Hell's Horizon tct-2

by Darren Shan

  I stopped washing and shaving. Wore the same clothes day after day. I ate rarely and unhealthily. Lost myself in memories of Ellen. The world made no sense any longer. All that seemed real was Ellen.

  Bill and Ali tried to help. They brought fresh food and cleared away the trash. Some mornings I awoke to find one of them had slipped my clothes off while I slept and laundered them. They held one-sided conversations with me, chattering on, pretending all was well. I tried responding — I appreciated the effort they were making — but hadn’t the strength. I was like a lobotomized half-wit who could only stare, drool and nod my head occasionally.

  I stayed away from the bottle. Even during my lowest moments, I resisted the temptation. I was a pathetic wreck, but part of me knew I could haul myself out of this wretchedness in time. If I drank, there’d be no coming back. This mess of a life would be for keeps.

  In the midst of my sorrow, Priscilla Perdue breezed back into my life. She turned up one day, demurely dressed and smiling uncertainly. “I tried calling,” she said, “but you didn’t answer. I had to come. I’ll leave again if you want me to.”

  I said nothing, only ushered her in.

  Her nose crinkled when she saw the state of the apartment. Neither Ali nor Bill had been up for a few days and I’d really let things slide. Dirty dinner trays, filthy clothes, overflowing garbage cans.

  “Is it the cleaner’s year off?” she quipped.

  “If you don’t like it, piss off,” I snarled.

  She started for the door.

  “Wait,” I called her back. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m saying or thinking half the time. Don’t go. Please. Sit.”

  She looked around. “I’d rather stand if it’s all the same.”

  I managed a thin smile. “So. Here you are.”

  “Here I am,” she agreed.

  There was a long silence.

  “Anything in particular you wanted to talk about?” I asked.

  “Oh, Al.” She threw herself into my arms. I toppled backward onto one of the socks-and-underwear-strewn chairs, dragging her down with me. “What that woman did to your wife was awful. I don’t know how you didn’t rip her throat open. If it was me, I’d have…” She started to cry.

  “It’s OK,” I said, stroking her hair, thinking about Ellen’s. “It’s over. She’s dead. There’s no need for tears.”

  She wept a while, then looked at me hopefully. “It is over, isn’t it? She did kill them?”

  “She confessed, didn’t she?”

  “I know, but…” She gulped and sat up straighter. “I can’t stop thinking about that night I went to the Skylight to meet Nic. She definitely said she was bringing a man. I’ve been reading the papers daily. According to them, Valerie acted by herself. The reporters say she was mad.”

  “They got that much right.”

  “And the rest of it?”

  I knew why she cared. If Valerie had been a lone crazy, and the guy Nic brought to the hotel wasn’t involved, it absolved Priscilla. She needn’t feel guilty if it had been a random attack rather than a client of Nic’s who might not have killed her if Priscilla had been there.

  I wanted to lie, as I’d lied to the others, so she could sleep easier, free of the demonic imps of guilt that plagued my every moment. But as I stared into her eyes I found myself telling her the worst of all things — the truth. She listened silently, clutching my hands. At the end she said nothing for a while, then finally stuttered, “She could have been lying.”

  “She wasn’t.”

  “She was an evil, crazy she-devil. She knew the game was up. It might have been one last sly twist of the knife, to leave you wracked with doubt.”

  “No,” I sighed. “It wasn’t a trick. I was face-to-face with her. I know.”

  “But—,” she began.

  “I know!”

  “Then the killer’s still out there,” she whispered, shivering.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m scared, Al.”

  “Me too.”

  “Really scared. Ellen was your wife and Nic was your lover. What if this guy’s working his way through every woman you’ve been close to?”

  “There are a few old girlfriends whose numbers I wouldn’t mind giving him,” I laughed, but she refused to see the funny side.

  “I could be next,” she said.

  “Why? There’s been nothing between us.”

  “Not yet.” She leaned forward and kissed me. I pushed her away.

  “What are you doing?” I snapped. “You just got through telling me I’m a jinx and now you—”

  “That’s why I’m scared,” she interrupted, silencing me with a second kiss. “If we’d had something in the past, I could run. But what we’ve got is now and in the future. I can’t run from that.” She kissed me again.

  “This shouldn’t be happening,” I sighed, returning her kisses. I felt one of her hands slide into my lap. I ran my fingers through her hair, then down to her breasts. “It’s madness.”

  “I don’t care,” she gasped as my fingers tightened on her breasts. “I’ve been so frightened since Nic died, terrified every time a door swings open. When I read about your wife, do you know what my first reaction was? Thank God it wasn’t me.”

  She shifted her weight. Undressing and caressing each other, we rolled, so I was underneath and she was on top.

  “You could be signing your death warrant,” I said, mouth dry as she peeled off her underwear.

  “At least I won’t die alone,” she replied, lowering herself onto me, guiding me with one hand, digging into the flesh of my neck with the fingernails of the other.

  There was no more talking for a long time after that.

  She moved into my cramped apartment the next day. I wasn’t sure I wanted this — there was something unhealthy about a love affair forged courtesy of a brace of murders — but found myself powerless to resist. As much as Priscilla needed me, I needed her more. I’d been going mad on my own, and without someone to cling to, I was most certainly doomed.

  Ali found us together that afternoon. He walked in unannounced, as he usually did, and stopped when he spotted the beautiful naked woman by my side. He exited rapidly, ears burning, apologizing profusely. Just before he left, his head poked round the door for a sneak look at Priscilla. That produced my first genuine smile in a long time. I squeezed her tightly and cuddled up close, burying my face in her hair, trying not to compare it with Ellen’s.

  She didn’t bring much with her — a small bag of clothes, underwear, shoes, cosmetics — but enough to make it clear this was more than a one-night stand. She also brought spirits and liqueurs. I didn’t like having them in the apartment, or the way she left the tops open so they filled the rooms with their sickly-sweet scent, but I didn’t say anything. She needed the drink, and I understood that. I’d just have to be stronger while she was around.

  She slipped out to work every morning and returned as early as she could. We’d make love or talk or simply hold one another. Cook a late dinner, eat slowly, make love again. Most nights we didn’t get to bed before two.

  Bill was delighted. He thought Priscilla was the best thing that could have happened to me. He had dinner with us in the apartment a couple of times and we sat around talking, none of us making mention of Ellen or Nic.

  One night, when conversation did turn to the murdered women, Priscilla blurted out the truth about Valerie Thomas. She’d been drinking a lot. Bill said something about being glad Valerie was dead. Priscilla snorted and said, “One down. Now we just have that fucking boyfriend to—”

  She caught herself. Tried to backtrack. But it was too late. She caught me glaring at her, burst into tears and fled to the bathroom. A stunned Bill prevented me from going after her.

  “Something you want to share with me, Al?”

  Since there was no point trying to hide it any longer, I told him the truth about Valerie, her god, the boyfriend.

  “Why didn’t you tell me before?” He s
ounded more pained than outraged.

  “It would have been my word against her confession.”

  “You know only too damn well which I would have believed,” he growled.

  I nodded. “I should have told you, even if I kept it quiet from the others. But…” I wasn’t sure I could explain. “I want out of this, Bill. I’m sick of suspects, clues, twists, death. I want to drop the whole sorry sack of shit and pretend it never happened.”

  “Do you think you’ll be allowed to?” he asked softly. “Do you think the bastard who killed Nic and Ellen will stop? Whatever his motives, he’ll come after you, or Priscilla, or somebody else. I wish to God you’d never gotten involved in this mess, but you’re in it now. The time to quit passed long ago. Drawing in on yourself like this serves no purpose. It only leaves you — and those close to you — open to attack.”

  “I don’t care.” I locked gazes with him and said it again for added effect. “I don’t care. That’s why I didn’t tell you about Valerie, why I holed up. I don’t have the energy to worry anymore. I can’t fight any longer.” Tears were rolling down my cheeks. “When they took Ellen, I went crazy. I was capable of anything. But then I confronted Valerie and saw the hate in her. Something snapped. I was ready to fight to the very end. Now it seems useless. So I’m walking away from it.”

  “But this isn’t the right time to throw in the towel. You’re vulnerable.”

  “Fuck it. If they want to kick me while I’m down, or kill me, let them.”

  “This isn’t you speaking,” he said sadly.

  “It’s me, Bill,” I assured him. “What’s left of me.”

  When he went, it was with a vow to carry on the investigation. He swore he wouldn’t rest until the real culprit was brought to justice. He’d even bend the law if he had to. Snap it in two if that was required. It was the first time I’d heard him speak like that. I didn’t like it, but if he wanted to waste his time chasing ghosts, let him. I was through trying to sort out other people’s problems for them.

  Priscilla apologized when she emerged. I told her not to worry, took her in my arms and we made love. And for the first time I realized how mechanical our lovemaking was.

  I started going for walks while Priscilla was at work, long, punishing walks, during which I strove to clear my mind, concentrating on my lungs and leg muscles, oblivious to everything else.

  Bill called a couple of times to say he was following leads. I lent him my notes and files, even material that was for Troop eyes only. I neither encouraged his investigation nor tried to dissuade him. As far as I was concerned, it was his life and he could do what he liked with it.

  Frank got in touch, sounding me out. I said I was considering a return to work, but wanted more time to think about it. He never mentioned Ellen, Valerie or any of that, though I knew he must be frothing with questions.

  I studied a calendar one morning and realized it had been almost two months since Nic met with her end, three and a half weeks since Ellen went the same way, and only — I had to count three times before I’d believe it — ten days since Priscilla moved in. Ten days! It felt like months. I wondered if time was moving as slowly for her as it was for me.

  I returned from a walk to discover Priscilla sitting in the living room, looking troubled. She was tapping a small parcel on the table in front of her. I sensed danger. I almost turned tail and ran. But where would I go?

  “Buy something?” I asked, closing the door.

  “No. I mean, yes, I had a half day and I was shopping, which is why I’m home early. But my bags are in the bedroom. I got…” She stopped and pushed the parcel away. “Nice walk?”

  “Lovely.” I sat beside her and gave her a quick squeeze, eyes fixed on the box, which was wrapped in brown paper, something scrawled across the top.

  “I ran into a blind beggar on my way back,” she said, and the ice in my stomach spread. “He gave me that.” She pointed at the box. “I thought it was a religious book. I started to tear it open. Then I saw the name and decided to leave it.”

  I studied the name. Block letters. AL JEERY. No address, just my name.

  “Do you think it’s a bomb?” Priscilla asked.

  I smiled grimly. “I doubt it.”

  “Maybe we should call the bomb squad anyway, or take it to someone who knows about these things.”

  “I know. I learned about explosives in the Troops.” A lie, but it calmed Priscilla. I picked up the box and shook it gently, listening intently, as if I could tell from the noise whether it was safe.

  “It’s not a bomb,” I said, faking confidence.

  “Thank God,” she sighed, relaxing. She glanced at me and licked her lips. “Are you going to open it?”

  I nodded. “But you’d better go to the bedroom and lock the door before I do.”

  “But you said—”

  “I know. But it’s as easy to be safe as sorry.”

  She half-rose, hesitated, then sat again in spite of her fear. “No. If you stay, I stay too.”

  I unwrapped the paper. It peeled away, revealing an unremarkable cardboard box. I handed the paper to Priscilla, who crumpled it up and held it in front of her lower face, as if it would protect her from the blast if there was one.

  I ran my fingers around the join between the lid and the box — no trace of a wire. I thumbed up the section of the lid closest to me, lifted the other end a few inches, shifted the lid clear of the box and laid it on the table. Inside was a cloud of pink tissue.

  “What is it?” Priscilla asked.

  “Tissue,” I told her, rubbing part of it between my thumb and index finger.

  “Nothing more?” she frowned.

  I studied the rosy stain on my finger, put it to my mouth and tasted blood. “There’s more,” I said quietly.

  Parting the folds patiently, I burrowed through the layers of tissue, noting the way the pink hue darkened the deeper I went. Near the bottom, on a tiny silver tray, I uncovered the source of the blood — a severed human finger.

  Priscilla moaned but I was less disturbed. When you’ve found a head hanging from your ceiling in the middle of the night, a lone finger isn’t that much of a deal.

  “Don’t touch it,” she pleaded as I leaned forward. I ignored her and picked it up by the tip. It was a white male’s, wrinkled and blotched. Sliced clean through, just above where the first knuckle would have been. Still warm, so it had probably been amputated sometime that morning, maybe early afternoon.

  There was a note on the tray, almost unreadable because of all the blood that had soaked into the paper. I had to hold it up and squint to decipher the words, and it fell apart as I was laying it back into the box.

  “What did it say?” Priscilla asked.

  “ ‘Guess whose, Al m’boy.’ ” I turned the finger around on my palm, closed my own fingers over it and squeezed softly. The sly motherfuckers. I had thought that nothing could make me care or draw me back in. But as Bill had predicted, I was wrong. My tormentors knew exactly which strings to pull.

  “What does that mean?” Priscilla asked.

  I shook my head and lied. “I don’t know.”

  “Who do you think it belongs to?” When I didn’t answer, she pinched me and snapped, “Who? ”

  I relaxed my grip and revealed the finger. My hand was stained with blood. In all the red, it could have been anybody’s. But I had no doubts. I propped the finger on the table so it was standing vertically, then said sickly, “It’s Bill’s.”

  part VI. “we could all be dead by then”

  24

  Guess whose, Al m’boy.

  The killer’s insight puzzled and troubled me. How did he know of my father’s ironic term of endearment? Nobody had heard him call me that. For the briefest of moments I thought Wami had sent the finger, that he’d been toying with me all along. Then I recalled the blade at his throat. Offering himself to me could have been a deadly bluff, but I didn’t think so. Paucar Wami was many dreadful things but he wasn’t my enemy
.

  The killer’s identity would come later. Right now there was the finger to ID. I knew it was Bill’s, but the Troop in me needed to be convinced. If Allegro Jinks could be passed off as Paucar Wami, a detached digit could easily be substituted for one of Bill Casey’s. There was no answer when I called him, and nobody at the station had seen him in a couple of days, but that hardly constituted proof.

  I could have gone to Party Central with the finger, but I didn’t want to involve The Cardinal. Instead I rang the Fridge and asked for Dr. Sines’s home address.

  Sines was watching TV with his wife when I arrived. His wife answered the door and scowled when I asked to see her husband. “Is this to do with work?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You people never give him a break,” she muttered, calling him to the door. He looked even less happy to see me than his wife had been.

  “This better be important,” he growled, not inviting me in.

  “It’s personal, Dr. Sines,” I said, remembering to address him formally. “May I come in?”

  “Can’t it wait?”

  “No, sir.”

  He grumbled some curses, then beckoned me in, but didn’t lead me beyond the front hall. “Make it quick,” he snapped and I produced the finger, still on its silver tray, though now transferred from the box to a small plastic bag. He studied it in silence, then said drily, “I think it’s a finger.”

  I chuckled obligingly. “I was hoping you could tell me whose.”

  “Offhand, I couldn’t.” He cracked up.

  I grinned, finding it harder to shape my mouth into a smile this time. “Good one.”

  He wiped a few tears of mirth from his eyes. “Gallows humor. You need it to get by in a job like mine.” He got serious. “Any idea who the owner is?”

  “Yes, but I’d rather not say.”

  “It would be quicker if you did.”

  “Regardless…”

  “As you wish. Care to tell me why you brought it here, tonight, instead of down to the Fridge tomorrow?”

  “I don’t want anyone connecting it to me.”

  “I smell espionage. May I have the finger?” I handed it over. “You realize I must note where it came from? I can’t waltz in and pretend I found it on my way to work.”