by Darren Shan
I find the three old women in a side door of a shopping precinct, feasting on the remains of a cop who must have been dumped there during the weekend. Jennifer Abbots stands nearby, keeping watch, patiently waiting for them to finish. “Good evening, Mrs. Abbots,” I call as I approach, not wishing to startle her.
“Mr. Wami,” she smiles. “I’m glad you haven’t been harmed.”
“You know what they say — only the good die young.” We stand in silence for a while, watching the Harpies eat. “You should choose more carefully next time,” I advise her. “Letting them feed on a cop is a bad idea. His colleagues will take it poorly if they find him half-eaten.”
“I know,” she sighs, “but there’s no stopping them when they get the scent. Luckily I found a lot of bottles filled with gasoline nearby — some anarchist’s stash, I suppose — and I’ve borrowed a few to soak him with before I set him alight. That should destroy the evidence.”
I nod approvingly. “Managing OK otherwise?”
“Yes. The girls were keen to get out all weekend, but I held them in until the trouble died down. One of Rettie’s teeth played up last week. I had to take her to a dentist for the first time in years. He was shocked by the bloodstains and scraps of flesh. He’d have called in the police, but Mr. Clarke bribed him.” She frowns. “I can’t say I approve of bribery, but in this case I had to make an exception.”
I hide a smile. It’s OK in Jennifer’s mind for her sister and Harpy friends to strip the dead of their flesh, but bribery’s a serious offense.
“Did she have to get the tooth removed?” I ask.
“No, just filled.” As we’re talking, Rettie finishes her meal and comes over to squat beside her sister. “Rettie,” Jennifer coos, “show Mr. Wami your tooth.”
The Harpy tilts her head and opens her mouth wide. To be polite, I peer into her red maw and pass favorable comment on the gold filling.
“Mr. Clarke made him use gold,” Jennifer chuckles. “He says it’s more ladylike.”
“I must meet this Mr. Clarke of yours sometime,” I smile. “He sounds like a character.”
Rettie closes her mouth, pulls a book out of the folds of her clothes and plays with it, opening the covers and peering at the words as if she can read. Jennifer yanks the book from her and wipes bloodstains from the pages. “Bad girl, Rettie!” she snaps. “This is Mr. Clarke’s. You know you’re not supposed to take it.”
“Perhaps she’ll make a scholar yet,” I laugh, then spot the spine and pause. “Can I have a look at that?” Jennifer passes the book to me and continues to scold her sister. I study the title—Heart of Darkness—and run a finger over the creased cover. It’s old and worn. I turn to the title page but it’s been ripped out. “This looks valuable,” I mutter.
“It probably is,” Jennifer says. “It’s a first edition, I think.”
My fingers freeze and the night seems to darken around me. “What makes you think that?”
“Most of Mr. Clarke’s books are first editions. He’s a collector. He’ll be furious at Rettie for taking it. Maybe I can slip it back before he realizes.”
My head spins. I gaze at the Harpy by my feet and a switch clicks. “Is ‘Rettie’ short for ‘Margaret’?” I ask, my voice a broken whisper.
“Yes,” Jennifer says, rubbing her sister’s head, gently tugging her hair to chide her for taking their friend’s book.
“Your name before you married — was it Jennifer Crowe?”
Jennifer stares at me, mildly surprised. “How did you know?”
I start to tremble. Rettie is Margaret Crowe, the girl Paucar Wami kidnapped all those years ago, the girl a tormented teenager was meant to kill in exchange for his doomed sister’s life.
“What’s Mr. Clarke’s first name?” I wheeze.
“William,” she says, and I laugh sickly.
“Your friend… Mr. Clarke… William,” I croak. “Does he ever absentmindedly refer to himself as Bill?”
7: killer’s secrets
Jennifer doesn’t object when I ask if I can accompany the Harpies home to meet Mr. Clarke. I tell her I think I know him, and want to say hello. She has no reason to suspect my real motives. She packs the bloody ladies into her small car while I fetch my motorcycle, then leads the way across the city, out to the suburbs, driving slowly in order not to lose me.
I keep my thoughts blank while trailing her. I warn myself not to get excited. It’s possible that the bibliophile William Clarke isn’t the bibliophile Bill Casey. But I know in my heart that I’ve found him. After all these years, a mad cannibal has shown me the way. If I wasn’t so terrified by the prospect of the encounter, I’d howl with glee at the absurdity of it.
After a long, fretful drive — I keep thinking the car will crash or explode, taking the secret of Bill’s whereabouts with it — we pull up at a sorry-looking excuse for a house, set in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by industrial wasteland. I gaze wonderingly at the boarded-up windows, the corrugated iron roof, the warped door that doesn’t quite meet with the frame most of the way around. Why has Bill chosen to hole up in a dump like this?
“It’s not so bad inside,” Jennifer says. She lets the Harpies out and they amble around to the back. “It’s cold in the winter but dry. And nobody comes here. That’s the most important thing.”
“Is Mr. Clarke there now?” I ask, fingers tickling the handle of the knife jammed inside my belt.
“He should be. He doesn’t go out much. He’s a lonely old man. I believe you’re the first visitor he’s had in all the years he’s lived here.”
“And I’ll be the last,” I mutter, too low for Jennifer to hear. “Could you do me a favor and take the girls back to your place tonight? I’d like to have William to myself. We’ve a lot of catching up to do.”
“I suppose,” she says hesitantly. “I don’t like changing their routine but I guess it can’t hurt this once.”
“I appreciate it.” I don’t know what she’ll do when she returns and finds her friend’s brains splattered across the floor, but I can’t say I care. As much as I like Jennifer, the extermination of Bill Casey takes precedence over everything.
I wait until she’s rounded up the Harpies and driven away before pushing the creaky door open and entering. I’m clutching the copy of Heart of Darkness in one hand and a knife in the other. The house is dimly lit and smells of blood and sweat. I explore the downstairs area quietly, drifting from room to room. No doors in any of the frames. Three beds are set close to each other in the largest room. Another is packed with spare sheets, pillows, towels and other such items. All the rooms feature laden bookshelves.
“Jennifer?” comes a tremulous voice from the top of the stairs.
My fingers tighten on the knife at the sound of the voice, which I recognize instantly. Moving to the side of the stairs, I wait for him to descend. My heart’s beating more quickly than usual. I concentrate on slowing it down. I want to be as cool as Bill was when he faced me ten years ago and admitted responsibility for the destruction of my life.
“Jennifer?” he asks again. A long pause. Then footsteps, slow, coming down the creaking stairs. “I have nothing of value. Nor am I armed. You may take what you wish, as worthless as it is, or if you’re hungry and looking for a place to stay, perhaps I can…” He trails off as he reaches the foot of the stairs and peers at me through the gloom. “Who’s there?” he whispers.
I step forward, revealing myself, and he draws back, eyes widening, hands shooting to his wrinkled mouth. He’s much thinner than when we last met, and stooped with age. His hair’s gray and unkempt. He looks ill.
“Hello Bill,” I hiss, closing the gap between us, until he’s backed up against a wall. I lay a hand on either side of his arms, imprisoning him. “Remember me?”
“Snakes!” he croaks, eyes watering as he gazes with horror at my tattoos. “Please… don’t… not the snakes… please…”
“Forget the snakes,” I snarl. “Forget the bald head. Forget t
he”—I remove my green contact lenses—“eyes. Look at me. Do you remember me?”
The old man gradually stops shaking. His tears dry. “Of course,” he sighs. “I’ve been waiting ten years for you to find me. How have you been, Al?”
I step away, disgusted by his amiable tone. “Don’t Al me, you fucker! Do you remember what you did, how you screwed me over?”
His smile fades. “For a moment, I didn’t. Sorry. I forgot I’m your enemy, that you’ve come to kill me. The mind deteriorates when you’re my age. Oh well, I have no one but myself to blame. You may execute me now if it suits you.” Closing his eyes, he spreads his arms, Christlike, offering himself.
I almost kill him — my knife quivers in my hand, thirsting for blood — but it’s too soon. I need to hear what he has to say in his defense. I have to make him talk — make him scream.
“You don’t seem surprised to see me,” I grunt, lowering my knife.
“I’ve been expecting you every day for a decade,” he replies. “I knew you’d find me. No matter how old and feeble I got, I never feared death, because I knew it wouldn’t take me until I’d sorted things out with you. I could have lived a hundred years if you hadn’t come.”
“Open your eyes,” I growl. “I want you to look at me when you die.”
“As you wish.” His lids open and his eyes settle on the finger hanging from my neck. His left hand twitches. Next he studies my tattoos and scalp, and frowns. “I’d heard about the getup. Can’t say I approve. It doesn’t suit you, Al. Why do you go about like this, calling yourself that terrible name?”
“You know who Paucar Wami was?”
He shrugs. “He was a killer. I never worked out whether he was real or a bogeyman, or why you chose to model yourself after him.”
My breath catches. He doesn’t remember! I always dreaded this, that he’d forget his reason for ruining my life. I had prepared myself against the eventuality, but it still comes as a shock. For a moment I want to grab him by the neck and choke the truth out of him, but that would be a waste of time. People who don’t remember the Ayuamarcans can’t have their memories jogged. But there are other ways to get to the facts. I have to be sly.
“What’s upstairs?” I ask.
“My living quarters. The ladies reside down here. I don’t allow anybody up, not even Jennifer when I’m sick and can’t get out of bed.” He grins coyly. “But I’ll let you up, Al.”
“Lead the way,” I nod, and follow him up the stairs, matching him step for step, knife by my side, ready to cut him down if he makes a false move. I stop when I get to the top and stare at the walls, all of which have been crudely painted with snakes. There are serpents of every kind, color and length. Some are incredibly detailed, beautifully portrayed. Others are childish squiggles.
“My scaly companions,” Bill chuckles, moving to the closest wall to stroke the coils of a long boa constrictor.
“Did you paint them?” I ask.
“Yes. It’s how I pass the time. I’d go crazy without a hobby. I’ve whitewashed these walls three or four times and started again from scratch. I suppose it’s an unhealthy obsession — it feeds my snake-haunted nightmares — but it keeps me busy. Keeps me sane.” He laughs when he catches my expression. “I know what you’re thinking — a guy who paints snakes all day long has to be crazy. And that’s true. But there are different shades of craziness. I’ve had the kind where all I do is storm around, screaming and harming myself. This kind is infinitely preferable.”
He walks to a doorway at the end of the corridor. I follow edgily, nervous of the snakes. I pause suspiciously at the entrance. Just because Bill’s crazy (there’s no doubt about that, he’s not putting on an act) doesn’t mean he’s stupid. He may have set a trap. But I don’t spot anything to be afraid of. This is a simple bedroom with a thick mattress laid on the floor, a chair in one corner, shelves to the ceiling loaded with books.
“Welcome to my palace,” Bill says, squatting on the edge of the bed and gesturing toward the chair. I remain standing.
“Is this place wired?” I ask.
“Of course. We’re off the beaten track but we’ve been running on electricity for a long time. You don’t think…” He groans. “Oh. You mean wired for explosives.” He shakes his head. “I have my old tools in the cellar, bombs and bugs, but I no longer play with them. I lack the enthusiasm. I don’t read much either, except to the ladies, but I never could bring myself to get rid of the books.”
“Speaking of which…” I toss the Conrad novel to him. He catches it, studies the cover and smiles ruefully.
“I bet you got this off Rettie. She enjoys my recitations the most. I never read this to them — their lives are dark enough — but I keep it downstairs with the bulk of my collection. She must have swiped it when I wasn’t looking.”
“You should have blown up the books with the rest of the house,” I tell him. “They’re how I knew you were alive. I’d have surrendered my grip on life a long time ago if I hadn’t noticed they were missing. And now they’ve led me to you.”
“A costly vice,” he agrees, laying the book down. Then he says quietly, “Are you going to kill me now, Al?”
“In time. I want to talk first. There are things you must tell me. About the past, your life, the snakes.”
“Don’t ask about them,” he snaps. “I won’t talk about them.”
“Oh, I think you might,” I chuckle and drag the tip of my knife along the crumbling wall.
Bill laughs. “I’m too old and crazy to be threatened. What could you do to hurt me?” He unbuttons his shirt, revealing a chest riven with scars and burn marks. “I’ve punished myself beyond the point where I even feel. You can put me to the test but it won’t work. Nothing can loosen my tongue if I choose to hold it.”
I look from his tortured chest to the drawings on the walls, then stare into his eyes. I grin viciously and hiss, “I can feed you to the snakes.”
His face whitens and he buttons up the shirt, fingers trembling. I’ve found his weak spot. He’s mine.
“Where do you want to start?” he mutters.
Drawing out the chair, I sit, cross my legs, lock gazes with him and say softly, “Tell me about Jane.”
He wasn’t expecting that. His face tics and the trembling of his feet on the floor is like a drum snare. “Jane? What’s she got to do with anything? I thought you’d want to know about the blind priests and why I betrayed you.”
“I already know. In fact I’m willing to bet I know more about it than you.” I lean forward challengingly. “Do you remember why you did it?”
“The snakes,” he whispers, eyes far away. “You were a servant of the snakes. I tried to destroy them. By harming you, I hoped…” His senses seem to swim back into place. “No, not exactly. There was someone I meant to hurt by exploiting you, but I’ve forgotten who he was. That’s the madness, I guess.”
“So tell me about Jane.”
The veil of fear sweeps across his face again. “Why?” he groans. “She has nothing to do with this. That was long in the past, long before I set after you.”
“Tell me what you remember about Jane and her death,” I persist. “I know what happened but I want your version of it.”
“You know?” He stares at me, and the terror in his eyes surpasses any I’ve seen before, even in the faces of those I’ve killed. His fear’s so great, I almost take pity and spare him the painful trip down memory lane. But I need to hear him say that his sister was killed and that’s why he set out to destroy me. I might even squeeze out his reasons for coming after me and not my father, though that would be a bonus, not a necessity. I’ll settle for the confirmation.
“You were a teenager,” I start him off. “You’d finished school. You were living with your mother, stepfather, brother and sister. It was summer. You were leading an ordinary life. Then…”
“The snakes entered my life,” Bill croaks. His hands have crept together and his fingers squeeze and tear at each othe
r while he speaks. “They made me do awful things. I saved lives. I mugged, stole, bullied — worse — but I saved others from the snakes by serving them. Can a villain be a hero? Is a man wicked if he performs a lesser act of evil to prevent a greater one?”
“I’m not interested in a moral debate,” I growl. “I don’t know if you were good or bad, hero or demon, and I don’t care. Tell me about Jane and Margaret Crowe.”
“Rettie…” He smiles sadly. “I visited her often in the nursing home before I went into hiding. It was so sad, what happened to her and the others. I kept an eye on Jennifer and Rose when they took the survivors into their care. It was clear that they’d need help, so I befriended Jennifer, using a pseudonym. I knew it was risky, that you might trace me through her even though she didn’t know my real name, but I had to do what I could to protect poor Rettie.”
“Wami kidnapped Rettie and Jane, didn’t he?”
Bill frowns. “It was the snakes. They hid behind a man’s features but I don’t know whose. You think it was Paucar Wami?”
“It doesn’t matter. Someone kidnapped them. Told you to kill Rettie or he’d kill Jane. You couldn’t, so he murdered her. Right?” My fingers grip the handle of the knife. I’m readying myself to bring the decade of self-torment to an end. I might kill myself as soon as he’s dead, or spin off into madness even deeper than his. I don’t know. It’s impossible to look that far ahead. But first the execution. That much I’m sure about.
Bill’s shaking his head, crying, confused. “Jane,” he sobs. “I loved Jane. I did it… for her… to save… I’d have done anything to bring her back…” He falls off the bed and crawls to where I sit impassively. Grabs my legs and howls. “Hear my confession! Please… I can’t stand it any longer… will you…?”
“Yes,” I answer bleakly, and lay the edge of my blade to the dry flesh of his mottled throat. “I’ll grant absolution as well.”
Bill’s features relax and he sobs gratefully. I let him cry, waiting patiently. I’ve got all the time in the world now that the moment has come. I’m in no rush. Let him make his confession and go to meet his maker clutching the illusion of spiritual cleanliness.
