Hell's Horizon (29 page)

There was no swift recovery from a blow like that. I had plenty of time to truss her up, tend to my wounds and check Ziegler’s corpse before she came to.

I studied her as she groaned and returned to life. I had her name now—Valerie Thomas, the maid-with-attitude from the Skylight.

When her eyes opened, she found herself staring down the barrel of my .45. She looked up at my scratched, bloody, determined face. And she laughed.

“Men!” she snorted. “Always resorting to guns to settle battles.”

“You drew first,” I reminded her.

“That was business. An execution. Once the fight began, I wouldn’t have used it, no matter what. Only a coward goes for a gun in a fight.”

“You killed Ziegler,” I said.

She tried hunching her shoulders but I had her tied too tight to move. “So?” she smiled. “He was a puppet. Ziegler was a fool who couldn’t tell the difference between fantasy and reality. He dug his own grave.”

“Did you kill Nic too? And Ellen?”

“Your lovely ex-wife,” she cooed.

“You killed her?” My finger tightened on the trigger.

“Eligible Ellen. So sweet. So naïve.”

“Did you kill her?” I screamed, jabbing the gun into her mouth, giving her a taste of the pain to come if she didn’t talk.

She spat the gun out. “No,” she coughed. “I didn’t kill your precious Ellen. But I saw her die. I watched her lips widen in a silent scream and her back arch. I saw the terror in her eyes as the blade bit into her soft flesh.” She laughed again, cruel as an eagle’s cry. “So beautiful. So helpless. So terrified. She called for you. ‘
Al!
’ After all you got her into, she didn’t blame you. People that stupid deserve to die.”

Finally, after so much time, tears came. I cried pitifully, thinking of Ellen in this vile creature’s grasp, crying out for me, dying with my name on her lips. My legs went numb and I collapsed and wept.

“Poor Al,” she crooned. “Poor Ellen, poor Nic, poor Rudi. So many victims. I feel like spilling a few tears myself.”

“Shut up!” I screamed, then trained the gun on her again. “Who killed them?”

“My lover,” she replied. “My wily, sensual, murderous lover.”

“The same one Ellen said she was in love with?” I guessed.

“What a fool. It’s easy to love one so strong and imaginative, but to miss their dark heart, the evil at their core… Ellen was doomed from their first kiss.”

“Tell me his name,” I snarled.

“Love knows no names,” she laughed.

“Tell me the fucking name or I’ll kill you!”

“Go ahead,” she said. “I have no fear. There’s nothing in dying that scares me. Kill me, little man. Send me to my sun god and damn yourself in the process.”

I took that in and blinked slowly. “Are you in league with the
villacs
?”

“Who?” she deadpanned.

“The blind priests.” She smirked knowingly and didn’t answer. “OK. Just tell me who killed Ellen.”

“I told you—my lover.”

“His name, bitch. His name!”

“What’s in a name?” she chuckled. Then, seriously, “Find out for yourself. Embrace the sun, worship its god, and you will learn.”

“Don’t waste my time with talk of gods,” I warned her. “Tell me who killed Ellen or so help me…”

“What? You’ll torture me? Try, little man. I’m a hard nut to crack. I
know
pain. Do your worst. I’m up to anything you can throw at me.”

“We’ll see about that,” I said grimly, then twisted her over and ripped her shirt open. I’m not sure what I was planning. I’d learned all sorts of terrible techniques during my time with the Troops. I knew the places that hurt most, the everyday instruments I could use to heighten the pain, how to prolong it. I’d sworn never to put that knowledge to use, but in that room my resolve crumbled and good intentions went up in wreaths of bloodstained smoke.

However, upon my removal of her shirt, the option of torture was removed. I discovered a grotesque map of pain beneath the cloth. Her flesh was burned, cut, whipped beyond recognition. Pins were stuck in her, the heads glinting like tiny silver stars. Bandages covered fresh, deep lacerations and scars. Acid burns, wounds with salt rubbed into them, sores that were pustulant and seeping. She was a walking advert for sick masochism.

I threw the shirt back over her, nauseated. There was nothing I could do to this woman that hadn’t already been done.

“You see?” she whispered proudly. “My god fed me pain, thus placing me beyond it. He is gracious, generous, wise. If only more knew the beauty of being in service to one so powerful, they’d…”

I left the woman babbling about gods and the like. I could listen to no more. I thought about pleading with her, trading her life for answers, but I knew she’d laugh at such offers. Perhaps I should have tried to trick the truth out of her but I was in no state for intrigue. I was weeping like a baby.

I called Bill before leaving. Told him what I’d learned, where to pick up Valerie, what had happened with Ziegler. He told me to stay where I was, but I couldn’t. I said I’d be in my apartment. He started to say that wasn’t good enough, I had to remain at the scene, but I hung up and walked away, into a world more awash with pain and grief than I’d ever thought possible.

23

V
alerie confessed to all three murders—Nic, Ellen, Ziegler. Told the police I had nothing to do with any of them. Made no mention of an accomplice or lover. I didn’t contradict her story. They thought they had their killer, the case was closed. Why piss on their parade?

An eager reporter uncovered the connections between myself and the female victims. For a while I was an outstanding news story, a determined lover who exposed the murderer and handed her over for trial. A public hero, a role model for children everywhere. I was chased by news crews around the city. Bill and Kett kept them off my back, Bill because he cared, Kett for fear I’d implicate him.

Valerie was dead a couple of days after her confession. Hanged herself in her cell. Nobody knew how she got the rope, but the police didn’t care. She’d have gone to the chair in any case—this saved the city time and money.

The media went into a feeding frenzy when Valerie killed herself. It was the perfect end to the story and all they needed to cap it was an interview with me. They hounded me mercilessly till Bill called in a favor from the mayor and he got their editors to call them off.

The days blurred into one another as I sat in my apartment, staring at the walls, thinking about Nic, Ellen, Valerie. I should have been chasing the mystery lover, the man who lured Nic and Ellen to their deaths and inspired Valerie to lie herself to ruin. But I was too tired. A great depression had settled over me. I just wanted to sit in darkness and weep.

Wami and The Cardinal rang to congratulate me. I accepted their praise with barely a murmur, telling neither the truth. They’d have dragged me out of myself if they had known the case was still live.

I stopped washing and shaving. Wore the same clothes day after day. I ate rarely and unhealthily. Lost myself in memories of Ellen. The world made no sense any longer. All that seemed real was Ellen.

Bill and Ali tried to help. They brought fresh food and cleared away the trash. Some mornings I awoke to find one of them had slipped my clothes off while I slept and laundered them. They held one-sided conversations with me, chattering on, pretending all was well. I tried responding—I appreciated the effort they were making—but hadn’t the strength. I was like a lobotomized half-wit who could only stare, drool and nod my head occasionally.

I stayed away from the bottle. Even during my lowest moments, I resisted the temptation. I was a pathetic wreck, but part of me knew I could haul myself out of this wretchedness in time. If I drank, there’d be no coming back. This mess of a life would be for keeps.

In the midst of my sorrow, Priscilla Perdue breezed back into my life. She turned up one day, demurely dressed and smiling uncertainly. “I tried calling,” she said, “but you didn’t answer. I had to come. I’ll leave again if you want me to.”

I said nothing, only ushered her in.

Her nose crinkled when she saw the state of the apartment. Neither Ali nor Bill had been up for a few days and I’d really let things slide. Dirty dinner trays, filthy clothes, overflowing garbage cans.

“Is it the cleaner’s year off?” she quipped.

“If you don’t like it, piss off,” I snarled.

She started for the door.

“Wait,” I called her back. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m saying or thinking half the time. Don’t go. Please. Sit.”

She looked around. “I’d rather stand if it’s all the same.”

I managed a thin smile. “So. Here you are.”

“Here I am,” she agreed.

There was a long silence.

“Anything in particular you wanted to talk about?” I asked.

“Oh, Al.” She threw herself into my arms. I toppled backward onto one of the socks-and-underwear-strewn chairs, dragging her down with me. “What that woman did to your wife was awful. I don’t know how you didn’t rip her throat open. If it was me, I’d have…” She started to cry.

“It’s OK,” I said, stroking her hair, thinking about Ellen’s. “It’s over. She’s dead. There’s no need for tears.”

She wept a while, then looked at me hopefully. “It
is
over, isn’t it? She did kill them?”

“She confessed, didn’t she?”

“I know, but…” She gulped and sat up straighter. “I can’t stop thinking about that night I went to the Skylight to meet Nic. She definitely said she was bringing a man. I’ve been reading the papers daily. According to them, Valerie acted by herself. The reporters say she was mad.”

“They got that much right.”

“And the rest of it?”

I knew why she cared. If Valerie had been a lone crazy, and the guy Nic brought to the hotel wasn’t involved, it absolved Priscilla. She needn’t feel guilty if it had been a random attack rather than a client of Nic’s who might not have killed her if Priscilla had been there.

I wanted to lie, as I’d lied to the others, so she could sleep easier, free of the demonic imps of guilt that plagued my every moment. But as I stared into her eyes I found myself telling her the worst of all things—the truth. She listened silently, clutching my hands. At the end she said nothing for a while, then finally stuttered, “She could have been lying.”

“She wasn’t.”

“She was an evil, crazy she-devil. She knew the game was up. It might have been one last sly twist of the knife, to leave you wracked with doubt.”

“No,” I sighed. “It wasn’t a trick. I was face-to-face with her. I know.”

“But—,” she began.

“I
know
!”

“Then the killer’s still out there,” she whispered, shivering.

“Yes.”

“I’m scared, Al.”

“Me too.”

“
Really
scared. Ellen was your wife and Nic was your lover. What if this guy’s working his way through every woman you’ve been close to?”

“There are a few old girlfriends whose numbers I wouldn’t mind giving him,” I laughed, but she refused to see the funny side.

“I could be next,” she said.

“Why? There’s been nothing between us.”

“Not yet.” She leaned forward and kissed me. I pushed her away.

“What are you doing?” I snapped. “You just got through telling me I’m a jinx and now you—”

“That’s why I’m scared,” she interrupted, silencing me with a second kiss. “If we’d had something in the past, I could run. But what we’ve got is now and in the future. I can’t run from that.” She kissed me again.

“This shouldn’t be happening,” I sighed, returning her kisses. I felt one of her hands slide into my lap. I ran my fingers through her hair, then down to her breasts. “It’s madness.”

“I don’t care,” she gasped as my fingers tightened on her breasts. “I’ve been so frightened since Nic died, terrified every time a door swings open. When I read about your wife, do you know what my first reaction was? Thank God it wasn’t me.”

She shifted her weight. Undressing and caressing each other, we rolled, so I was underneath and she was on top.

“You could be signing your death warrant,” I said, mouth dry as she peeled off her underwear.

“At least I won’t die alone,” she replied, lowering herself onto me, guiding me with one hand, digging into the flesh of my neck with the fingernails of the other.

There was no more talking for a long time after that.

She moved into my cramped apartment the next day. I wasn’t sure I wanted this—there was something unhealthy about a love affair forged courtesy of a brace of murders—but found myself powerless to resist. As much as Priscilla needed me, I needed her more. I’d been going mad on my own, and without someone to cling to, I was most certainly doomed.

Ali found us together that afternoon. He walked in unannounced, as he usually did, and stopped when he spotted the beautiful naked woman by my side. He exited rapidly, ears burning, apologizing profusely. Just before he left, his head poked round the door for a sneak look at Priscilla. That produced my first genuine smile in a long time. I squeezed her tightly and cuddled up close, burying my face in her hair, trying not to compare it with Ellen’s.

She didn’t bring much with her—a small bag of clothes, underwear, shoes, cosmetics—but enough to make it clear this was more than a one-night stand. She also brought spirits and liqueurs. I didn’t like having them in the apartment, or the way she left the tops open so they filled the rooms with their sickly-sweet scent, but I didn’t say anything. She needed the drink, and I understood that. I’d just have to be stronger while she was around.

She slipped out to work every morning and returned as early as she could. We’d make love or talk or simply hold one another. Cook a late dinner, eat slowly, make love again. Most nights we didn’t get to bed before two.

Bill was delighted. He thought Priscilla was the best thing that could have happened to me. He had dinner with us in the apartment a couple of times and we sat around talking, none of us making mention of Ellen or Nic.

One night, when conversation did turn to the murdered women, Priscilla blurted out the truth about Valerie Thomas. She’d been drinking a lot. Bill said something about being glad Valerie was dead. Priscilla snorted and said, “One down. Now we just have that fucking boyfriend to—”

She caught herself. Tried to backtrack. But it was too late. She caught me glaring at her, burst into tears and fled to the bathroom. A stunned Bill prevented me from going after her.

“Something you want to share with me, Al?”

Since there was no point trying to hide it any longer, I told him the truth about Valerie, her
god
, the boyfriend.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” He sounded more pained than outraged.

“It would have been my word against her confession.”

“You know only too damn well which
I
would have believed,” he growled.

I nodded. “I should have told you, even if I kept it quiet from the others. But…” I wasn’t sure I could explain. “I want out of this, Bill. I’m sick of suspects, clues, twists, death. I want to drop the whole sorry sack of shit and pretend it never happened.”

“Do you think you’ll be allowed to?” he asked softly. “Do you think the bastard who killed Nic and Ellen will stop? Whatever his motives, he’ll come after you, or Priscilla, or somebody else. I wish to God you’d never gotten involved in this mess, but you’re in it now. The time to quit passed long ago. Drawing in on yourself like this serves no purpose. It only leaves you—and those close to you—open to attack.”

“I don’t care.” I locked gazes with him and said it again for added effect. “I don’t care. That’s why I didn’t tell you about Valerie, why I holed up. I don’t have the energy to worry anymore. I can’t fight any longer.” Tears were rolling down my cheeks. “When they took Ellen, I went crazy. I was capable of anything. But then I confronted Valerie and saw the hate in her. Something snapped. I was ready to fight to the very end. Now it seems useless. So I’m walking away from it.”

“But this isn’t the right time to throw in the towel. You’re vulnerable.”

“Fuck it. If they want to kick me while I’m down, or kill me, let them.”

“This isn’t you speaking,” he said sadly.

“It’s me, Bill,” I assured him. “What’s left of me.”

When he went, it was with a vow to carry on the investigation. He swore he wouldn’t rest until the real culprit was brought to justice. He’d even bend the law if he had to. Snap it in two if that was required. It was the first time I’d heard him speak like that. I didn’t like it, but if he wanted to waste his time chasing ghosts, let him. I was through trying to sort out other people’s problems for them.

Priscilla apologized when she emerged. I told her not to worry, took her in my arms and we made love. And for the first time I realized how mechanical our lovemaking was.

I started going for walks while Priscilla was at work, long, punishing walks, during which I strove to clear my mind, concentrating on my lungs and leg muscles, oblivious to everything else.

Bill called a couple of times to say he was following leads. I lent him my notes and files, even material that was for Troop eyes only. I neither encouraged his investigation nor tried to dissuade him. As far as I was concerned, it was his life and he could do what he liked with it.

Frank got in touch, sounding me out. I said I was considering a return to work, but wanted more time to think about it. He never mentioned Ellen, Valerie or any of that, though I knew he must be frothing with questions.

I studied a calendar one morning and realized it had been almost two months since Nic met with her end, three and a half weeks since Ellen went the same way, and only—I had to count three times before I’d believe it—ten days since Priscilla moved in. Ten days! It felt like months. I wondered if time was moving as slowly for her as it was for me.

I returned from a walk to discover Priscilla sitting in the living room, looking troubled. She was tapping a small parcel on the table in front of her. I sensed danger. I almost turned tail and ran. But where would I go?

“Buy something?” I asked, closing the door.

“No. I mean, yes, I had a half day and I was shopping, which is why I’m home early. But my bags are in the bedroom. I got…” She stopped and pushed the parcel away. “Nice walk?”