Hell's Horizon (14 page)

“I very much doubt it,” he sniffed.

“Remember what you told me about that when I came to visit?”

“Refresh my memory.”

“You said, if it had been Inca-related, they wouldn’t have killed her in the Skylight—they’d have done it out here. You still stand by that?”

He looked puzzled. “I think this would be a good place for a sacrifice to the sun to be made, yes, but she wasn’t killed here. She was killed at the hotel.”

I said nothing, but coughed discreetly and glanced away.

Ziegler stared hard. “Are you implying she wasn’t?”

I hesitated, pondering whether to play my ace, then opted against it—better to keep it quiet for the time being. “Of course she was killed at the hotel,” I said. “But maybe she’d been here beforehand. Did you ever discuss this place with her?”

“I might have mentioned it, but only in passing. She’d moved on from Incas and the sun by our last few sessions. Demons were more her style.”

A truck approached and we had to get out of the way. Ziegler led me clear, treading confidently, at home here. I spotted a tall man in robes standing not far from us. He seemed to be gazing at the statue but he couldn’t have been, because when he turned I saw that his eyes were white. They stared blindly in my direction, as the eyes of the man in the funeral parlor had. At first I thought it was the same guy but that was ridiculous—a man without the use of his eyes was hardly likely to be trailing me around the city.

“How big’s this thing going to be?” I asked, keeping an eye on the man in the robes, wondering what he was doing on the building site.

“About nine hundred feet,” Ziegler replied.

I gawped at him. “Christ! Why the hell are they building it so big?”

“It’ll be hollow inside,” Ziegler told me. “The museum artifacts will be housed in the body, for viewing on the way up. It’s also been designed to receive the fullest effects of the sun. The head’s going to be packed with mirrors, which will turn it into a giant sphere of light. You’ll be able to climb to the top when it’s finished and bask in a room so bright, it’ll be like sitting inside the sun.”

“Sounds dangerous. Light that bright could”—I looked around for the man in the robes, but he was gone—“blind you.” I frowned, shook my head, then pointed at the cranes. “How do they set those things up?”

Ziegler shrugged. “I haven’t the foggiest.”

“Puzzles the shit out of me whenever I think about it.”

“Why don’t you check with somebody who knows?”

“Each time it pops into my head, I mean to, but then I forget about it again.”

We didn’t say much for a few minutes. Just stood and stared at the towering cranes, immersed in our thoughts. Ziegler was probably dreaming about Incas. I was thinking about the symbol carved into Nic’s back.

Finally the mystic stirred. “I must be leaving. I’m seeing a client in an hour. By the time I get home, wash and change, it’ll be—”

He stopped and stared off into the distance. It took me a few seconds to spot what he was focused on, then I saw it, a fall of rain that looked like a vertical column to the heavens, a hundred feet beyond the statue.

Ziegler hurried toward it and I moved quickly to keep up. “What is it?” I asked as we ran.

“The rain of the gods,” he gasped, flushed with excitement. “Have you never seen it?”

“No.”

“It isn’t common. This is only my third sighting.”

We stopped short of the extraordinary fall of rain, which was hitting the ground in a fenced-off area. No guards or workmen were nearby. Ziegler was wringing his hands so much, it’s a wonder he didn’t squeeze them to pulp.

“Incredible,” he sighed. “I’ve never been this close.”

“It’s odd,” I agreed. The rain fell in a perfect rectangle, maybe six feet wide by a foot deep. The surrounding area was bone-dry, apart from some splashing at the edges.

“The
villacs
believed this was the voice of the sun god,” Ziegler informed me. “This was how they communicated with him.”

“
Villacs
?”

“Ancient Incan priests.”

While we were studying the shower, the blind man I’d noticed earlier emerged from the far side. He was closer to the rain than we were and his white robes were specked with wet spots. He was old, with short, white hair. A mole sprouted from the left side of his chin. His head bobbed forward and backward lightly, and he seemed oblivious to our presence.

I turned to ask Ziegler more about the
villacs
, when the blind man darted toward me, grabbed my left arm and spun me into the rectangle of rain. I opened my mouth to roar, but before I could utter a syllable the world disintegrated into shards of light and I had to cover my eyes with my hands.

When I removed my fingers after a couple of wary seconds, I was no longer in the yard. I wasn’t even in the city. I was standing on a rock at the edge of a cliff, gazing down on a fertile valley.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” someone asked. Turning, I saw the blind man.

“Yes,” I answered peacefully. Part of me knew this couldn’t be happening, but I’d fallen prey to the mesmerizing vision.

“We must leave soon,” the blind man said, and I nodded in reply. “We can never return.”

“Never,” I echoed.

“But we will build anew. And this time we will build forever. See the rivers?” He pointed to three tributaries that trickled down from the mountains to meet in the valley and form a large snake of a river. “Those are the rivers of blood. The Blood of Flesh.” He pointed to the river furthest left. “Dreams made Flesh.” This time he pointed to the river to the far right.

“And Flesh of Dreams,” I said, nodding at the middle line of red.

“Yes. And the place where they meet, do you know what that is called?” I thought for a moment but came up blank. “It is the future. And it’s ours.”

The blind man moved behind me and placed his fingers on my shoulders. I made no move to stop him as he gently pushed me. Nor did I scream or feel the slightest sense of fear as I fell. Instead I spread my arms, raised my chin and flew. I glided like a bird over the middle river of blood, close enough to touch it. When I reached the spot where it joined with the others, I hovered and stared down into the churning pool of blood at the intersection.

There were faces in the red pool, none of which I recognized. Old and young, male and female, black and white. They eddied around in the pool like fish caught between conflicting currents. After a while I realized there was a face beneath the others, far bigger than the rest. At first I thought it was my own face, but then the blood lightened a shade and I noticed murky snakes writhing down the specter’s cheeks. I knew it must be Paucar Wami. The thought didn’t frighten me. Nothing in this world of visions scared me.

While I watched, the vision of Paucar Wami opened its eyes—dark green slits—and smiled. Its lips mouthed the word, “
Come!
” I dived into the pool in response. As soon as I parted the surface of the bloody waters, a red gauze dropped over my eyes. The red swiftly turned to black, then I was slipping out of the vision, out of the pool, back into the real world and…

… Rain.

I opened my eyes and gazed upward as the rain cascaded down. Then arms yanked at me. I was expecting the blind man who’d propelled me into the shower, but it was the less mysterious Rudi Ziegler who had hold of me.

“You’re drenched,” he tutted, tugging at the sleeves of my jacket.

“What happened?” I asked numbly. I took a step forward, lost control of my legs and slumped to the ground.

“Some crazy blind man in robes thrust you into the rain,” Ziegler said. “I’ve spent the last minute trying to drag you out. You seemed oblivious to me.”

“My mind was… elsewhere.” Then, as my senses returned, I glanced around. “Where’d the blind guy go?”

“Heaven knows,” Ziegler sighed.

“A pity,” I muttered, and stood. Ziegler helped me.

“Will you be all right?” he asked as I wobbled uncertainly.

“I’ll be fine,” I said, taking a couple of half steps. I felt more confident after that. My strength was returning. “Fine,” I repeated and smiled to show I meant it.

“The rain’s stopping,” Ziegler said. Glancing up, I saw the last drops fall. There were no clouds overhead.

“If you’re sure you’ll be OK, I really must be going,” Ziegler said. “My client won’t wait.”

“That’s fine. Go.”

Ziegler still looked concerned, but he nodded. “Are you coming?” he asked.

“In a while,” I said. “I want to rest a bit first. Dry off in the sun.”

“I can send someone to check on you.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

He paused and I flashed him a grin. He smiled in return, bade me farewell and left. Once he was gone I sat again, stared at the spot where the fallen rain was seeping into the ground and pondered the meaning of my vision, in particular the face I’d half-glimpsed at the bottom of the pool of blood.

I changed into dry clothes back home. I couldn’t get the vision out of my mind. I’d never experienced anything like that. What brought it on? The blind man? The rain? Had somebody slipped me some LSD on the sly?

Since the questions were unanswerable, I put them to one side and went in search of Paucar Wami again. After the vision it seemed more important than ever to find the fabled killer.

It was a vain search. Rumors were rife—he’d been seen in the north of the city, he’d murdered a priest in Swiss Square, he was holed up on the fifteenth floor of Party Central with The Cardinal—but none could be verified. Nobody knew where he was, what he was here for or how long he intended to stay.

Hard as it was to not focus on the vision, in the evening I let my thoughts turn toward Rudi Ziegler. If he was Nic’s killer I’d eat my beret, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was tied in with it somehow. Maybe he had referred Nic to some other mystic when she spoke of wanting to take a demon lover. I needed to find out how he dealt with clients who wanted to go a stage further, whom he sent them to.

I could have sicced one of The Cardinal’s goons on him but The Cardinal hadn’t told me the truth about where Nic was killed. I couldn’t rely on him or those who answered to him. I’d have to use my own person, someone I could trust implicitly. My options were narrow. I didn’t want to involve Bill. That left Ellen.

She was suspicious when I asked her to meet me at Cafran’s for supper. She wanted to know what I was after. I wouldn’t say. That fueled her curiosity, so she agreed to meet me at nine, which gave me two hours to talk matters over with Priscilla and get rid of her.

I dropped a progress report off at Party Central—The Cardinal hadn’t asked for regular updates but I figured it was best to keep him informed—then headed home for another change of clothes.

As before, I didn’t know how to dress for my date with Miss Perdue, but decided to play it safe—smartest suit, shoes polished until I could see the cracks in the ceiling in them, cuff links, a snazzy tie. I even ran a comb through my hair—it doesn’t take much combing—and flossed my teeth. I wouldn’t be shown up by her, no matter where she took me.

I arrived a quarter of an hour early and wished I hadn’t, as it meant fifteen extra minutes of looking like a fool. Cafran’s was a nice place but it wasn’t a suit-and-tie job. Most of its customers were older than me, dressed casually, regulars who fitted in like the rubber plants. I stuck out like a sore thumb—King Kong’s.

Priscilla was twenty minutes late but didn’t apologize. She was dressed in the skimpiest of materials, a length of green rope around her torso—barely enough to cover her breasts—and a skirt so short it was little more than a glorified belt.

“My, my,” she smiled, “look at Mr. Penguin.”

“One insult and I’m out of here,” I replied gruffly. “Let’s just get to our table.”

“The night’s young, Al.”

“But I’m not. I have business after this. I’m in a hurry.”

“Very well.” She laughed and took my arm.

We sat by the front window, where everybody could gawp at me. I settled into my chair, trying not to twitch in the stifling suit, and picked up the menu.

“You should have told me this was…” I stopped talking and listened to the music. “Is that ‘Yellow Submarine’?”

“They play all those corny old songs here,” she said. “That’s why I like it.”

“Great,” I groaned. “Makes my suit all the damn dumber.”

“Cheer up,” she giggled. “You’re distinctive. And don’t bother with the menu—since you’re in a hurry, we’ll do without the meal. A quick drink and I’m gone.” A short waiter in red suspenders, with an
i love cafran’s
badge pinned to his breast, approached. “A pi≁a colada,” Priscilla said promptly. “Al?”

“Mineral water, please.” The waiter nodded dutifully and went to fetch the drinks. We talked about the funeral and the mourners. Priscilla hadn’t noticed the blind man but knew most of the others and filled me in on their relationships with Nicola. I’d only meant to dwell on the preliminaries for a couple of minutes but one anecdote led to another and soon the time was flying by. When I found myself reminiscing about my nights of passion with Nic, I halted in mid-sentence, glanced at my watch, realized eight o’clock—and two more drinks—had come and gone and knuckled down to business.