Procession of the Dead

by Darren Shan

  “Hold it, Vincent,” the older guy said.

  “Why? It ain’t him. This is just some kid with a speech problem. We’re wasting time. Let’s—”

  “I… I’m Capac Raimi,” I wheezed.

  They looked at each other, unconvinced. “You got any proof?” the older one asked.

  My hands scurried to my pockets, searching for cards and tags I knew I didn’t have—I’d never been one for credit cards or clubs that required membership. No driver’s license. I probably had a passport lying back in the house, but I couldn’t have sworn to that.

  The assassins saw my hands shaking and began to snicker. “Shit, Tasso,” the younger one said. “This guy’s just some chump who wandered in.” He cocked his weapon and nudged my left ear with it.

  The elder statesman shook his head and smiled bleakly. “You haven’t got anything on you to prove who you are? Everybody carries credit cards. You must have at least one piece of plastic.” He raised an arm and cocked a finger at me. “Your life depends on it, boy. Cough it up or…”

  “I don’t have anything,” I said, voice steady, preparing myself to die with dignity. I looked my murderer in the face and grinned. “So you might as well go ahead and shoot, you bastard.” I could have given myself a standing ovation. I was about to die, but I was going in style, head held high, and many a man would have paid a fortune to do the same.

  The granite-faced killer scratched his chin. “He said you’d say that,” he muttered. “That’s what the guy in his dream did. Him and his damn dreams. OK!” He clapped his hands and signaled the milling gangsters back to their cars. “Vincent, you’re with me.” Vincent nodded obediently and spun off toward one of the limos parked against the warehouse walls, hidden in the shadows of the slaughterhouse. “Wain, take care of the money.” He kicked Theo’s case across the floor. “Make sure The Cardinal gets his cut.”

  “What?” Wain’s face puckered. “But I was doing him a favor! We helped him out, damn it. I thought the least he’d do—”

  “You thought wrong,” my captor snapped. “Business is business, Neil, with its right ways and wrong ways. Cutting The Cardinal in— that’s the right way. Shortchanging him is as wrong as you can get, short of pissing on the Devil on your way down the steps to Hell.”

  “OK,” Wain grumbled, picking up the case. “I’ll see The Cardinal right. I’m no fool.”

  “Glad to hear it. I guess we’d better be off then, Mr. Raimi. Would you care to go first?” He beckoned toward the limo which was pulling up beside us. I looked at the man, then the limo, then Neil Wain. I didn’t know where this night was heading or what lay in store for me, but seeing as how things were so far out of my hands, I decided I might as well go along obligingly and enjoy the ride. Pulling my coat tight around my shoulders, shivering from the cold and shock, I stepped into the car.

  We’d been driving through the silent streets of the city for about ten minutes, nobody saying a word. I was starting to feel uncomfortable. The initial spate of shock which had numbed me to Theo’s death was receding, and it was easier to talk than dwell upon the memory of his confused expression and ruby-red blood. Recalling the name Vincent had used back in the warehouse, I cleared my throat to break the silence and asked hesitantly, “Are you Ford Tasso?”

  He looked over in my direction, face expressionless. “Yes.”

  “The famous Ford Tasso,” Vincent snickered. He was driving. “His name a curse in a hundred languages. Come one! Come all! Bow down and—”

  “Shut up,” Tasso said softly, with immediate effect. He’d put up with a lot of Vincent’s nonsense, but only to a point, and Vincent was cunning enough never to push his luck.

  Ford Tasso. The Cardinal’s number two. The strong arm of the city’s unofficial king, feared almost as much as the only man he would ever call master. If The Cardinal was a myth, Ford Tasso was a legend.

  I examined him in the sliding glare of amber streetlights. He was getting on in years, at least in his late fifties. A big man, six-two, bulky like a bear. Thick hair, black as soot. He was sporting a pair of sideburns, relics of the disco age, and a thin mustache. His face was cold and hard. He breathed lightly. Black suit, white shirt, gold cuff links, rings and chains. Dead eyes.

  This was the man who’d run the city with The Cardinal for the last thirty years, who’d killed or bulldozed all in their way. He looked the part. Two words came to mind as I sat back and summed him up. They were cold and blooded. But I kept them to myself. He’d had a nickname once, when he was young—the Lizard Man. He didn’t like it. The last man to mock him was found dead a couple of days later, his stomach emptied of organs and filled with snakes and iguanas. He’d been plain Ford Tasso ever since.

  They drove me to Party Central. Heart of the city. Home and workplace of The Cardinal. The safest place in the world for the invited. Death for any foolish enough to trespass. Vincent pulled up by the front to let us out. Ford dismissed him when we were on the pavement. “Will you want me later?” he asked.

  “Nah,” Ford replied. “But be at Shankar’s early tomorrow. We’ve got a busy day.”

  “Ain’t we always?” Vincent grumbled, slamming shut the door. He squealed away in a cloud of burning rubber.

  I looked up at the massive building. I’d seen it many times but never this close. It was old, full of architectural curves and angles, a bitch to design, a nightmare to build. Imposing glass windows, red brick lower down, rough brown stone higher up. It looked like a renovated church, but I knew every window was reinforced and wired. Every floor was protected by the most expensive alarm systems available. Men with guns stood ready to shoot down intruders, any time of the day or night. It was an impenetrable fortress. Rumor had it there was even a nuclear fallout shelter buried beneath its floors, equipped to last a hundred years.

  Two doormen controlled the massive front portal. They were dressed in red, capped and gloved. Harmless and friendly. The five armed guards to either side of them weren’t so welcoming. These were members of The Cardinal’s own personal army, the Troops. It had taken The Cardinal a long time to receive government backing for the recruitment and arming of his own personal force. He’d had to buy half the city’s politicians and kill the rest. There’d been civil marches and protests from the police. It resembled a war for a while.

  The Cardinal wanted his own official army. Everybody else—understandably—was less enthusiastic. Eventually The Cardinal won, like he always did, and the Troops came into being. Five hundred strong and increasing all the time. Ford Tasso had been their commander in chief in the early days, before moving on to bigger things. There were more Troops in the foyer, posted at regular intervals, alert and poised to open fire at the first sign of trouble. I wasn’t about to give them any.

  The ground floor of Party Central was all tiles and marble, and your feet clacked whenever you moved. From there on up, however, it was carpet. The building was famed for its carpets, imported from Persia and India. They covered every inch of the floors above, even the stairs and in the toilets.

  Shoes were outlawed above the first floor. All employees and visitors had to check in their footwear at one of six reception desks before they could go up. There were no exceptions. Socks or bare feet, nothing more, not even a pair of slippers. And Christ help you if your feet smelled—everybody in the city knew at least one amputation story. The Cardinal had an allegedly sensitive nose and didn’t appreciate foul odors in his innermost sanctum.

  Ford Tasso and I handed over our shoes and took receipts. The receptionist placed them on a constantly moving conveyor belt and they were swept through to the back for storage. Ford got his bearings, I stared around in wonder, then we were heading for one of the building’s many elevators.

  It was late but the foyer was busier than most places were during the day. Businessmen with laptops were gathered in small groups, discussing the state of the markets. Off-duty Troops relaxed in the lounge near the back. A dozen or more receptionists manned the various des
ks around the floor, checking everyone in, arranging appointments, taking phone calls, keeping in contact with the hundreds of agents at work in the field.

  The elevator was from a different time. Large, carpeted, with cushioned walls and soothing music. There was an operator present at all times, using a cranking lever to guide his ship up and down the twenty-three-story shaft. He was amiable but I could see the bulge of a gun beneath his jacket.

  Theo had loved that elevator. He’d told me about it several times. He once said, if he could choose where to die, it would be in one of Party Central’s marvelous old elevators. The memory brought a lump to my throat and I had to struggle to focus. It would have been nice to grieve for Theo, but these could be my last few minutes alive and I wasn’t about to waste them mourning the dead. If I survived, there’d be plenty of time for Theo. My uncle would have expected nothing less of me. “Good evening, Mr. Tasso,” the operator smiled. “Which floor?”

  “Fifteen,” Tasso grunted.

  “Certainly, sir.” He shut the door and spoke into a microphone. “Floor fifteen. Mr. Tasso.”

  “Identification,” a dry, computer-controlled voice answered.

  Ford spoke his name. A small panel beneath the microphone clicked open and he pressed down his fingers. There was a brief pause, then the elevator began to rise, much faster and more smoothly than I expected. Like the building’s exterior, this might look like a throwback to simpler days, but it was modern and efficient beneath the surface, an oiled monster in an antique mask.

  Fifteen. That was The Cardinal’s floor, hence the security measures. Hellfire. No underlings on the fifteenth. I was being taken to the top man himself.

  The elevator arrived. We got out. It slid back down.

  Two Troops stood to either side of the doors, guns cocked. Three more were opposite. Apart from them, the place was deserted.

  The air conditioners were set a couple of degrees lower than normal—I felt goosebumps creep across the back of my neck from the chill. The carpets were scented but lightly, the smell of fresh washing. I wriggled my toes in the plush material. Pinched myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.

  Ford Tasso started ahead of me but I wasn’t ready to move yet and stood my ground. He stopped. Looked back. Raised a speculative eyebrow. “Well?”

  “What’s happening?” I asked. “An hour ago I was on my way to a run-of-the-mill meeting. Now my uncle’s dead, my future’s in tatters and I’m on the fifteenth floor of Party Central, presumably about to meet with The Cardinal himself. What the fuck’s going on?” I felt it was a reasonable question.

  Tasso shrugged indifferently. “Don’t know, kid. The Cardinal said to bring you in and that’s what I’m doing. Why he wants you, I neither know nor care. I don’t question the ways of The Cardinal.”

  “But he must have said something. There must be some—”

  He shook his head. “If you live long enough, you’ll realize The Cardinal don’t need a reason for anything. And he certainly doesn’t have to explain himself. Now come on and quit with the questions. You’ll find out the answers soon enough.”

  He led me down long corridors, past war chambers, function halls and several computer rooms. The fifteenth floor was an office building of its own, independent and self-supporting, geared to meet all The Cardinal’s needs. People moved in the various rooms that we passed, but silently and unobtrusively, like shadows. There was a sense of the sacred to the place.

  Tasso led me to a room marked BASE. A secretary sat outside, busy at her PC. There was always a secretary on hand. The Cardinal often worked right around the clock, in touch with contacts in all the different time zones the world could offer.

  She knew who we were without looking up. “Hello, Ford,” she said, fingers never slowing.

  “Hi, Mags. He ready for us?”

  “Yes. But it’s just the guest. You’re to stay here with me.” She looked up and winked. “Maybe he’s trying to push us together. We’d make a good match, huh?”

  He chuckled gruffly. “OK, kid,” he said. “You heard the lady. In you go.”

  I walked over to the door, raised my hand to knock, paused, looked to Tasso for a guiding word. “In!” he barked. I took a breath, opened the door and entered the dragon’s den.

  hatun pocoy

  As the door closed I looked around with wide eyes. I hadn’t known what to expect, so I should have been ready for anything, but I was still taken by surprise.

  The room was black with puppets. They were everywhere, dangling from the walls, slumped over on the floor, lying drunkenly on the huge desk in the middle of the room. Apart from the puppets it was sparse. No pictures hung alongside the marionettes. No computers, plants, water coolers or statues. There was the desk—at least twenty feet long—and several plastic chairs were lined against the wall to my right. Two more chairs by the window, one plastic, the other plush, ornate leather. Little else of any note.

  Apart from The Cardinal.

  He was stretched out in the leather chair, feet crossed, sipping mineral water. He waved a gangling arm, inviting me over. “Sit,” he said pleasantly, indicating the plastic chair. “Do you like my display?” he asked, nodding at the puppets.

  “Nice,” I gasped without looking around. My mouth was dry, but I managed to force out a few more words. “Very… decorative.”

  He smiled. “Your eyes betray your lack of interest. You should learn to control them. Now,” he said, lowering the glass, “take a long look at me. You must be full of curiosity. Give me the once-over, Mr. Raimi, and tell me what you think.”

  He raised his arms and posed. He was tall, six-five or more. Thin to the point of emaciation. A large nose, hooked like a boxer’s. His hair was cropped, shaved to the bone at the sides. He had a protuberant Adam’s apple. His head was small for a big man’s, narrow and pointed, with too wide a mouth. His cheeks were little more than taut, paper-thick flesh. His skin was a dull gray color. He was dressed in a baggy blue tracksuit and scuffed running shoes. He sported a cheap digital watch on his right wrist. No jewelry. He had long fingers, bony and curved. His fingernails were chewed to the quick. The smallest finger of his left hand bent away from the others at the second knuckle, sticking out at a sixty-degree angle. He was in his late sixties or early seventies but I wouldn’t have pegged him for a day over fifty.

  After I’d scanned him, he lowered his hands. “My turn,” he said and examined me closely. He had hooded eyes, like Uncle Theo’s, but when he focused they opened wide and it was like staring into twin pools of liquid death.

  “Well,” he said, “you’re not what I’d expected. How about you? What do you think of me?”

  “You’re thin,” I said, matching his own nonchalant tone. I didn’t know what the game was, but if he wanted to play it cool, that was fine by me. “I thought you’d be fatter.”

  He smiled. “I used to be plump, but with running the city and everything, I don’t have time to worry about small matters like food anymore.”

  He lapsed into silence and waited for me to speak. Trouble was, I couldn’t think of anything to say. I held his gaze and tried not to fidget. In the end he put me out of my discomfort.

  “So you’re Capac Raimi. An Inca name, isn’t it? From the days of Atahualpa and the Ayars?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Oh, it is,” he assured me. “I read all about the Incas a few decades back. Their founding father was Manco Capac. Some group’s building a statue of him here later in the year. This city’s full of Incan links. You’ll fit in well with a name like yours.

  “You know what the Incas’ motto was?” I shook my head, dazed by the surreal conversation. “ Manan sua, manan Iluclla, manan quella. It means don’t steal, don’t kill, don’t be lazy. Totally impractical apart from the last part. But that was the Incas for you.

  “Enough.” He smacked his hands together. “You want to know why I brought you here, why I had your uncle and all his men killed but not you. Right?” />
  “The question crossed my mind,” I admitted.

  “Any guesses or theories?”

  I shook my head negatively.

  “Good. I hate guesswork. Never pretend to know more than you do. I’ve no time for fools like that. There’s nothing wrong with good old-fashioned ignorance. You can’t learn anything if you think you know it all.”

  He fell into silence again. As before, I said nothing, but as the minutes passed I remembered something from the warehouse. I thought about it for a moment, then cleared my throat and took the chance.

  “Ford Tasso said something.”

  “Oh?” He looked up. “Mr. Tasso is well versed in the ways of silence. He doesn’t waste words. If he spoke, it must have been important.”

  “I didn’t take much notice at the time, but now that I look back… He said something about dreams. About you dreaming about me .”

  The Cardinal’s face darkened. “I spoke too soon. Mr. Tasso obviously hasn’t learned as much about silence as I thought. Still,” he mused, scratching his chin, “maybe it’s for the best. I was wondering how to get around to the dream without seeming like a lunatic.

  “I’ll tell you about it,” he decided. “You might find it hard to believe, but this is a world of wonders, Mr. Raimi. Those who deny the impossible do the majestic magic of the universe a grave disservice.

  “Last week I had a dream. I’d already made plans to kill your uncle. It was a minor matter, one I hadn’t given much thought to. Then, as I slept, I dreamed of his murder. I saw it as if watching a film, the warehouse, the unsuspecting Theo, the assassins in the aisles. He entered with his men. I heard the guns blare. I saw Theo and his team drop, mown down like lambs.

  “Just as I was turning on my side and preparing to move on to a brighter dream, I noticed one of Theo’s men still standing. Bullets were exploding all around but he stood there, smiling, a cocky son of a bitch.