City of the Snakes (4 page)

I nod. As far as Ford and everyone else remembers, The Cardinal never married. They think Conchita Gardens was named after a local Indian girl.

“What were they doing?” Ford inquires.

“Swimming.” In response to his quizzical look, I elaborate. “I go for a swim every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday, schedule permitting. I use the Kargan pool—not conveniently situated, but it’s longer than most. You can really stretch yourself there.”

“Fascinating,” Ford grunts impatiently. “The women?”

“They’d been sitting by the side of the pool for ages. I didn’t pay much attention. It was only when I paused at the end of a lap to catch my breath that I saw them. I was dumbstruck. I stood in the water at the shallow end, mesmerized, for maybe five minutes, until they rose and slipped into the changing room. Then I charged after them and tore the place apart.”

“I bet that made you popular with the ladies,” Ford comments drily. “But it was for nothing, right? You couldn’t find them?”

“Not a trace,” I sigh. “That’s when I started to think I might be losing it. I had myself checked and drew a clear bill of health, but that was little consolation. I spotted them several times over the next few weeks, together, with Y Tse, singly. I ignored them. Didn’t waste time giving chase. I figured, if they were products of my imagination, running after them was useless. If they were real, they’d make contact in their own time. Then this.” I pass the photograph of Paucar Wami to him.

“Al Jeery,” he says immediately. Ford knew Jeery too, before the guy lost his marbles and took to the streets as Paucar Wami. Thought highly of him. I wanted to drag Jeery in, find out what he knew about the Ayuamarcans. Ford convinced me to leave him alone—said the guy had been through enough.

“Look again,” I tell him, and he studies the photo some more.

“It’s like Al,” he rumbles, “but it’s not. Some guy made up to resemble him?”

“Maybe. Or maybe this is the guy Jeery made himself up to look like—the real Paucar Wami.”

“I thought Wami was a myth,” Ford says uneasily. Like some other people, he has vague recollections of the serial killer. I don’t know how fragments of Wami’s existence survived The Cardinal’s passing, but they did. He’s not a substantial figure—he exists in the minds of those who knew him as a creature of shadows—but part of his evil legacy lives on.

“Wami was real, an Ayuamarcan. And on the basis of that photo, he’s back.”

“You’re sure it’s not a ringer?”

“He’s not someone you forget in a hurry. That’s Paucar Wami. I’d stake my life on it. And if he’s real, the others probably are too.”

Ford passes back the photo. “I don’t understand this—I never really did—but let’s say it’s on the level. Why does it bother you?”

“Wouldn’t you be bothered if ghosts returned to haunt you?” I snap.

“Sure, but I’m human. I can be killed, so I’d have reason to worry. You don’t.”

“I’m not so certain I believe that anymore,” I mumble. “The Cardinal made me immortal, but he reserved the power to destroy me. He could have wiped me out before he died, if he’d had a mind to. If someone else has the same kind of power—and if Wami and the others are real, only somebody as gifted as The Cardinal could have brought them back—maybe they can eradicate me too.”

Ford’s good eye half closes. “Didn’t think of that.”

“I didn’t either until this photo materialized. Now it’s all I can think about.”

Ford chuckles bleakly. “How does it feel to be faced with mortality again? Must be a shock after all these years.”

“Don’t mock me,” I growl, but he only laughs at my tone.

“That explains why your knees are shaking. But why come to me about this? If the Grim Reaper’s got you in his sights, what can I do to help?”

“The
villacs
must be behind this. I need to find them, confront them, stop them. But I can’t chase the priests and run this city at the same time. I need someone to—”

“Whoa!” Ford stops me. “If this is going where I think it is, forget it.”

“I need you,” I press. “Frank’s back in charge of the Troops. He’ll do a good job, but he’s not Cardinal material.”

“I’m not either,” Ford grunts.

“But you could fill in for me short-term,” I insist. “You’re still closely identified with Dorak. People would obey you. You could keep things ticking over while I sorted out my problems. Think about it—back in charge, everyone having to kiss your ass. You’d love it.”

He shakes his head, genuine regret in his live left eye. “I’m past that. People wouldn’t take orders from a cripple. I hate retirement. I talked about it a lot toward the end of my run, but now that I’ve tasted it, I think it sucks. I’d jump at the chance to return, but I’d be a liability. Look elsewhere.”

“There isn’t anybody else,” I groan. “I’ve been running the show single-handed, the way The Cardinal wanted. I don’t have anyone groomed to step in. By the time I trained someone, it would be too late. I have to act now, before the
villacs
strike.”

Ford shakes his head again. “I won’t be held responsible for what’d go wrong. I’m useless to you.”

“What if I went down on my knees and pleaded?”

“You won’t. It’s not your style.”

“Bastard,” I mutter, then stand and walk away without a farewell, leaving Ford Tasso to the shade, his reminiscences and the wheelchair.

I didn’t expect the old warhorse to accept my offer—at his stage of life, in his condition, he’d have to be insane to step back into the firing range—but it was worth a shot. With him at the helm I could have pursued the
villacs
without worry. Now I’ll have to struggle on alone as best I can.

What the hell are they up to and how are they managing it? I know from firsthand experience that the dead can return, but the same corpses rising twice from the grave is a bit much. Could the Paucar Wami in the photo have been a double, as Ford suggested? Leonora, Conchita, Y Tse too? I’m sure the
villacs
remember what the Ayuamarcans looked like. They might be plaguing me with look-alikes to distract me. Perhaps they want me to abandon my post, clearing the way for insurrection. They’ll have a long wait if that’s their game. Time, as the song goes, is on my side. I can wait those bastards out. They won’t panic me into—

The car crashes through a red light. Horns blare. We accelerate sharply. “What’s wrong?” I shout, looking out the rear window, checking for pursuit.

“Just taking you for a spin, like in the old days. Sit back and enjoy.”

My insides tighten—that’s not Thomas. Throwing myself forward, I press my face close to the glass panel separating me from the driver. I only have a view of half his face, but it’s enough to make a positive identification—Adrian Arne, an Ayuamarcan. He was my chauffeur when I first started working for The Cardinal. He’s been RIP these last ten years. Now here he is, grinning broadly, not looking a day older.

“Adrian,” I moan, crashing to the floor as he takes a turn without braking.

“Miss me, Capac?” he asks mockingly. He’s controlling the wheel with a couple of fingers, oblivious to the traffic.

“You’re dead!” I gasp.

“So are you,” he retorts.

“What are you doing here? What do you want?”

He laughs ecstatically. “I want to be James Dean.”

He takes his fingers off the wheel and presses down harder with his foot. The car roars ahead, veering sickeningly from left to right.

“We’re going to crash,” I note dully.

“Do I look like I’m worried?” Adrian whoops.

“Where have you been? Do you recall the past? How have—”

“Too late!” he shouts, covering his eyes with his hands. “We’re doomed!”

There’s a metallic, demonic shriek as we hit something hard and cartwheel through the air. We crash back to earth and the world explodes. Adrian goes up in a ball of fiery fury. A split second later, the fire engulfs me, and I scream with pain and shock as I thrash, burn and die.

I
slump in my chair on the fifteenth floor of Party Central and gaze at the face of the puppet I retrieved from the wall when I returned from my latest bout of death. It’s Adrian’s. The Cardinal used it to bring him to life. I raise its chest to my ear, listening for a heartbeat, but there isn’t any. None of the dozens of puppets has a heartbeat. I’ve checked each and every one of them over and over again. It’s all I’ve done these last few days.

My door opens and Jerry slides in. He stares at the puppets scattered on the floor and over my desk, then steps forward gingerly. “Mr. Raimi?” I don’t respond. “Sir?” No response. “Capac!”

“What is it?” I sigh, lowering the doll but not letting go of it.

“Are you OK?”

I laugh shortly. “Never better. What do you want?”

He clears a path through the dolls and crouches beside me. “Snap out of this. You’re acting like a loon and it’s gonna be the end of us.”

His candor catches me off guard. Jerry knows I value his advice but he’s never spoken this bluntly to me before. It’s a risk. I could have him executed for addressing me so plainly.

“What’s up?” I ask, laying the doll on the table, directing my thoughts away from Adrian, the car crash and the other Ayuamarcans for the first time since coming back to life on the train.

“We’re on the brink of losing everything,” he hisses. “Do you even know what’s been happening?”

I shake my head.

“Eugene Davern invaded Hugo turf and annexed about seventy percent of it.” The Hugos are one of the largest gangs in the city, loyal to me. They control most of the northwest, a largely undeveloped area, a valuable source of income in the years to come. Losing it to an independent operator like Davern is a serious blow and it jolts me out of my daze.

“Is he crazy?” I snap. “He can’t believe we’ll let him take the northwest.”

Jerry shrugs. “Apparently he does.”

“That’s it,” I growl. “He’s been picking and poking at me too long. If this is designed to test how far I’m willing to let him go, he’s misjudged terribly. Call the Troops and have them assemble in the—”

“Hello, Capac.” The voice comes from the balcony. Jerry and I spin toward it. Jerry’s hand shoots to his holster and he draws his pistol.

“No,” I stop him, laying a hand on his.

“But—,” he begins.

“It’s OK.”

I step ahead of Jerry and face the girl on the balcony. In appearance she’s thirteen or fourteen years old. Long, shiny blond hair. An innocent, beautiful face, body covered from the neck down. But appearances can be deceptive. I know she’s a woman, older than me, the victim of a cruel, unique disease.

“Hello, Conchita,” I croak. Conchita Kubekik—Ferdinand Dorak’s ex-wife—was a special friend of mine. Seeing her again, after all these years… I almost feel human.

“Long time, big guy,” she grins. “How’s tricks?”

I stop at the door to the balcony. Conchita’s leaning against the railings, playing with her hair, smirking. There’s something not right. She has a glint in her eyes that I never noticed before. But there’s no doubting it’s her.

“Why are you here, Conchita?” I ask. “How?”

“Two reasons. To pass on a message—Ferdy wants to see you—and to fly. How is easy—just spread my wings and dive.”

I frown, not certain what she’s talking about. Then I remember Adrian (“I want to be James Dean”) and my eyes shoot wide. “No!” I scream and dash for her, meaning to clutch her to my chest and protect her—I promised The Cardinal I’d look after his wife if she survived. But I’m too late. She swings away from me with a laugh, hoists her legs over the railings and lets go. She yodels wildly and plummets fifteen floors, as I did myself not so long ago.