Hell's Horizon (9 page)

“You know Nic was wearing a brooch when she was found?”

“One of mine. Yes. And an image of the sun had been carved into her back.”

I nodded at the sun symbol attached to the ceiling. “You use Incan spirit guides, don’t you?”

“Yes. They add an exotic touch.”

“Could Nic’s death tie in with any of that? Might the killer have been one of your other clients, somebody—”

“I doubt it,” he interrupted. “The Incas were as brutal as any other conquering nation, but they weren’t savages. Besides, they worshipped the sun. If Nic was intended as a sacrifice to Incan gods—which is what you seem to be suggesting—she’d have been murdered during the day, for the sun god to see. And why murder her at the Skylight? You’ve heard of the Manco Capac statue?”

I was about to say I hadn’t when I recalled The Cardinal pointing out some cranes to me. “Yes.”

“That would be the perfect location for a sacrifice. If Nic had been killed there, I’d say pursue the angle. As things stand, a much likelier explanation is that her killer noticed the brooch and copied its design, perhaps to throw a red herring into the works.”

That made sense, though I didn’t admit it out loud.

“Did she ever bring anybody else here?”

“No. I prefer to meet clients on a one-to-one basis.”

“Who introduced her to you?”

He hesitated. “One of her friends. I forget her name. She attended a few sessions, then quit not long after persuading Nicola to come. Hasn’t been back. I’ve never had a good memory for names.”

On impulse, I produced one of the photos of Priscilla I’d taken from her file, the best of a bad lot. “This her?”

He masked his look of recognition quickly—barely more than a slight lift of his eyebrows—but I’d been trained to notice the most minor body tic. “I’m not sure,” he said. “The face looks familiar but I really couldn’t say.”

He was lying. Priscilla had lied too—she’d told me she’d never been here.

I pocketed the photo and stood. “Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Ziegler.” He rose, smiling. “You don’t have any names you could pass on? Other mystics she’d have been likely to visit?”

He lifted his hands helplessly. “I could give you a dozen. But I’m not part of a network—I rarely make referrals. I have no idea who she may or may not have seen. You can try calling around but I doubt you’ll get very far. Only a two-bit operator would reveal a client’s name, and Nicola was not the sort to get involved with merchants like that. She was cautious. Lighthearted but not light-headed.”

“Well, thanks again.” I shook his hand.

“Glad to be of assistance,” he said. “She was a lovely lady. She did not deserve to meet with such a horrible end.”

“If I need to contact you again?” I asked.

“Any time. Mornings are best, when I’m at my quietest. But if it’s urgent, any time.”

“Great.”

“Take care, Mr. Jeery,” he said and closed the door.

I hurried down the stairs, the smell of blood rising from the shop below, sticking in my nostrils, to my clothes, my hair. I’d need a shower when I got home—wouldn’t do to visit The Cardinal stinking like a gutted pig.

The mystic knew Priscilla. And she knew him. I could understand Ziegler’s covering up—client confidentiality—but why would Priscilla lie about something so trivial?

I waited two hours to see The Cardinal, at the end of which I was told he would be unavailable for the remainder of the night. Cancellations weren’t rare—his time was at a premium. Members of government and foreign dignitaries had been stood up many times before me, so I didn’t take it personally. I rescheduled for three o’clock Sunday afternoon and took the elevator down to the basement, where I changed out of my uniform again.

A light breeze was blowing at my back most of the way home and I coasted along with it. As I pulled up outside my apartment block a light went on in a car parked several feet farther up. I glanced over and saw Howard Kett hunched behind the wheel, eyeing me coldly. The light went off and I knew he wanted to see me.

Leaving my bike, I went to see what Kett was after. I let myself in the passenger door. We sat in darkness for all of a minute, saying nothing, Kett staring directly ahead. He was an old-fashioned cop. Big heart, big hands, big, thick head, of Irish descent. Did a lot of community work in his spare time. Solid gold if you were a law-abiding citizen, one of hell’s demons if you weren’t. He had a special loathing for The Cardinal and those who served him.

“You’re an arrogant son of a bitch,” he finally growled.

“You came all this way just to tell me that, Howie?” He hated the nickname. “You should have phoned.”

“I came this morning but you were gone. Been sitting here more than an hour.”

“Again—the phone.”

“You were banging that Hornyak kid.” No beating around the bush. The insolence would have startled me if it had been anybody else. With Kett, I expected it.

“So what?” I said as evenly as I could.

“Why didn’t you come forward when you heard what happened?”

“No point. I was out of town when she was killed. Nothing to tell. I figured, if you wanted to question me, you’d come. And here you are.”

“Did Casey know you were seeing her?”

“No,” I lied.

“Bullshit,” Kett snarled. “I always said his friendship with you would be his downfall. If I find out he knew you were involved with her and deliberately suppressed the information, he’s finished. I’ll drum him out myself.”

“Bill’s my friend, not my confessor.” I leaned back in the seat and flicked on the overhead light. Kett immediately quenched it—he didn’t want to be seen. “What’s up, Howie? Planning to beat a confession out of me?”

“Like you wouldn’t have a team of The Cardinal’s finest lawyers on me in ten seconds flat if I did.” He prodded me in the chest. “But I’ll tell you this, Jeery, if you bother Nicholas Hornyak again, I’ll do more than slap you around.”

“What’s Nick Hornyak got to do with anything?” I asked quietly.

“I know you were pestering him.”

“How?”

“I have my sources,” he said smugly.

“All I did was ask some questions. He didn’t—”

“You don’t have the right to ask shit!” Kett roared, then lowered his voice. “You were humping the broad—so what? So was every leprous son of a whore with a one-inch excuse for a dick. Don’t interfere, Jeery. This isn’t your business.”

“Whose is it? Yours?” I laughed. “You don’t have a hope in hell of finding her killer.”

“That ain’t here and that ain’t there. I’m paid to check on dumb bitches who go and get themselves fucked over. You aren’t. I don’t want you sniffing around.”

“You can’t stop me.”

“No?”

I smiled in the darkness. “No.”

Kett cursed quietly. “Let’s talk about this reasonably. We don’t have to be at each other’s throats. You were right when you said we probably won’t find her killer, and if you want to waste your time chasing him, I won’t try blocking you—though I could if I wanted,” he insisted. “But I’ll leave you be as long as you don’t go meddling where you shouldn’t.”

“I’m listening, Howie.”

“Nicholas Hornyak didn’t kill her.”

“I never said he did.”

“So why question him?”

“That’s a dumb question for a cop to ask,” I chided him.

“OK,” he bristled. “You wanted to learn more about her, where she came from, what sort of a life she led. You wanted to rub him up for clues and contacts. I get it. But that’s where it ends. Don’t go near him again.”

“Why? Has he got something to hide?”

“No. But he likes his privacy.”

“Don’t we all?”

“Sure, but Hornyak’s got the money to protect it. He has friends in high places, who know people like me, who don’t like it when he runs to them with tales of being manhandled by some punk ex-humper-of-his-sister.”

“I didn’t manhandle him. I asked some questions. He answered politely. We parted on good terms. I don’t see what the problem is.”

“I don’t care what you see or what you think,” Kett sneered. “I’ve warned you nicely—stay away from Nicholas Hornyak. Next time it might not be a cop that’s sent. And it might be more than a verbal warning.”

“You threatening me, Howie?”

He laughed. “Now who’s asking the dumb questions?”

“These
friends
of Nick’s,” I said slowly. “Don’t suppose you’d care to pass their names on to me, so I could drop them a line and let them know—”

“Out,” he snapped, reaching over and opening the door. I swung my legs out and stepped onto the pavement. “This conversation never happened,” he hissed. I smiled at him in answer and slammed the door in his face.

Upstairs I dug out my notebook and jotted down a brief transcription of my encounter with Kett. When I was done I read over what I’d written, scratched behind my ears with the tip of my pen and wondered what it added up to. I’d said nothing to Nick to warrant such treatment. I’d had no reason to suspect him of any involvement with the murder. Until this.

It didn’t make sense. Sending Kett after me had only raised my suspicions. I found it hard to believe the sharp guy I’d found playing pool in the Red Throat would make such a clumsy move, implicating himself when there was no need. He might be toying with me—using the ever-serious Kett to mess with my head—but so soon after his sister’s death?

Something was foul. Howie or Nick had made a dumb move by coming down on me. But the fact that I couldn’t figure out which it was, or why they’d done it, hinted that I was dumber than both of them. The sooner The Cardinal pulled me off this crazy case and put me back on patrol at Party Central, the better.

8

I
was passing a peaceful Sunday morning in bed, enjoying the lazy silence, when someone knocked on the door. I groaned, shrugged off the covers, pulled on a pair of shorts and a shirt, and went to see who it was. I discovered a skinny mulatto kid on the landing, leaning on a skateboard almost as big as himself.

“Help you, son?” I said as pleasantly as I could.

“Al Jeery?”

“Yeah.”

“Fabio asked me to fetch you. Says he needs your hands.”

It had been a couple of years since Fabio last called but I knew instantly what he wanted. “Give me a few minutes to change,” I said, and slipped back inside.

I asked the kid where we were going when I was dressed but he wouldn’t tell me—insisted on leading the way. He hopped on his board, waited for me to mount my bike, then set off, cutting a fair pace through the quiet streets. I had to be sharp to keep up, especially when he turned corners in a screech of dust and vanished halfway down dark alleys while I was struggling to brake and correct my course.

It was a muggy day and I soon began to wish I’d stuck with the shorts, but it was too late to turn back. I just had to sweat and bear it.

My guide led me deep into the south of the city, its literal heart of darkness, where members of the Kool Kats Klub feared to tread. It was familiar territory—I’d grown up here—but I hadn’t been back much since marrying Ellen and moving out.

The skater stopped outside a six-story building of sorry-ass apartments, most of which were occupied by squatters or those existing just above the poverty line. “He’s in 4B,” the kid sniffed.

“Thanks.” I started up.

“Hey! He said you’d tip.”

I eyed the grifter suspiciously. I doubted he’d have skated all the way over and back unless he’d been paid in advance. But I have a soft spot for cocky runts, having been one myself. I tossed a balled-up note that he caught in midair. Leaped back on his board and disappeared. Didn’t occur to him to thank me.

I climbed the creaking stairs to the fourth and found Fabio in a chair outside the apartment, sipping a beer, waiting patiently. Fabio was the city’s oldest pimp, a hundred and three if rumors were to be believed. He’d been a big shot once, long before The Cardinal came to power, but these days he eked out a meager living from a handful of aging ladies of the night. He called them his retirement posse.

“Morning, Algeria,” he greeted me in his slow drawl.

I took his wrinkly, age-spotted hand and shook it gently. He’d been good to me when I was growing up. Running errands for him had kept me in pocket money and he’d watched out for me when my mother died.

“How’re the hands?” he asked, turning them over to examine my palms.

“Haven’t used them a lot lately,” I sighed. “Not since you last called me out. The drink put paid to that.”

“You’re off it now though, ain’t you?”

“Trying.”

Fabio stroked the smooth palms. “Reckon you can still work the magic?”

“I’ll try,” I said, “but I can’t promise.”

“That’ll do for me.” He stood and pushed through the open door. A large black woman was on the floor of the tiny but tidy living room, playing with a boy no more than six or seven years old. She looked up at me and smiled.

“Algeria, this is Florence,” Fabio introduced us. “Flo, this is Al Jeery, the guy I was telling you about.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Jeery.” She had a warm voice.

“Same here, ma’am,” I replied, then cocked an eyebrow at Fabio. “Her or the kid?”

“The kid. Father’s doing fifteen—killed a guy in a brawl. Used to be pretty free with his belt when he was around. Maybe worse, but we ain’t sure about that. Kid’s been having nightmares for months. Flo’s tried explaining that he don’t have nothing to fear, the bastard’s locked up and won’t be coming back, but it ain’t helped. He’s a bright kid but falling to pieces. Barely sleeps, tired all day, gets into fights. She had to take him out of school.”

“He should see a psychiatrist,” I said.

“Look around,” Fabio snapped. “This look like the Skylight? Flo’s one of my girls but she’s barely working—spends all her time fussing over the kid. She can’t afford no goddamn psychiatrist.”

“Is that why you’re helping her, because she’s not earning for you?”

He snickered. “You know me inside out, Algeria. But that don’t change the facts—this kid needs help, and it’s you or it’s nothing.”

Fabio knew I was a sucker for a lost cause. This wasn’t the first time he’d tugged at my heartstrings to manipulate me, but I never could bring myself to hate him for it.

“I’ll give it a go,” I sighed, removing my jacket. “But if he resists, or it doesn’t work first time, I won’t push.”

“It’ll work,” Fabio assured me, then nodded at Flo to stand.

“What’s your son’s name?” I asked.

“Drake.” She was nervous. “You won’t hurt him, will you?”

I smiled at her. “No. Fabio’s explained what I do?”

“Kind of.”

“There’s no risk involved. It works or it doesn’t. Worst case, Drake goes on like he is. Do you have a pack of cards?” She handed them over. She’d been holding them since before I came and they were warm from the heat of her hands.

I knelt and waited for the kid to look up and catch my eye. When he did I smiled. “Hi, Drake. My name’s Al. I’m a friend of your mother’s.”

He studied me suspiciously. “Are you gonna take me away?” He had a thin, reedy voice.

“Why do you think that?”

“My daddy said if I wasn’t good, a man would come and take me away.”

“But you’ve been good, haven’t you?”

“I been kicked out of school,” he said, half-ashamed, half-proud.

“That’s nothing. I got kicked out of four schools when I was a kid.” It was the truth. “Does you good to have a break from all that teaching.”

“What were you kicked out for?” Drake asked.

“Can’t say. Not in front of a lady.” I winked at Flo. “Want to see a card trick?”

He perked up. “Is it a good one?”

“Best around.”

“My friend Spike does tricks. He taught me a few.”

“I bet he’s never shown you one like this.” I started shuffling slowly. “Keep your eyes on the cards.” I shuffled for a minute, then slapped four cards down on the floor. “Pick one but don’t tell me.” He ran his eyes over the cards. “Picked?” He nodded. I gathered the cards and shuffled again. “Watch the deck. Don’t look away even for a second. Trick won’t work if you do.”

I speeded up the shuffle, speaking softly, telling him to keep watching. I flipped the deck over, so he could see the faces of the cards, and moved up another few notches, telling him to watch the colors, focus on the numbers, concentrate.

After a couple of minutes I laid down another four cards. “Is one of them the card you picked?” He gazed in silence, as if he wasn’t sure, then slowly shook his head. I picked them up and shuffled again. This time I didn’t have to tell him to watch the cards—his eyes followed of their own accord.

Three or four minutes later I laid the cards aside and waved a hand in front of Drake’s wide-open eyes—no reaction. I smiled tightly at Fabio and Flo. “It’s working. Have a pillow ready for when I’m through.”

I placed the index and middle fingers of both hands on either side of Drake’s head and softly massaged his temples. I crossed my legs and sat opposite the boy, hunched over so our heads were level.

“Look into my eyes, Drake,” I whispered. “Focus on my pupils. Do you see cards in them? Colors?” He nodded. “Concentrate on the colors and count to fifty inside your head. Can you count that high?” He shook his head. “Then count to ten, five times. Can you do that?” A nod. “Good boy. When you’re done, close your eyes and sleep. But carry on listening to what I’m saying, OK?”

I continued rubbing his temples while our gazes were locked. I tried not to blink. I spoke as he counted, commenting on the colors, the bloodred hearts, the night-black clubs, the sparkling diamonds, the plain spades. When he closed his eyes I took a deep breath, let my lids shut and pressed my forehead to his.

“Breathe slowly,” I said. “Take a breath, hold it for five seconds, let it out, then breathe again.” I breathed the same way and within a minute we were coordinated, lungs working in harmony, as if connected. My fingers never stopped at his temples, neither slowing nor quickening.

“I want you to think about your nightmares, Drake. Who appears in them?” I felt his frown and his head shook slightly. “It’s all right. You can tell me. Nobody can hurt you while I’m here. Who appears in your dreams?”

“Daddy,” he said quietly.

“Think about your dad. Focus on him and the way he looks when you sleep at night, the things he does. Are you doing it, Drake?”

“Yes.” He was frightened but he trusted me.

“Now I’m gonna help you push the nightmares away. You feel my head against yours?” A nod. “Imagine there’s a tunnel between them, linking us. It’s wide, as wide as it needs to be. You see it, Drake?”

“Black,” he whispered.

“Yes. But you needn’t be afraid. It’s only a tunnel. There’s red in it too, if you look closely. Can you see the red?”

A pause, then, with excitement, “Yes! Red. Like the cards.”

“Exactly. That’s all it is, Drake, a tunnel of cards. Are you afraid of it?”

“No.” Positive this time.

“Good. Now take those nightmares, all the pictures of your father, and push them down the tunnel. It’s easy. They’ll slide along like ice cream through a cone on a really hot day. Are you pushing?”

“Yes.”

“Push steadily, until they’re gone from your head, every one of them, so that they come out the other end of the tunnel, on
my
side.”

“They’re bad dreams. I don’t want to give them to you.”

“It’s OK,” I said, touched by his concern. “They can’t hurt me. I know how to deal with them.”

A long silence followed. I felt Drake pushing as told, his tiny muscles quivering as he thrust. I pictured his bad thoughts spilling into my mind and mentally slid them to the rear of my brain as they gushed in, rendering them harmless.

Eventually he went limp and started to fall away from me. I held him in place with my fingers and said, “Don’t move, Drake, not yet. We aren’t finished.”

“I’m tired,” he moaned.

“Me too. But it won’t be much longer.” When he was straight, I rubbed the sides of his head again. “Are all the nightmares gone?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“Good. Now I want you to close the tunnel. Just pull at a few of the cards and the whole lot will come tumbling down. Are you pulling, Drake?”

“Yes.”

“Are the cards collapsing?”

“No, they’re… Yes! Now they are. Falling everywhere.”

“Is the tunnel gone?”

“Almost. It’s going… it’s… gone.”

I sighed deeply and peeled my head away from the boy’s. I left my fingers where they were and kept my eyes shut. “When I remove my hands, I want you to lie down and rest. You’ve done a lot of good work today. Don’t fight sleep when it comes—you’ve got nothing to be scared of anymore. The nightmares are gone. You got rid of them; they won’t ever come back.”

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes. You pushed them down the tunnel, then tore it apart. There’s no way back for them. Understand?”

A pause, then, “No way back.”

“Gone for good?”

He nodded.

“Count to ten now, Drake, and when you get to the end, I’ll let go and you can sleep. Do you want to sleep?”

“Uh-huh,” he yawned.

“Start counting.”

When he reached ten he toppled. I caught him by the shoulders, then opened my eyes and called for the pillow. Fabio laid it on the floor and I leaned the boy down, positioning his head so it rested on the soft material, then tucking his arms in and straightening his legs.

“There,” I said, sitting up, exhausted. “He should be all right now. He might be a little confused when he wakes. Treat him carefully for a day or two, give him plenty to eat, keep him inside. If he seems OK after that, let him out to play, then try him at school when they let him back in.”

“Will the dreams return?” Flo asked, standing over the sleeping boy, a look of uncertain hope etched into her features.

“I doubt it. If they do, send for me and I’ll try again. But he should be fine.” I told Fabio I’d only give it one shot, but that was before meeting the boy. It’s never easy to be clinical once you become personally involved.

“You want something to eat or drink, Algeria?” Fabio asked.

“A glass of water and some fresh air.”

“Coming right up.”

Flo coughed and looked sheepish. “I can’t pay you, but in a month or two—”

I raised a hand. “Send me a card next Christmas, tell me how he’s doing and we’ll call it quits.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jeery,” she sobbed, taking my hands and squeezing hard.

“Thank
you
, ma’am,” I replied, “for trusting me.”