’s great,” he said, trying to sound as if everything was fine, but failing.

  We moved into the front room and I took my place in a large rocking chair opposite Bill’s. My back was directly to the huge front window and I could feel a draft. This place should have been double glazed years ago but Bill wouldn’t hear of it.

  “Coffee?” he offered.

  “Later.”

  Uneasy seconds ticked by.

  “You had a lucky escape,” Bill muttered.

  “No,” I sighed. “I was spared. He took them out one by one. Gave me this”—I tapped my wound—“when it looked like I might save the child. It would have been simpler to kill me, but he wanted me alive.”

  “Any idea why?”

  I shook my head.

  “Anything to do with Nicola Hornyak?” He spotted my wary look and shrugged. “I’m a cop. Part of my job’s talking to people and keeping up with what’s going on. I couldn’t help but hear about what The Cardinal’s set you up to.”

  “How long have you known?”

  “A week. I hoped you’d come to me about it. When you didn’t, I figured it was a deliberate snub and I should keep my nose out.”

  “It wasn’t a slight, Bill. I just didn’t want to bother you with it. If I find her killer, he won’t be brought in for trial. Didn’t think you’d want to get mixed up with shit like that.”

  Bill smiled drily. “Well, I’m involved now. So tell me, any link between Nic and the Fursts?”

  “I think so,” I said guardedly, not wanting to draw him in too deeply. “I went there to ask questions about her. I’m sure the executions were related.”

  “The killer didn’t want Furst speaking to you?”

  “Guess not.”

  Bill frowned. “But why take out the others, the wife and kids? Afraid he’d discussed it with them?”

  “I guess. Husbands tell their wives things. Kids overhear.”

  “Would have been a lot simpler just to shoot you,” Bill mused.

  I nodded slowly.

  “Any idea who it might be?” he asked.

  “Wouldn’t be here if I did. I’d be out nailing the bastard’s balls to the clouds.”

  “I heard you were looking for Paucar Wami. Think he could have—”

  “No,” I interrupted. “Wami’s clean.”

  “You reckon?”

  “He told me he didn’t kill Nic. I believe—”

  “He what?” Bill almost leaped out of his chair. “You’ve met Paucar Wami?”

  “He paid me a visit.” I told him the story of my midnight encounter with the angel of death.

  “Jesus Christ,” Bill gasped. “If that was me, I’d have run for the hills, down the other side and into the ocean. What were you thinking? I know you don’t mix with the fair and timid, but Paucar Wami!”

  “Don’t give me a hard time,” I pleaded.

  “I won’t, but surely this implicates the son of a bitch. Whoever slaughtered those kids was a monster, and that’s Paucar Wami to a tee. We should—”

  “Bill, please.” I dropped my head to hide my tears.

  “Al?” He came over and crouched by my side. “Are you OK?”

  “I was holding him,” I sobbed. “I saw his face explode and then he was dead.”

  I broke down. Bill paused a moment, then wrapped his arms around me and whispered, “It’s OK. It’s over, Al. You’re all right. It’s OK.”

  It took a long time for the fit to pass. An age of sobbing, cursing the unknown killer, then myself for not moving quicker. I tried explaining it step by step to Bill, so he’d know I wasn’t to blame, so I could prove—to myself as much as him—that I’d done everything I could. But Bill only patted the back of my head and whispered softly, “Easy, now, easy,” as if I were a shy horse in need of calming.

  When, late into the night, I’d recovered and wiped the tears away, I told Bill I’d like that coffee now. He made some sandwiches and broke open a packet of cookies. We spent the next twenty minutes tucking in and didn’t mention Nic or the Fursts again.

  Later, Bill led the way downstairs to the cellar. It was a huge room, full of crates and boxes, packed with every kind of firework imaginable, barrels of gunpowder, even explosives he’d bartered with the bomb squad for. Bill had plenty of contacts on the force and could get almost anything he wanted.

  Bill was a pyrotechnics expert. He’d been staging fireworks shows for decades. If he wasn’t putting one on, he was acting as safety inspector for somebody else’s. It was his only interest aside from his books and the occasional fishing trip.

  He was getting ready for a big show, an annual event for orphans. There’d be film stars, the mayor, everybody who was anybody in attendance, so he wanted to make it a good one. He was buzzing with excitement.

  We spent a few hours examining the boxes. They were brightly illustrated and Bill explained how they’d work, the shapes they’d make, the way he’d interweave them. I preferred his speeches to the actual displays. His face lit up when he spoke of the animals and caricatures he would build in the air. Timing was everything, he’d say. If you timed it right, you could make marvels out of a fistful of gunpowder, cheap cardboard, a child’s chemistry set and a pocketful of tinsel. If you got it wrong, all the money and technology in the world wouldn’t help.

  I think Bill was wasted on the force. He should have been designing magical aerial shows somewhere exotic, like China or Japan, where he’d be appreciated and revered.

  “Will you come to the show?” he asked.

  “Maybe,” I said, knowing I wouldn’t. After my brush with disaster today, I’d be too busy to bother with fireworks. I’d decided, while sitting in the gutter with the remains of the youngest Furst boy in my lap, that I was going to get this killer. No matter what else happened to me, I was going to make that bastard pay.

  “Come on, Al,” he groaned. “It’ll be great. I’m getting in a couple of big model planes and I’ll fly them through the middle of a huge shower of rockets. There’ll be explosions all around, inches to the left, inches to the right, above and below, but they won’t even rock the planes.”

  “What about air turbulence?”

  “Got it covered. Like I always tell you, with explosives you can account for everything. You wait and see. It’s going to be like those old war movies, where the planes fly through seemingly impassable barrages.” He tapped the lid of a box. “It’ll be my best performance yet.”

  When we got back upstairs it was nearly two-thirty. I was tired but this was an ordinary time for Bill to be up and about—he was an insomniac and rarely went to bed before three or four.
He offered to make more coffee. I refused and told him I should be getting home.

  He blinked. “I thought you were staying here tonight.”

  “So did I. But now…” I smiled shakily. “I think I’ll be better off by myself. It’s been a long time since I cried that hard. I’m embarrassed.”

  “Don’t be. After what you’ve been through, a few tears were the least anyone could expect. Stay, Al. The spare room’s ready.”

  “I want to go.”

  “Well, let me drive you. I’ll come in with you and—”

  “No. Thanks, but no. The walk will do me good. I might cry some more on the way.”

  He didn’t like it but knew better than to argue with me. “Give me a ring when you get there?”

  “If it’s not too late. Otherwise I’ll call in the morning.”

  “Al?” he stopped me as I started for the door. His face was grave. “Be careful. You had a fortunate escape today. Next time—and we both know there’ll be some kind of next time—you might not be so lucky.”

  “I know,” I sighed.

  “I’d hate to bury you, Al.”

  “Wouldn’t be too keen on it myself.” I grinned sickly, then let myself out. It was a long walk home but that didn’t bother me. While I was walking, I couldn’t dream about the boy and the gap where his face should have been.

  15

  I kept my head down the next day, in case reporters were on the prowl. As things turned out, I had nothing to fear. The Cardinal’s people must have been hard at work because although the news bulletins on the radio made heavy mention of the Fursts throughout the day, my name never cropped up. They didn’t even report that there’d been a survivor, and only a few of the papers commented on it.

  A cop came by with my bike around ten—“Compliments of Bill Casey,” he smiled—but apart from that I saw nobody until I ducked down to Ali’s in the afternoon for bagels. I passed a beggar on my way, going from door to door, selling photos of one kind or another. Ali was discussing the Furst slaughter with a customer when I entered. It was a disgrace, in their opinion, and the man who killed so immorally deserved to be roasted alive without a trial. I didn’t want to join the conversation—afraid my emotions might betray me—so I just paid for my bagels and made a hasty departure. Passed the beggar again on my way up. He was close to my apartment and would be calling on me soon. Inside, I got some change ready and stood by the door, waiting for him.