City of the Snakes (16 page)

“My doctors encouraged me to talk about it when I first arrived,” he says, “but when they saw how much it pained me, they taught me how to deal with it without confronting it head-on. That’s where a lot of my troubles lay, either running from those memories or dwelling on them too much. They still haunt me, but nowhere near as much as they used to.”

I nod, then clear my throat, hating myself for opening old wounds, but needing to know. “I was with Bill at the end.”

Leo stares at me oddly. Then his eyes light up. “Of course! God, how
could I be so dense?
Al Jeery
. You were with Bill when…” His eyes go dull again.

“He was in so much pain,” I murmur. “Death was a relief.”

“Do you…” Leo gulps. “Do you have any idea why he did it? The police said he killed people and blew himself up, but I don’t… I never believed…”

I could destroy him with the truth. Part of me wants to—to hurt Bill as he hurt me—but I came here to learn, not to harm. “The police got it wrong,” I mutter, the lie bitter on my lips. “Bill had been tracking a killer. He found and executed him. One of the killer’s partners framed and butchered Bill in retaliation. I tried telling the cops but they wouldn’t listen.”

“I knew it!” Leo gasps, crying again, but with relief this time. “I knew there was more to it than they said. Bill wasn’t evil. He didn’t take his own life.”

“Of course not,” I agree with a wan smile, then frown. “The last person he mentioned was Jane. He said he was sorry for what happened, that he was looking forward to seeing her in the next world. I tried asking him about her but it was too late. He…” I leave the rest unsaid and keep a sly eye on Leo, hoping he’ll take the bait.

Leo wrestles with it in silence, then his features relax. “It was the summer of the riots,” he says in a soft voice, referring to a time when the city endured several months of race-related violence. More than a hundred people died, and much of the city—especially in the east—was burned to the ground. “It was hot then, like now. Jane was nine. She loved the sun. Couldn’t wait for vacation, so she could go swimming every day. Then she went missing. She was kidnapped.”

I start to smile, feeling the pieces of the puzzle fall into place, but quickly hide it before Leo sees. “Go on,” I say encouragingly.

“Another girl went missing at the same time—Margaret Crowe. She turned up a few days later, shaken and afraid, but alive. Jane didn’t.”

Leo stops, his eyes twin pools of pain. I wait for him to continue. When he doesn’t, my prodding is somewhat sharper than intended. “
And?
”

“Nothing,” he whispers. “She stayed lost. The police searched for a long time. We searched too—my stepfather hired private detectives—but
she was never seen or heard from again. For a long time we believed—hoped—she was alive, but a year after she was taken, we received something in the mail…”

His expression is so dreadful, I’m not sure I want him to carry on. I almost ask him to stop but he blurts out the rest before I can. “It was her hair. Tied with her favorite ribbon. There was a note. ‘Hair today, gone tomorrow. Ho ho ho.’ ”

My eyes close comprehendingly. There’s no mistaking my father’s sick sense of humor. I see now how Bill ended up so twisted with hate. At the peak of his taunting of Bill, Wami must have kidnapped the girls. He probably told Bill to kill Margaret Crowe or he’d kill Jane. Bill wasn’t able to do it, so Wami released the Crowe girl and killed young Jane Casey.

The mystery has eaten away at me for ten years. I still don’t understand why Bill sought such a warped form of revenge—setting me after Wami in the hope that I’d kill him—but I now know what lay behind it. In a strange way, knowledge of the tragedy is a relief. At the back of my mind I nursed the suspicion that Bill had been lying when he said he ruined my life to get even with Wami. I thought he might have been truly evil, and had simply toyed with me for kicks. At least now I know his claim to revenge was genuine, that I suffered for a heartfelt reason, not because some inhuman psycho was in search of a thrill.

“The family fell apart,” Leo says hollowly. “The hair confirmed that she was dead. Paul, my stepfather, collapsed with a stroke a few days later. He lived another three years, paralyzed and speechless. He had to be spoon-fed. My mother blamed herself for the death and took to self-torment, physically punishing herself with flames and knives. We had to commit her. Some months later, shortly before Paul died, she took her own life. In many ways it was a blessing.”

“And Bill?” I ask quietly. “How did
he
take it?”

“I don’t know,” Leo says. “Bill cut himself off emotionally from the rest of us, long before we got proof that she’d been killed. He wouldn’t join in the search. He never gave any sign that he thought she was alive. He detached himself and went into private mourning.”

Because he knew about Paucar Wami. He knew there was no hope. I can see it from Bill’s viewpoint—Jane’s life was his to spare, but his
humanity stayed his hand. He hadn’t been able to kill Margaret Crowe, so his sister died in her place. What a terrible burden. No wonder he threw himself into revenge so thoroughly—it must have been the only way he could continue, the one way he could stave off madness and function as an ordinary human being. Without revenge to occupy him, he’d have crumbled completely.

(Part of me tries to comment on the similarity between Bill’s situation and my own, but I silence that voice instantly.)

“Did Bill ever mention someone called Paucar Wami?” I ask, knowing it’s a pointless question. Leo wouldn’t be sitting here quietly if he knew the name of his sister’s killer.

“Yes,” Leo says, startling me. “How strange that you should know about that. He often moaned the name in his sleep, and once I found him scratching it on a wall in our garage. He was using his fingernails. His fingers were torn and bloody, but he went on, even after I tried pulling him away.”

“This was when you were still a kid?”

“Yes.”

For a moment I’m confused—why hasn’t Leo forgotten about the Ayuamarcan? Then it hits me. Only the memories of the people in the city were wiped clean by the
villacs’
mystical green fog. Those living outside weren’t affected.

“Did you ever ask Bill about Wami?” I inquire.

“Once. He said Paucar Wami was the devil, and if he ever heard the name on my lips again, he’d slice out my tongue.” He looks up, his eyes bloodshot and wet with tears. “Do
you
know who Paucar Wami was?”

“A killer. I think he murdered your sister.”

Leo nods weakly. “I guessed as much. He’s the man Bill killed, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” I lie, maybe the kindest word I’ll ever speak.

“I’m glad,” Leo says firmly. “A murderer like that deserved to die.”

I rub the muscles at the back of my neck and let out a tired but satisfied groan. “I hope I haven’t stirred up too many unpleasant memories.”

“No,” Leo smiles. “I’m glad you came. I feel better knowing the truth. It’s like you’ve given Bill back to me after those other people tried to take him away with lies.”

I study Leo’s eyes and see a peace in them that wasn’t there when I arrived. His life will never be perfect—it can’t be, not with all that he’s suffered—but it won’t be quite as grim as it was. Part of me envies him that peace, but for the most part I’m pleased for him.

“I’ll go now,” I say, standing and stretching. Then I remember the story I fed him and quickly tie up the loose ends. “Those bastards won’t get any further with their stories about Bill. I’ll put a stop to them.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Leo says. “Let them lie all they want. I don’t care now that I know the truth.” He leans against the tree and sighs. “Would you mind if I didn’t see you off? I’d rather sit here and rest awhile, think about Bill.”

“That’s fine. It was nice meeting you, Leo.”

“You too, Al,” he murmurs, closing his eyes and snuggling up to the tree.

I watch the wretched old man for a few seconds, thinking about Bill, Paucar Wami and the dark secrets of the past. Then, skirting the central building—I don’t feel up to another conversation with Nora—I locate my driver and tell him to get me back to the station as quickly as he can. I’m anxious to return to my ugly, cramped but familiar and comforting hovel in the city.

I
t’s a relief to be back. When I got off the train last night I walked home, even though it took ages. It was like a stroll through paradise, soaking up the noise and stench of the city, relishing the feel of the pavement beneath my feet, the crush of the crowds outside movie theaters and in public squares, the intensity of the lights, the overpowering, converging buildings that block out most of the sky and make me feel as if I’m inside a dome. It’s not healthy, this fear I’ve developed of the world beyond. Addictions are dangerous, and addiction to a city—especially one with as polluted a soul as this—is downright perverse. But I can’t help myself. I’ve devoted my last ten years to darkness and insanity, and in the eyes of the world I’m a monster. I need somewhere to hide from those condemning eyes—a lair.

It was late when I got home, and I was tired, so I stayed in and wrote a report of my meeting with Leo. I read through it several times once it was finished, in case it would spark any new ideas. Then I burned it. This apartment has been burgled twice and might be again—it’s not the safest of neighborhoods. I wouldn’t want such a sensitive document falling into someone else’s hands.

I’d like to pursue the Bill angle—I toy with the idea of abducting Leo and putting out word that I have him and won’t release him unless Bill shows his face—but I can’t risk pissing off Ford Tasso. If he learns I’ve
been hunting for Bill instead of for his Cardinal, he could bring the full wrath of Party Central down upon me.

So, putting the mystery of Bill and Paucar Wami to one side, I return to the Capac Raimi puzzle. I spend Tuesday locating Ama Situwa’s friends. Most are easy to track down. I contact them by phone and ask about her, pretending to be an insurance agent, trying to find her in order to pay out on a premium. Only one of them—Shelly Odone—can recall Cafran Reed’s temporary daughter.

“Ama and I were great friends. We enjoyed some wild nights on the town.” She giggles at the memories. Shelly lives abroad, with the man she married eight years ago. She left the city shortly before Ferdinand Dorak died. She wasn’t here when the brainwashing fog was working its wonders. That’s why she remembers Ama.

“Did you ever hear from her after you moved?” I ask.

“No. I called the restaurant a few times, but she must have had a major row with her father because he wouldn’t even admit to having a daughter. Will you let me know if you find her? I’d love to hear what she’s been up to.”

No luck with Situwa’s favored restaurants, bars, clubs, beauty salons, shops or gym. I do the rounds of all of them, Wednesday and Thursday, in Al Jeery guise, again pretending to be an insurance agent.

I break from my investigations on Thursday evening to attend a book auction. Many rare first editions in the biggest sale to hit the city in six or seven years. I weave in and out of the crowd of excited bookworms in my security guard clothes, scanning the faces of elderly men, searching for Bill. I leave an hour before the conclusion, bemused by the frenzied bidding and increasingly crazy prices fetched by the novels.

Later, as Paucar Wami, I visit a couple of the bars and clubs I hit earlier, and convince the managers to pass me copies of their surveillance discs, which I’ll sift through, watching closely in case Ama made an appearance and was caught on camera. A shot in the dark, but I have to try. I’ll sift through the society columns in papers and magazines too, studying photos. I can do that in Party Central—they have copies of all the city’s periodicals on file. It won’t be fun, and I doubt it’ll lead anywhere, but it’s all part of a detective’s sorry lot.

Friday morning, I purchase a pair of TV sets and DVD players, using the credit card Mags sent me the day after I accepted the case. I have them delivered and I ask the team—a middle-aged man and his teenage son—to hook up the equipment. They say that they know nothing about that, they’re just the monkeys who lug this stuff around. One generous tip later, they become instant experts, and I’m soon in business.

I crack open a beer, then settle back and play two discs simultaneously, eyes flicking lizard-like from one TV to the other, drinking in faces, comparing them to Ama Situwa’s, dismissing most automatically. A few cause me to hit the pause button, but on closer study they aren’t my woman and it’s back to the action, watching, waiting, blinking as seldom as possible.

One of the discs runs out before the other. I let the second get to the end before ejecting both and inserting a fresh pair. A short break to rest my eyes, then it’s back to the discs, the silence of the apartment disturbed only by my breathing and the soft whirring of the DVD players.

I’m on my fourth set of discs when my cell rings. I’m glad for the distraction. I’m accustomed to long, lonely vigils, stalking prey, but a live stakeout can be exciting, despite the hours of inactivity. This is just a drag.

I check the incoming number but don’t recognize it. This influx of unfamiliar callers is annoying. “Hello?” I answer neutrally, ready to be Al Jeery or Paucar Wami, depending on who the caller’s looking for.

“Al? It’s Flo. I got your number from Fabio’s book. Hope you don’t mind me calling.”