by Darren Shan
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.
The beggar knocked twice. I opened the door and held out the coins. “Here you go,” I started to say, but stopped when I saw his walking stick and dark glasses. I immediately thought of the blind men I’d seen at the funeral and building site, but this guy looked nothing like either of them. He was younger, shorter, dressed in ordinary clothes.
The beggar smiled and held out a small group of photos bound together by a rubber band. “Visions of the city,” he intoned. “Can I interest you in visions of the city”—a moment’s pause while he sniffed the air—“sir? Best snapshots money can buy. Swiss Square at night. Peacock Wharf. Pyramid Tombs. Very scenic postcards. Ideal for framing or sending to—”
“How much?”
“Donations are voluntary.”
I dropped the coins into the tin hanging by a string around his neck. He listened, head cocked, judging their worth by the sound, then smiled and pressed the photos on me. I had no use for them but took them anyway, to humor him.
“May the gods bless you, kind sir,” he said, bowed politely and moved along to the next door. I glanced at the top “vision”—a tacky shot of Pyramid Tombs, where wealthy fools paid to be buried in the manner of ancient Egyptians — then tossed the package to one side and tucked into my bagels.
I returned to the Ellroy book in the afternoon, radio on as I read. The pages flew by in a blur and I was soon caught up in his reconstruction of earlier times — supposedly more innocent, but, as he wrote it, just as deadly as today — and two hundred pages further along before I set it down and rested my eyes.
I listened to the six o’clock news and, satisfied that my name wasn’t going to air, stuck a bookmark in the novel and went for a walk. At the end of the street I chose a direction at random. It was a surprisingly cool day and I was glad of the light jacket I’d brought. The exercise stimulated my appetite, so I bought some fruit and bread from a stall and chewed as I strolled.
Back home I spotted the postcards on the floor as I was shrugging off my jacket. I decided to take a closer look, picked them up and removed the rubber band. I studied the photo of Pyramid Tombs and read the blurb on the back, when the cemetery opened for business, who built it, how it was an exact scale replica of the Egyptian original, some of the famous names housed there.
The villas of Versailles were next. That was a part of the city I was unfamiliar with. It had been established by a band of fleeing French aristocrats shortly after their Revolution and to this day the language favored there was French. The ornate houses were walled off from the surrounding suburbs and many had been converted into hotels, even though the tourist trade here had never been brisk.
As I turned the card over to read about its history I spotted the third photo and let the first two flutter to the floor. I checked the final pair — Swiss Square and Conchita Gardens — before disposing of them and concentrating on the joker of the pack. Unlike the others, this was an ordinary photograph, not a card, and the setting and subject could have been of interest to nobody but me.
It was the lobby of the Skylight. Impossible to tell whether it was day or night — the photographer must have been standing with his back to the windows. A couple of people in the background, but they weren’t important. It was the man at the center, caught unaware as he turned from the register, who mattered. He was heavily made up, wearing a veiled hat to obscure the finer details of his features. But the face was unmistakable — Nicholas Hornyak.
Turning the photo over, I discovered a short, printed, mocking message. “Guess the date, Clouseau, and win Furst prize!”
It was easy to confirm that the photo dated from the night of Nic’s murder (which I assumed was what I was meant to deduce). I had a copy of the Skylight’s register and there were many samples of Nick’s handwriting in his file. It took less than five minutes to make a match. He’d booked in under a false name — Hans Zimmermuller — but the writing was unmistakably his. And the room number for “Mr. Zimmermuller”? Eight-one-four, the room next to Nic’s.
I couldn’t find Nick. I tried his home, the Red Throat, a string of gay pubs and clubs he was known to frequent, with no success. Lots of people I spoke to had seen him earlier in the day, but nobody had spotted him in the last few hours. A drag queen told me he often made early nights of the weekend, whisking a lover home or off to some hotel or other. He preferred to party late during the week.
I didn’t sleep much — still wary of nightmares about the boy — and spent most of the night and following morning pawing through my files, trying to link Nick to Allegro Jinks and Breton Furst. I came up with squat. In the evening I hit the streets again, resuming my search.
The Red Throat first. No sign of him, but the barman said he might be in later — few Saturdays went by without his making an appearance. I swung around a few more of his favorite watering holes, then returned, determined to grab a table and wait.
I parked around back and nipped in by the fire escape when someone staggered out to be sick in the alley. The Red Throat was busy now. I was heading for one of the few vacant tables when I spotted Nick by the jukebox, looking immaculate in a kilt and matching tartan top, chatting to a pudgy man. I barged my way over and squeezed between the two. “Hi, Nick. How’s tricks?”
He stared at me, then placed my face and broke out in a smile. “Al! You came back. How charming.”
“Who is this man, Nicholas?” his companion asked, peering indignantly at me.
“Beat it,” I said, nudging him aside.
“Nicholas?” he asked uncertainly.
“Run along, dear,” Nick told him. His companion made a sour face and clacked away in a huff. “So,” Nick purred, “what can I do you for, Mr. Detective?”
“I know you killed your sister.”
“Really?” he drawled, unfazed. “How dreadful of me. It’s so unpleasant when siblings turn on one another.”
“You were at the Skylight the night of her murder, in the room next to hers.”
His face blanched. “You can’t prove that.”
“I’ve a copy of the register. Your name’s different but the handwriting’s the same.” I grinned. “Mr. Zimmermuller.”
“I was with a date,” he stammered. “I never saw Nic. I wasn’t there when the murder took place.”
“No?”
“I swear it wasn’t me. I was with a guy called Charlie Grohl. He’ll vouch for me. We left the Skylight about midnight, hours before Nic was killed.”
“Hours before she died,” I corrected him. “The attack took place earlier.”
He shook his head vehemently. “It wasn’t me.”
“You know I work for The Cardinal. If I tell him it was you, he’ll take my word for it, then…” I smiled tightly.
Nick took a deep breath. “All right. I was there, with Charlie, as I said. I ran into Nic in the lobby when she was checking in. We decided to get adjoining rooms for the hell
of it. She said to rap on her door when I was leaving and if her date had left, she’d let me in.”
“She was there with a date?”
“Obviously.”
“Not a john?”
“John who?” he asked. I let it pass.
“I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true.”
“You’re lying. Nic didn’t check in.”
His face caved. “What?”
“Her date signed for the room.” I kept Priscilla’s name out of it.
“But I thought…” He trailed off into silence.
I said nothing for a minute. Then, earnestly, “Why did you kill her, Nick?”
He looked confused and afraid. “I didn’t!”
“You lied about meeting her in the lobby.”
“No. I mean… yes. But only because it sounded more feasible. The truth is, it was an accident, us ending up in rooms beside each other. But I didn’t think you’d buy that.”
He was lying again. A child could have seen through him. But I thought he was telling the truth about not killing her.
“Maybe you helped,” I suggested. “Set her up accidentally for the killer?”
“No! I had nothing to do with it. I didn’t kill her. I don’t know who did.”
I considered pushing him for more details but there seemed little point — he was panicked but not hysterical. Better to let him wander away and think things over, then hit him again later, when I had more evidence.
“OK,” I said. “I’ll back off for now. But I know you were at the hotel. It’s only a matter of time before I prove you were in her room. I’ll be seeing you again soon.”
I looked for the exit. Nick grabbed my shoulder and I glanced back at him. “I didn’t kill her,” he snarled. “She was my sister. I loved her.”
“Tell me the truth — why you were there and how you ended up in the room next to hers — and I might believe you.” He bit his lip and shook his head. I brushed his hand away. “Later, Nick.” He didn’t stop me this time.
The alley was deserted. I stood over my bike, thinking hard, head bowed, eyes closed. I didn’t think Nick was the killer but he was implicated. The question was, how much? Was he covering for someone, maybe this Charlie Grohl he’d named, or was he afraid of—
An arm snaked round my neck, cutting off my air, throwing my thoughts into disarray. As my hands rose defensively, someone clutched my midriff and jerked me backward. I connected hard with the ground. My assailants were on me before the stars cleared from my eyes. One kicked me in the ribs. The other swung a club hard at my head.
I dodged the club but not the foot that scythed in at my face. It caught me clean on the chin. The one with the club dug it into my stomach. I struck back blindly, but met fresh air.
A second later, the club slammed down on my back. I writhed. One of them went for my face with a boot again, but he only scraped it this time. Then a barrage of blows followed and it became impossible to tell one strike from the next.
My body rocked between the kicks and punches. The men — laughing and panting like dogs — were clumsy and scuffed a lot of their shots. If I’d been in better shape, I could have dealt with them. But they’d hurt me already. I could only lie there, take it and pray they didn’t do any serious damage.
Finally, one of them had a brain wave. Picking up a glass bottle, he smashed the top off and waved it under my nose. His partner yanked me to my knees and giggled.
“Gonna slice you, nigger,” the one with the bottle whispered. “Cut you so bad, you won’t have a face left.”
“I want to cut him too,” the other pleaded.
“You’ll get your turn,” came the promise.
I watched with sickened fascination as he drew the glass back. It wasn’t the slicing I was worried about. What terrified me was the thought that he might go too far. I could live with ugly — as long as I lived.
There was movement to my right. A figure darted forward silently, swiftly, almost invisibly. There was a snap to my assailant’s wrist and suddenly he wasn’t waving a bottle any longer, but was backing off, screaming about a broken hand, cradling it to his chest.
The guy holding me didn’t know what to do. He shoved me at the mystery man, but not hard enough to create a problem. The Good Samaritan leaped over me and went after his prey like a tiger.
My head was spinning. I felt consciousness slipping away. Rolling onto my back, I saw my savior disarming the one who’d been holding me, clubbing him to the floor, then turning to wrap things up with the disabled bottle-wielder.
My labored breath caught in my throat. Though it was dark, I could see the coiled snakes running down the sides of his face and knew it was Paucar Wami. But that wasn’t what stunned me. It was the face itself that sent me spinning into shock before I blacked out, a face almost as recognizable as my own. It had been many years since I last looked upon it, there’d been no snakes back then, and a thick mane of hair had adorned the now-bare skull. But there was no mistaking the all-too-familiar features.
It was the face of my father.
part IV. “the red fingerprints of death”
16
I could tell, as I returned to consciousness, that I’d been out a long time. I was in a pitch-black room, so I couldn’t check, but according to my body clock it had been anywhere between twelve and eighteen hours.
I ran my fingers over my scalp, assessing the damage. Every touch produced a sting but nothing seemed to be broken. And although my bruised stomach flared agonizingly every time I breathed, I didn’t think any of my ribs had snapped. All things considered, it could have been a lot worse.
Then I remembered Paucar Wami and his familiar face.
I might have called it wrong. I’d only glimpsed the face in the alley, I’d been thinking a lot about my missing father and I wasn’t at my most coherent at the time. Maybe I’d just noticed a similarity and the rest was conjecture. But in my heart I knew that was bullshit.
I got to my feet and almost fell down again as geysers of pain erupted all over. I thrust out an arm, found a wall and propped myself against it, breathing hard, letting my head clear, groaning softly.
“Awake at last,” came a voice from the darkness. “I thought you would sleep forever.”
I stiffened. It was Paucar Wami’s voice but I couldn’t see him. Not even a vague outline.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“Around,” he replied, and now the voice came from another spot. He was circling me, silent, unseen, a shark. “You saw my face in the alley, didn’t you?” He sounded petulant.
I thought about lying but didn’t see the point. “Yes.”
“You know who I am? Who I was?”
Again I considered the lie but opted for the truth. “Yes.”
“I thought so.”
The light snapped on.
I had to close my eyes and shield them with a hand. I counted to twenty before opening them again. I was in a small, whitewashed room. Nothing in it apart from the mattress I’d been lying on, me and Paucar Wami.
Or Tom Jeery, as he used to be called.
Now that I saw him up close all doubt evaporated. The years had barely touched him and he was exactly as I remembered, except bald and tattooed. He said nothing while I ran my incredulous eyes over him, taking in the lean, muscular frame, the slender, hooked fingers, the jeans, T-shirt and leather jacket. Spreading his arms, he grinned. “Got a hug for your dear ol’ pappy?”
“This is a nightmare,” I groaned, sliding down the wall. “This has to be a fucking nightmare.”
He tutted and squatted. “Your mother never approved of foul language. She even complained when I swore during sex.”
I stared at him, appalled. How could I be related to this grinning monster? It was like discovering you were the offspring of Adolf Hitler.
“Did my mother know?” I gasped. “Did she know who you—”
“—Really were?” He nodded. “But not right away. I held that bac
k for the first night of our honeymoon.” He laughed with delight at my expression. “That was a joke. It was years before she found out, long after you came along. A neighborhood busybody spotted me without my makeup one night and recognized me from word-of-mouth descriptions. She wasted no time sharing the news with poor, befuddled Mrs. Jeery. Needless to say, I slapped the interfering old bitch’s wrists afterward.” He chuckled. “And some more besides.”
“You wore makeup?”
“Face paint. A wig. Contact lenses to disguise my beautiful green eyes. This is my natural appearance.”
“What did she do when she found out?” It was important to know my mother hadn’t been involved with his crimes. Getting my head around this would be a long, unpleasant process, but far messier if my mother was also implicated.
“She kicked me out,” he laughed, sounding almost human. “She knew what I could do to her but took no notice. Batted me around the head with a frying pan, tore the skin off my shins with her shoes, nearly gouged out an eye with a poker. She was a feisty woman, your mother.”
“Yes,” I said proudly. I stretched my legs and began rubbing the aching flesh around my middle. “Is that when you left us, when you died?”
He shook his head. “I kept Tom Jeery on the go for three more years, but stayed out of your way most of the time. I dropped by occasionally to see how you were progressing — as my firstborn, I have always had a soft spot for you — until my position became untenable. Your mother threatened to go into hiding if I did not stop visiting.”
“Why didn’t she do that as soon as she found out?” I asked.
“The same reason she never told anyone the truth about the man she married, not even her son — I vowed to track the pair of you down and kill you if she did.”
“But you just said—”
