Hell's Horizon (30 page)

“Lovely.” I sat beside her and gave her a quick squeeze, eyes fixed on the box, which was wrapped in brown paper, something scrawled across the top.

“I ran into a blind beggar on my way back,” she said, and the ice in my stomach spread. “He gave me that.” She pointed at the box. “I thought it was a religious book. I started to tear it open. Then I saw the name and decided to leave it.”

I studied the name. Block letters.
AL JEERY
. No address, just my name.

“Do you think it’s a bomb?” Priscilla asked.

I smiled grimly. “I doubt it.”

“Maybe we should call the bomb squad anyway, or take it to someone who knows about these things.”

“
I
know. I learned about explosives in the Troops.” A lie, but it calmed Priscilla. I picked up the box and shook it gently, listening intently, as if I could tell from the noise whether it was safe.

“It’s not a bomb,” I said, faking confidence.

“Thank God,” she sighed, relaxing. She glanced at me and licked her lips. “Are you going to open it?”

I nodded. “But you’d better go to the bedroom and lock the door before I do.”

“But you said—”

“I know. But it’s as easy to be safe as sorry.”

She half-rose, hesitated, then sat again in spite of her fear. “No. If you stay, I stay too.”

I unwrapped the paper. It peeled away, revealing an unremarkable cardboard box. I handed the paper to Priscilla, who crumpled it up and held it in front of her lower face, as if it would protect her from the blast if there was one.

I ran my fingers around the join between the lid and the box—no trace of a wire. I thumbed up the section of the lid closest to me, lifted the other end a few inches, shifted the lid clear of the box and laid it on the table. Inside was a cloud of pink tissue.

“What is it?” Priscilla asked.

“Tissue,” I told her, rubbing part of it between my thumb and index finger.

“Nothing more?” she frowned.

I studied the rosy stain on my finger, put it to my mouth and tasted blood. “There’s more,” I said quietly.

Parting the folds patiently, I burrowed through the layers of tissue, noting the way the pink hue darkened the deeper I went. Near the bottom, on a tiny silver tray, I uncovered the source of the blood—a severed human finger.

Priscilla moaned but I was less disturbed. When you’ve found a head hanging from your ceiling in the middle of the night, a lone finger isn’t that much of a deal.

“Don’t touch it,” she pleaded as I leaned forward. I ignored her and picked it up by the tip. It was a white male’s, wrinkled and blotched. Sliced clean through, just above where the first knuckle would have been. Still warm, so it had probably been amputated sometime that morning, maybe early afternoon.

There was a note on the tray, almost unreadable because of all the blood that had soaked into the paper. I had to hold it up and squint to decipher the words, and it fell apart as I was laying it back into the box.

“What did it say?” Priscilla asked.

“ ‘Guess whose, Al m’boy.’ ” I turned the finger around on my palm, closed my own fingers over it and squeezed softly. The sly motherfuckers. I had thought that nothing could make me care or draw me back in. But as Bill had predicted, I was wrong. My tormentors knew exactly which strings to pull.

“What does that mean?” Priscilla asked.

I shook my head and lied. “I don’t know.”

“Who do you think it belongs to?” When I didn’t answer, she pinched me and snapped, “
Who? ”

I relaxed my grip and revealed the finger. My hand was stained with blood. In all the red, it could have been anybody’s. But I had no doubts. I propped the finger on the table so it was standing vertically, then said sickly, “It’s Bill’s.”

part six

“we could all be dead by then”

24

G
uess whose, Al m’boy.

The killer’s insight puzzled and troubled me. How did he know of my father’s ironic term of endearment? Nobody had heard him call me that. For the briefest of moments I thought Wami had sent the finger, that he’d been toying with me all along. Then I recalled the blade at his throat. Offering himself to me could have been a deadly bluff, but I didn’t think so. Paucar Wami was many dreadful things but he wasn’t my enemy.

The killer’s identity would come later. Right now there was the finger to ID. I knew it was Bill’s, but the Troop in me needed to be convinced. If Allegro Jinks could be passed off as Paucar Wami, a detached digit could easily be substituted for one of Bill Casey’s. There was no answer when I called him, and nobody at the station had seen him in a couple of days, but that hardly constituted proof.

I could have gone to Party Central with the finger, but I didn’t want to involve The Cardinal. Instead I rang the Fridge and asked for Dr. Sines’s home address.

Sines was watching TV with his wife when I arrived. His wife answered the door and scowled when I asked to see her husband. “Is this to do with work?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You people never give him a break,” she muttered, calling him to the door. He looked even less happy to see me than his wife had been.

“This better be important,” he growled, not inviting me in.

“It’s personal, Dr. Sines,” I said, remembering to address him formally. “May I come in?”

“Can’t it wait?”

“No, sir.”

He grumbled some curses, then beckoned me in, but didn’t lead me beyond the front hall. “Make it quick,” he snapped and I produced the finger, still on its silver tray, though now transferred from the box to a small plastic bag. He studied it in silence, then said drily, “I think it’s a finger.”

I chuckled obligingly. “I was hoping you could tell me whose.”

“Offhand, I couldn’t.” He cracked up.

I grinned, finding it harder to shape my mouth into a smile this time. “Good one.”

He wiped a few tears of mirth from his eyes. “Gallows humor. You need it to get by in a job like mine.” He got serious. “Any idea who the owner is?”

“Yes, but I’d rather not say.”

“It would be quicker if you did.”

“Regardless…”

“As you wish. Care to tell me why you brought it here, tonight, instead of down to the Fridge tomorrow?”

“I don’t want anyone connecting it to me.”

“I smell espionage. May I have the finger?” I handed it over. “You realize I must note where it came from? I can’t waltz in and pretend I found it on my way to work.”

“Why not?”

“You’ve got gold clearance—congratulations on the promotion—but a report must be filed, for The Cardinal. It would mean my job if I took your side against his and was subsequently discovered.”

I nodded understandingly, then asked if he’d heard about my wife. He said he had and offered his condolences.

“I’d appreciate your assistance more.”

“You don’t understand,” he retorted. “There are rules and procedures. I can’t—”

“You can,” I interrupted. “You guys are a law unto yourselves, don’t try telling me otherwise. You take bodies as you please, do with them as you wish, and everyone turns a blind eye.”

“That’s different. Our superiors grant us a certain amount of leeway to get the best out of us. But that doesn’t run to bucking the chain of command, to falsifying reports or sneaking in body parts.”

“You could do it if you wanted,” I pressed.

“Probably, but that’s not the—”

“You won’t get into trouble,” I said quickly. “All I want you to do is identify who the finger comes from.”

He shook his head. “Why should I put my neck on the line for you?”

It was a fair question, for which I had no ready answer.

“If your wife had been killed—,” I began.

“—I’d be mad as hell, just like you. But my wife’s alive and well, in no kind of danger whatsoever. I’d like to keep her that way.”

I thought about threatening him but he’d have gone to The Cardinal if I did.

“Sorry for disturbing you,” I said and started for the door.

“That’s it?” he asked, startled. “You’re not going to twist my arm?”

“No.”

“Wait.” He held out the bagged finger. “You forgot this.” I reached for the bag but he didn’t hand it over. Instead he turned it around and examined the base. “A clean cut. Either an extremely sharp blade or an electrical implement.” I’d figured as much myself, but said nothing. “The smallest finger of the left hand. This ties in with your wife’s death?” I nodded. “How?”

“I’d rather not say.”

He hesitated. I could see fear in his eyes but also professional pride. The human side of him wanted nothing to do with this, but his medical half was fascinated. It became a question of which would win out—self-preservation or curiosity.

“Can you tell me anything about where you think it came from?” he asked.

“I think it comes from a cop.”

“That should be simple enough to check. Assuming one was inclined to…” He tossed it about in silence, then said, “A man in his mid-forties was dropped off with us last night, unidentified. I could take a print of his little finger, swap it for this one and run some tests. I don’t make a habit of turning up for work on my day off but it’s not unheard of.”

He was nervous but excited. “OK. Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll run the print of your finger against the police personnel database. If I make a match, fine. If I don’t, I go no further. Is that acceptable?”

“Great,” I smiled.

“But if somebody challenges me, I’ll ’fess up.”

I frowned—that wasn’t so great.

“It’s my best offer,” Sines warned. “Nobody will inquire unless they’re already suspicious, so if I have to tell the truth, it will be to someone who’s onto you anyway.”

“That’s reasonable,” I agreed.

“I’ll go now,” Sines said, pocketing the finger. “You know the abandoned car plant three blocks west of the Fridge? Wait for me in the showroom there. You can get in by the side door. I shouldn’t be more than a couple of hours, unless I get detained. If I’m not there by”—he checked his watch—“eleven, go home and I’ll be in contact in the morning.”

“I can’t tell you how much—,” I started to thank him, but he cut in.

“Stuff it. I need my head examined, getting mixed up in something like this. If you say anything else, you might snap me around to my senses.”

I let myself out without a murmur.

I faced a long wait at the car plant. It was nearly ten past eleven when he turned up. I was getting ready to leave.

“Caught you,” he gasped. There was no light inside the room, but it was illuminated by the streetlamps. Sines pulled a pristine camp bed out from under a litter of papers and sat.

“A lot of guys at work use this place for making out,” he explained when I looked at him curiously. “I was here a few times myself in my courting days.”

“You’re late,” I noted. “Any trouble?”

“No. Just didn’t want to appear too anxious to leave.”

“Did you make a match?”

He nodded and came straight out with it. “Bill Casey.” I lowered my head and sighed. “It’s what you expected?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t look happy.”

“I hoped I was wrong.”

“Sorry.” He handed the finger back. It was stained with ink.

“You didn’t get rid of it?” I asked.

“You didn’t ask me to.”

He’d ditched the tray. I tossed Bill’s finger into the air and caught it. “Is it any good now? I mean, could it be sewn back on?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

He didn’t bother to repeat himself. “I think I got away with it. Nobody asked any questions. But if The Cardinal or one of his men calls tomorrow and starts quizzing me…”

“Fine.” I started for the door.

“If it’s any consolation,” he called after me, “he was alive when the finger was amputated.”

I halted in the doorway. “No,” I said softly. “That doesn’t console me at all.” Then I went home to tell Priscilla.

We were awake most of the night. Priscilla thought Bill was dead and sobbed for him at regular intervals, but I was sure he hadn’t been killed. My tormentors hadn’t hesitated to mock me with the bodies of my dearly beloved before, so why stop now? It suited them to keep Bill alive, otherwise they’d have sent more than his finger. Perhaps they thought Bill’s death would drive me deeper into depression, whereas the possibility of being able to rescue him might draw me back into the game. If that
was
their plan, they knew me at least as well as I knew myself.

At one stage Priscilla pleaded with me to flee the city with her. She was afraid to be parted from me, sure the killers would come after
her
. She clung to me, wept and said I couldn’t leave her on her own. I stroked her softly and said I had no choice. She started to argue. Looked into my eyes. Fell silent.

In the early hours of the morning she asked how I was going to track Bill.

“By going after Ellen’s killer, like I should have when I finished with Valerie. When I find that bastard, I’ll find Bill.”

“You sound confident,” she remarked.

“His kidnapper
wants
me to find him. Bill would have been killed if the plan was just to hurt me. I’m being lured into a trap.”

“Then you can’t go after him!”

“I have to. Bill will be killed for certain if I don’t. At least this way he has a chance.”

When it was time to leave, she again begged me to stay. I told her gently but firmly that I couldn’t. When she persisted and said she was scared, I said, “Do you know how to use a gun?” She sobered up and nodded. I passed her my .45. “Stay here. Don’t go out. If anybody comes to the door, start firing.”

“I’ve only shot targets before,” she said, handling the gun nervously. “I don’t know if I could shoot a person.”

“You’d better hope that you can, or you’ll end up like Nic and Ellen,” I answered grimly, then left her and went hunting.

The lover was the link. One person connected Nic, Ziegler, Valerie and Ellen. When I found him, I’d have my killer. I could forget about Jinks, Breton Furst and the rest. All I needed was the lover.

I’d already failed to get to him through Nic. And I didn’t think anything would come of investigating Valerie’s or Ziegler’s backgrounds—since they’d been in league with the bastard, they’d have covered their tracks, sly snakes that they were.

Ellen was the key. She was the only innocent. She’d been coy about revealing her lover’s name, but the chances were that
somebody
knew who she’d been seeing, a friend she’d spoken to, a colleague who’d overheard her talking on the phone, a waiter who’d seen her with her beau in tow. That person might take a lot of finding, but I had time on my hands and hate in my heart. I’d root them out in the end.

I began with her family. Called Bob, Deborah and a few others. Discussed the funeral and wake, gradually working the conversation around to Ellen’s last few weeks. I mentioned to each that I thought she’d been seeing someone. A couple said that she’d dropped hints about a new lover, but none knew anything about him. Ellen had been as tight-lipped with her family as she’d been with me.

Before moving on to her friends, I rang Party Central and asked if I could meet The Cardinal. I thought it would be good to utilize his army of informants. Maybe one of them had seen Bill or knew of his whereabouts. If they didn’t, they could be told to keep their eyes and ears open for signs of him. But The Cardinal couldn’t be reached. His secretary promised to arrange a meeting as soon as possible, but it wouldn’t be today. Possibly tomorrow. I had no choice but to settle for that.

I called as many of Ellen’s friends as I could think of. Most were no friends of mine—many thought Ellen had married beneath herself when she hitched up with me, and they were right—and normally they wouldn’t have taken my call. But, given the grisly circumstances, they put aside their dislike and spared me a few minutes of their time.

As with her family, a few were aware that she’d been dating, but nobody knew a thing about him. The phone conversations weren’t an entire washout—her older friends passed on the names of newer acquaintances—but I found no leads of substance.

The last of her friends to see her alive was a woman called Ama Situwa. I’d never met her—she was somebody Ellen had befriended recently—and I only got her name through one of the others. She sounded nice on the phone. Turned out she was the daughter of the guy who ran Cafran’s restaurant. Small world.

Ama had run into Ellen in the lounge of the Skylight the night before her murder. She was there for a birthday party, saw Ellen at the bar with another woman and went to say hello. Ellen greeted her warmly and said they were waiting for dates. Ama made a joke about men always being late and invited them to Cafran’s later if they were at a loose end—the birthday gang was moving back there after the Skylight. Ellen said they’d drop by if the men failed to show, and that had been that.