Hell's Horizon

by Shan, Darren

  I sat back and gripped the arms of the chair. “It would’ve been an interesting life,” I said to Bill.

  “It sure would,” he agreed, reading my intentions.

  “Do you think I’d have made a good leader?”

  “No,” he laughed.

  “Don’t make any hasty decisions,” the translator warned, sensing something amiss. “It does not pay to—”

  But I wasn’t interested in his words any longer and cut him short with a curt command. “Let’s blow this joint.”

  Bill’s fist unclenched. There was a tiny click. The face of the villac with the mole creased and he started talking rapidly, blind eyes filling with doubt. The translator darted forward, looking for the concealed object in Bill’s palm. He tried to shout a question. But before he could say anything, the world exploded. There was a roar of undiluted rage. Bill, the villac and his translator were lost to jagged shards of red and white. I flew into black.

  epilogue

  “to catch the dead”

  27

  I awoke in the hospital, suffering from pain the like of which I’d never dreamed of. I was on a drip for weeks, bedridden much longer. It was almost three months before I was fit to release myself, and even then it was against the advice of the doctors.

  I caught the force of the explosion straight on, but rather than obliterate me, it sent me flying, chair and all, through the huge front window. The neighbors found me spread-eagled on the lawn, a burned chunk of flesh, barely alive.

  Later, the investigators discovered three corpses among the ashes and debris, too charred for definitive identification, teeth melted, flesh burned away to nothing, bones shattered and scattered. When I was able to respond to their questions, I told them about Bill and the Incan descendants, and that cleared up the mystery of the bodies.

  Bill left a note for Howard Kett, clearing my name and confessing to his part in the murders of Nic Hornyak, Ellen Fraser and Valerie Thomas, to whom he’d slipped the rope she’d hanged herself with. He even took credit for Priscilla’s death, swearing that he’d shot her. Kett knew better—he’d been to my apartment while I was recovering in the hospital and found the gun with my prints all over it—but he went along with the lie and “lost” the evidence.

  If I wished to be ungracious, I could say it was because he feared my dragging him into the public arena if I was put on trial. But that would be doing him a disservice. I think he did it because he felt sorry for me. He called in to see me when I was able to accept visitors. Told me he was quitting the city. Warned me to keep my mouth shut about his relationship with Nick, then wished me well.

  While I recuperated, paranoid inner voices mocked me. “Bill isn’t dead,” they whispered. “He could have gotten his hands on a corpse as easily as a bottle of milk. He was an explosives expert who could have arranged it so you’d go out the window and the Incas to hell, while he walked away untouched.” And so on, day and night without pause.

  I didn’t believe the voices but I couldn’t rid myself of them. I knew I was only torturing myself, that I’d grown accustomed to betrayal and was seeing it where it didn’t exist, but part of me was convinced that Bill was out there, waiting to finish me off, and I often woke screaming from nightmares of him.

  When I could think straight, I spent days and nights wondering about Bill and my father. What did Wami do to him? What could drive a man to seek revenge on his tormentor through his own loved ones? Wami must have killed somebody close to Bill, but that only accounted for Bill’s motive. It didn’t shed light on why he was so intent on working through me, why he devoted his life to manipulating mine. No matter how I looked at it, it didn’t make sense. I had a horrible feeling it never would.

  As for the villacs, my father and his fellow Ayuamarcans…

  They’d disappeared. The priests, I presumed, were keeping their heads down, but the Ayuamarcans had vanished from the face of the Earth, as predicted by The Cardinal. Nobody—myself excluded—recognized Leonora Shankar’s name or Ama Situwa’s, or that of any of the others on the list. They’d been erased from records and the minds of the city’s populace. Nobody remembered them, not even Ama’s supposed father, Cafran Reed, who swore when I interrogated him that he had no daughter of that name or description.

  There was one exception—Paucar Wami. His name lived on. People’s memories of him were sketchy—when I questioned Fabio, he recalled a vague rumor about a killer—but some small part of his legend had survived.

  Could true evil never be eradicated? Did horror live on in the collective unconscious? Or had the villacs just failed to deal adequately with those who’d known of Paucar Wami? I still wasn’t convinced they were as powerful as The Cardinal claimed. The green fog that covered the city for ten days following The Cardinal’s death went a long way toward backing their extraordinary claims, but the ability to summon a fog doesn’t mean you’re able to create life at will. The Ayuamarcans could have been ordinary people under the control of the priests. Having served their purpose, they were then exterminated, and those who’d known them were subjected to brainwashing, which accounted for the lost memories.

  Far-fetched? Absolutely. But that made more sense to me than the alternative.

  Of course, if the Ayuamarcans were ethereal creations—and I was only saying if—Wami had been unique. The rest were sterile and city-bound, but the assassin was capable of reproducing and exploring the outside world. Had that something to do with his lingering presence? Through me and his other children, he had a toehold in reality. Were we sustaining his legend, by our very existence keeping part of him alive? And was that the reason I could clearly remember him and the other Ayuamarcans?

  I thought of confronting The Cardinal’s successor, Capac Raimi. As the man I’d been destined to share the city with, perhaps he remembered the Ayuamarcans too. It would have been interesting to discuss the situation with him. But that would have been playing into the hands of the villacs, and I’d no intention of doing anything that might favor those meddling bastards.

  I kept expecting the blind priests to turn up, but they appeared to have been put off by the deaths of their envoys. There were no late-night visits, no sign that they were following me, no threats or evidence that they were conspiring against me. They might have given up on me and gone after one of Wami’s other sons, or they could be biding their time, letting me recover and build a new life, so they could step back in and wreck it all over again.

  Tough luck if that was their game. I was through building. It was isolation for me from now on. I would never leave myself open to personal annihilation again.

  I cycled out to the Manco Capac statue one afternoon, drawn to it as I had been before. The statue was coming along nicely. It was a long way from completion, but the skeleton of the upper body had been maneuvered into place. It was a pity Ziegler hadn’t lived to see it. He’d have appreciated it more than I could.

  While there, I thought about the decision I had made back at Bill’s. I’d never been a dreamer. I’d believed I’d been born to a life of drudgery and had brushed aside any nobler aspirations as idle fantasies. But in light of the villacs’ offer…

  Was I crazy to turn it down? I didn’t regret my choice—Bill was right, I’d have made a lousy leader—but I couldn’t help thinking what life might have been like if I’d accepted. Al Jeery, lord of the city.

  Heh.

  I never returned to my apartment. I couldn’t face it after what I’d done there. I steered clear of Ali and the other well-wishers who tried bringing some light into my dark hell of a life. I couldn’t risk getting close to anyone. I had to be by myself from here on in. No lovers, friends, associates—nothing. I rented a tiny apartment in a cheap sector of the city, into which I pretty much cemented myself, cutting off the external world.

  After a while I bought a bottle of vile vodka and laid it on a shelf over the foot of my bed. I’d lie for hours on end, gazing into its clear depths, seeing hell, Bill reaching out to me from its fie
ry pits. I often reached back and, though we never touched, our fingers were getting closer every day. It was only a matter of time before I surrendered to its charms and sought the sanctuary of drunken oblivion.

  While waiting for my resolve to crumble and the vodka to take me, I walked to Bill’s house during one of my few outdoor sojourns, to face the ghosts of my past. Nobody had cleared the debris and the rain had turned the mess to ashy mud. It was filthy, stinking, offensive. I walked among the ruins, stepping over broken bricks, scorched scraps of wood, bits of vases and even a few soggy fireworks.

  I didn’t notice the discrepancy until I was about to leave, though it was in the back of my mind the whole time. I think that’s why I went. Part of me suspected all along.

  I retraced my steps and checked the rubble again, this time with purpose. They weren’t there. Not a trace of them.

  I went home, washed and shaved for the first time since getting out of the hospital, then popped across to Bill’s station. His ex-colleagues were sympathetic and let me study the photos of the site that had been taken back when the ashes were smoldering. There were photos from every conceivable angle. I went through each with a magnifying glass. It took hours but I was patient. Eventually I returned the file, said nothing, thanked the curious officers for their assistance and left.

  There were no books.

  Amid the rubble, the bits and pieces from Bill’s past, ragged strips of clothes and blankets, splinters of porcelain and wood, there wasn’t a single page from any of Bill’s thousands of precious books. He’d cherished, loved and adored them. He’d spent so much time and money on them, but had often said he didn’t care what happened to them once he was dead.

  Bill’s books—which only mattered to him as long as he was alive—had been removed. He’d known things were reaching a head, yet even with so much else to do, the villacs to cross, bombs to wire, his speech to compose, he’d taken the time to spirit the books away.

  Why? So some other bibliophile could profit from his years of collecting? Nuh-uh. I didn’t buy it. Bill shifted those books for one reason and one reason only—he wanted to take them with him.

  I stayed locked in my apartment for months on end once I realized the voices were right, that Bill was still alive, out there somewhere, waiting, planning. I lay on my bed, stared at the vodka and reviewed my ruined life. I thought about Nic, Ellen, Wami, the Incas, and marveled at how much I’d lost. Mostly I’d think of the bottle and its demons, how easy it would be to let them have me, forget everything and place myself beyond Bill’s reach, and the villacs’, and anyone else’s who might have an interest in me.

  Each day I grew closer to the bottle. I took it down and clutched it to my chest, slept with it, lived with it, unscrewed the top a hundred times a day, never sure if I’d replace it or down the liquid damnation. I was nearing my limit and couldn’t have lasted much longer—a week, maybe two, and I’d have succumbed. I’d have lost all control, direction and purpose. I’d have been ruined, but free.

  But things changed. A thought sneaked through the barriers of pain and grief and altered everything. I was recalling Bill and our conversation, as I’d been doing every day, when suddenly I flashed on his expression near the end, when I referred to Wami’s triumph. I said the killer would come out of this laughing. Bill sneered and said he wouldn’t laugh long, then muttered something about rising from the dead and getting even with him.

  Rise from the dead my ass! Bill’s not dead and Bill’s not finished. He plans to return, but not from the grave. He’s out there, alive, scheming. I wasn’t Paucar Wami’s only son. I’m sure Bill’s sights are fixed on one of my half brothers, that he’s intent on using him as he used me. I was a fool to think he’d give up, that he’d stop with me. There are others to do his dirty work. His hatred for Wami is so strong, and his thirst for poetic justice so overwhelming, that he won’t be able to rest till one of Wami’s children lays low their father.

  The problem is, Paucar Wami doesn’t exist anymore. He’s fled these waters for seas beyond the confines of reality. Whether he snapped out of existence when The Cardinal jumped to his doom, or was disposed of by the villacs, he’s gone and he ain’t coming back. There’s no one for Bill to set his hounds after.

  I was willing to forgive Bill when I thought he was dead. Someone who’d blow himself up was to be pitied, not hated. But the thought of him faking his death, continuing the game, putting one of my half brothers through the crazed hell he had inflicted on me…

  That pisses me off. It’s drawn me away from self-pity, apathy, the vodka and its promise of release. I won’t let the bastard get away with it. For what he did to me, Ellen and the others, death’s the least he deserves. And I’m going to make sure the son of a bitch pays his dues.

  But how to track him down? With no Paucar Wami to strike against, there’s no reason for Bill to show his face, nothing to tempt him out of hiding. He went to a lot of trouble to make people think he was dead. He’s unlikely to risk blowing his cover, not without Wami to tempt him. How can you entice a man out of hiding when the bait he hungers for no longer exists?

  The answer struck me in the middle of a long dark night, as I lay staring at the bottle of vodka—send the dead to catch the dead! Paucar Wami must return to haunt the streets of the city. If the killer can be brought back to life, I’m sure Bill will seek him out like a knight of King Arthur’s upon hearing a rumor of the Holy Grail. Bill won’t have forgotten Wami. His hatred will have kept his memories of the killer alive. I can’t resurrect Wami physically, but his spirit can be rekindled, and when it is…

  There’s not much of a view from this apartment. A filthy avenue and the backs of a couple of buildings. But it’s great for studying the sky come evening. I sit by the window and watch the sun fade on the horizon. I let my eyes linger on its jagged shadows, stretched out like so many bloodstained fingers across the sky. I stare into the red flames of horizoned hell, and empathize with the tortured edge of the Earth’s rim.

  When the sun drops out of sight and the glass turns reflective, I study my face. I shaved my head two nights ago, with an electric razor. It was hard to adapt to—bald, I realized how closely I resembled my father—but I’m getting used to it. I no longer jump nervously when I spot my reflection.

  The left side of my face is the same as before, but when I rotate my neck a twisting snake comes into view. The tattooing will take longer than I thought. The design I asked for is tricky to create, and will require time and patience to get right. But I can wait. A week or two won’t matter. When it’s finished, I’ll have the tattoos and the smooth skull, as well as the motorcycle. The clothes will be easy to replicate. Then I’ll take his name, hit the streets and spread the word—Wami’s back!

  That should draw Bill out. He’ll have to investigate. Even if he senses a trap, he won’t be able to stay away. His hatred will drag him out of his pit and back into the playpen of the city. When it does, and he shows himself, I’ll capture him, put a knife to his throat, kiss him once on the forehead, then make a swift end of him. Mere murder wasn’t revenge enough for Bill Casey, but it will do for me.

  But what if he doesn’t show? What if the charade isn’t enough to lure him out of hiding?

  I spin away from the window and study the photo hanging next to the bottle of vodka, the snapshot of Bill and a young Priscilla Perdue. My eyes turn to the trinket hanging from a chain around my neck—Bill’s little finger, varnished so it will last. I stroke it from tip to base, as I have many times since I conceived the ruse to tempt Bill out into the open.

  The look might not be enough. Bill’s no fool. Maybe he won’t fall for rumors alone. I may have to do more than re-create my father’s image. Wami’s body of work might also have to be duplicated.

  I think I’ll have to kill.

  Contents

  Front Cover Image

  Welcome Page

  Prologue

  Part one: “she’s my girlfriend”

  1

/>   2

  3

  4

  Part two: “i’m your man”

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  Part three: “a severed human head”

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  Part four: “the red fingerprints of death”

  16

  17

  18

  19

  Part four: “the blood of dreams”

  20

  21

  22

  23

  Part six: “we could all be dead by then”

  24

  25

  26

  Epilogue: “to catch the dead”

  27

  Copyright Page

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.