Procession of the Dead (21 page)

“What are we going to do?” she asked.

“I’m going after him,” I told her.

“Wami?”

“Yes.”

“Are you crazy?”

“I have to. If he killed Adrian and the other Ayuamarcans, he’s the only one apart from The Cardinal who can tell us anything. If I can talk to him, strike some kind of a deal, maybe he’ll talk. It’s worth a shot.”

“You know where he is?”

“No. But I can find out.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“That would be stupid.”

“We’re safer together,” she disagreed. “We can watch each other’s backs. I don’t want to be alone, not with a killer like Wami in the game.”

I hesitated. “I don’t want to put you in any more danger than I have to.”

“Who broke into Party Central?” she snorted. “I’m not a kid, Capac.”

She was right. This was her business too. She was in this as deep as me and had done as much—more—as I had to deal with it. “Meet me in Belle Square, half an hour from now,” I said. “There’s a beer garden near the south side. I’ll be behind it. Bring your bike.”

She was there on time and we took off with barely a word to each other. “Where are we going?” she asked over her shoulder.

“Hmm?” I was feeling her waist, remembering her exciting flesh. She slapped my fingers and repeated the question. “I don’t know. Somewhere in the east. Keep going. Hopefully I’ll remember the directions along the way.”

We twisted and turned through the convoluted east of the city for hours. I tried recalling the route Adrian had taken but my memory wasn’t that good. In the end we stopped and asked for directions. The people were slow to respond, but finally we found one who knew the old man and was prepared to talk for a price.

He was out on the porch when we pulled up, rocking in his chair, watching the world. He glanced at us with interest as we dismounted and approached.

“Hello, Fabio,” I greeted him.

“Howdy right back,” he said. “It’s… don’t tell me… Capac Raimi! Right?”

“The one and only.”

“Heh. Old Fabio don’t forget much. Don’t know your pretty girl though.”

“Ama Situwa,” she introduced herself, leaning forward to shake his hand.

He nodded, filing the name away. “Nice to know ya. You attached to this guy or are you independent?”

“She’s attached,” I told him, smiling. Then I dived straight in. “You recall what I came about before?”

“Sure. Paucar Wami. I wouldn’t forget anything to do with him in a hurry.”

“I need to know more about him, Fabio. Where to find him.”

The old man’s eyes narrowed. “Do you now?” he purred. “Why?”

“I want to talk to him.”

“Talk to Paucar Wami?” Fabio laughed. “He’s not much for talking, not by any account.”

“Do you know where he is?” I persisted.

“If I did, I wouldn’t tell. I’m not sending his enemies after him. I know only too damn well he’d kill you and come looking for the snitch. I ain’t getting on the wrong side of that mother.”

“Please,” Ama said, squatting. “We’re not his enemies. We just want to talk.” She grasped his hands, rubbed them gently and smiled. “Please?”

Fabio looked at the hands, at her, at me. And grinned. “Ain’t it funny how a pretty lady always thinks she can find out anything from an old fart if she smiles nice and throws him the eye? They must think we’re fools.” He looked down at the hands again and his eyes crinkled with memories. “And they’re right.” He lifted his head. “You really just want to talk?”

“That’s all.”

“You’ll keep my name out of it?”

“We won’t say a word.”

“Hmm.” He considered the matter. “Now, I don’t know if this is his place for sure,” he eventually drawled, “but he was spotted there a few days back. Man who saw him only glimpsed him, but those snakes are distinctive. If he’s not there, I don’t know where he is.”

“Thank you,” Ama said softly, rubbing his wrists.

“Damn old fool is all I am,” he growled, then smiled and gave her the address.

We pulled up at the apartment building and killed the engine. If Wami was here, he was on the sixth floor. I took a deep breath, stepped down and confronted Ama. “I’m going up by myself,” I said, quickly raising a hand as she tried to interrupt. “Don’t argue. There’s no point more than one of us risking it. Besides, we don’t know for sure that he’s after you.”

“Chances are he is,” she snapped.

“Chances are,” I admitted. “But if he’s not, it would be crazy to draw attention to yourself. Leave this one to me, Ama. You know it makes sense.”

She didn’t like it but she knew I was right. She pulled out her gun and offered it to me. I was tempted but shook my head. I’d be a fool if I thought I could barge in and overpower a trained killer like Wami. I remembered him dropping from the sky and dispatching Johnny Grace and his men like a tiger. I took out the knife I still had from the night before and gave it to her.

“Wait a couple of hours,” I said. “If I don’t return, or if you see a bald, black killer come out alone, get the hell out of here as quick as you can.”

“Do you think you can pull this off?” she asked.

“I doubt it.” I smiled and kissed her. A long kiss, slow and passionate. When we parted there were tears in her eyes. Probably in mine too. “Is this where I say ‘I love you’?” I chirped.

“No. This is where I say, ‘See you soon,’ ” she replied.

It was an old building from the early twentieth century. The walls were riddled with cracks, holes, damp patches, burns and faded bloodstains. The doors were barred. Several apartments had been burned out. Squatters abounded. All the people I passed walked in a crouch, hunched over in anticipation of an attack. The only people here who didn’t live in fear were the younger children who had yet to learn the cruel ways of the world.

The apartment I wanted was on the sixth floor. There were no bars, no bell, no mail slot. The door had been green once but the paint was old, discolored and peeling. I could sense Ama watching, though I didn’t turn to check. Taking a deep breath, I rapped on the door with my knuckles.

There was silence. This was a largely deserted floor, most of the rooms along the landing blackened and bereft of occupants. I heard a noise to my left and, glancing over, spied a tiny old woman coming out of her home with a shopping bag. She looked suspiciously at me, turned and made for the far set of stairs. I smiled and faced the door again.

It was open and Paucar Wami was standing there, grinning, the snakes on his cheeks showing their constantly unveiled fangs.

“Capac Raimi,” he said softly. “What a pleasant surprise.”

I gulped a couple of times, then gasped, “I want to talk.”

“You didn’t want to talk this morning,” he said. “Do you make a habit of taking early baths in public fountains?”

“You saw me? But… why didn’t you… ?”

“Come in,” he said, standing aside. “We have much to discuss.”

I walked past automatically. Dimly I heard him close the door. He didn’t bolt it. I noted that fact in case I had to make a break for freedom later.

It was a tiny, cramped pad. A huge freezer lay stretched along one wall, a tall fridge beside it, mattress and sleeping bag on the other side of the room, a cabinet covering the window at the rear. The bulb was barely bright enough to light the area directly beneath. It was a room of oppressive shadows. There was a door in one wall which doubtless led to a toilet and shower.

“It’s not much,” Wami trilled, “but it’s home. You’ll have to sit on the floor. I don’t hold with chairs. In a tight situation a chair can be an obstacle.”

I sat on the bare floor and crossed my legs. Wami went to his mattress and sat on the edge, hands resting on his thighs. He was studying me with an unreadable expression. “What do you wish to talk about?” he asked.

“You were following me today,” I said. “Why didn’t you kill me?”

“Why should I?”

“Isn’t that what you do? Kill people?”

“I let
some
live.” He smiled and the heads of the snakes lifted menacingly a couple of centimeters. “It would be a lonely world if I killed you all.”

“But you’ve been hired to get rid of me,” I said.

“No.”

“You haven’t?”

“You would be dead if I had.”

“Then why were you following me?”

“You interest me,” he said. “You’re an Ayuamarcan. They’re an old hobby of mine. I like to keep up with them when I’m in town. I’ve been following you since we met in the alley.”

“Adrian too?”

“Adrian?” His face was blank.

“Adrian Arne. The man who was with me.”

“Ah.” He smiled serenely. “Some things do not change.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He looked at the cabinet and his eyes narrowed. He was pondering something. “How much do you know of me?” he asked, fingers rising to stroke the tattooed snakes.

“Not much. You’re an assassin. You used to work for The Cardinal. Everybody who knows you fears you. They say you’re the meanest, coldest man alive.”

He smiled modestly, liking what he heard. “It’s not an easy task, being the most feared man in a city like this. I have had to work hard for my reputation. But I am only an occasional assassin. When I’m in the mood, or if an old acquaintance asks. Most of the time I kill for my own reasons. I am a pioneer. I was one of the first real serial killers, back in the days before it was fashionable. For more than forty years I’ve blazed trails others can only dream of. I’ve adopted more guises than the police can count. I’ve been the Black Angel, Moonshine, the Weasel, Eyeball Ernie and more. I’ve taken life in every corner of the world, rich and poor, young and old, male and female.

“I kill because I am a killer,” he said. “It’s that simple. It’s who I am, what I do. When I kill, I’m being true to myself. There are no hidden motives, no perverse longings. Do you think it’s wrong, Capac Raimi, to be true to oneself?”

“When you put it that way…”

“There’s no other way to put it,” he said, then added conversationally, “I keep notes of my killings. I write of every one. I have dozens of notepads, full of times and places, names, methods, results. That’s how I relax in my spare time. I write about my work and dwell upon it at length. I enjoy reading about my old murders. The problem with being responsible for so many is one tends to forget a lot of the details. One death is much the same as any other. They blend.

“I’m thirsty,” he said. “Will you fetch a beer from the fridge? You may have one yourself if you wish.”

I felt uneasy having my back to him, but I didn’t think he was going to kill me, not yet. I opened the door of the fridge and looked for the beer. The fridge was full of jars with hand-applied labels and contents I didn’t want to think about. I ignored those easily enough. What I couldn’t ignore was the child’s head near the top, staring out at me with ruined, innocent eyes. It had been neatly severed and allowed to drain. There was a bowl underneath to catch the last few drops and, as I stood rooted to the spot, I saw a pearl of blood swell and fall.

“The beer’s on the second shelf from the top,” Wami said pleasantly. “Behind the head.”

I repressed a shiver of revulsion. I had a feeling there was a lot riding on this. A wrong move now and that face would be the last I’d ever see. Reaching out, I gently took the head by the ears and moved it to one side. The flesh was cold, scaly, a texture I’d never forget. When there was space, I reached past and grabbed a couple of cans, then laid them on a lower shelf while I returned the head to its previous position. I looked into those young eyes—five? six?—one last time, retrieved the beers and closed the door.

Wami was emotionless as I handed him the can. But, as I was taking my hand away, he suddenly grasped it. I tried to jerk free but he was too strong. He smiled and shook his head slightly. I stopped struggling. Without saying a word he put his can down and closed my fingers into a fist. Then he took my index finger and pulled it out so it was pointing straight ahead. He leaned back so his chin was sticking up. Slowly he guided my hand forward, bringing the tip of my finger to the spot beneath his lip where the heads of the snakes twined around each other. I stared at their painted mouths, their venomous fangs. Then he touched my finger to the flesh.

There was a sudden burning sensation. I yelped and dragged my hand back. He let it go and picked up his beer, saying nothing. I rubbed the finger and examined it. There were no bite marks but there was a small red swelling. I sucked the finger and studied it some more. The flesh wasn’t broken and the redness was already beginning to fade.

“How did—,” I began, only to have him cut in.

“There’s a file over there,” he said, nodding toward the cabinet. “Bring it to me.”

The cabinet was loaded with files, notebooks and loose pages. I looked up and down a couple of times, wondering which he wanted. I was on the verge of asking when I saw it, a small file halfway up,
ayuamarca
scrawled roughly in the top right corner. I handed it over. He opened it and took out two sheets of paper. Turned to the second and studied it. Grunted, found a red pen and made a mark. He showed me the page, pointing to the bottom. The name he’d made the mark beside was Adrian’s.

“Adrian Arne,” he said, passing me the sheets. “Sit. Don’t look at them yet.” I did as ordered. “I don’t know this Adrian Arne. As far as I am aware, we never met. I don’t recall him being with us in the alley, or writing his name.

“I noticed something many years ago,” he went on. “One day, perusing my older journal entries, I spotted a couple of names I had no memory of. I’d described killing them, so I must have, but I couldn’t recall doing it. Confused, I went through my records—a lengthy task—and found six names, half a dozen murders which didn’t fit in with my memories. I was disturbed, naturally, but also intrigued. Madness has always fascinated me. If I was losing my memory, it might be the first sign of a slide into something darker, an abyss I’d always longed to explore. I considered it an opportunity, a chance to experience life from a different perspective.

“Alas, the condition didn’t worsen.” He looked genuinely glum. “I was able to operate as efficiently as always. I didn’t find myself making mistakes, drooling in my sleep or coming to my senses in strange places. I was the same Paucar Wami I’d always been, bar the memory lapses.