The Kaisho (35 page)

“Those fucking Goldonis just don’t want to give it up.” Waxman withdrew his hand. “But he’s the last male. Who’s left? Two sisters and his daughters. Nothing.” He was moving now, walking to one side of the armoire, peering again at the head from that direction. “I like it better when he’s looking right at me,” he said, moving back.

Do Duc said nothing. He understood. The goddamned head still had an aura, faint and growing fainter all the time, but even so… The thing was dead.

“Dominic was a murderer—and a betrayer. He deserved this fate.” Waxman shrugged and his teeth clacked together, a sound that unnerved most people. “But what does that matter now? I’ve done what had to be done, what others said was impossible. But I knew him better than most, yes, how volatile he could be, how—above all—he loved his sister Margarite, and his granddaughter—better than his own children perhaps. Strange. But, then, that was Dominic.”

His teeth clacked together again in a kind of atonal rhythm. “I would have given five years of my life to see his face when our informer delivered the message that Tony D. was not only beating Margarite but Francine as well.” Waxman grunted. “Lucky for us he didn’t have a stroke on the spot. But he wanted to see his beloved sister and goddaughter and the WITSEC rules be damned. I knew he would... I felt it here”—he pounded his chest—“where he felt it. I
knew.”
He turned again to look at the head. “That’s how I got you, bastard. Love became your end.”

Do Duc said nothing, merely regarded Waxman with lambent, half-closed eyes.

“You got the information from him?” Waxman said with that abrupt change of subject even his closest associates found disconcerting.

“Eventually, I got the real name of his source,” Do Duc said, and when Waxman gave him a glance, he added, “I bled him like a grape. He gave me all he had.”

“Then I’m in.” Waxman laughed as he resumed his contemplation of the head. “Think of it! Goldoni’s secret, the source of all his hidden power,” he whispered, the awe returning to his voice.

“I’ll say this for him,” Do Duc said, “he led us a merry chase.”

“Bastard!” It was shot out of Waxman like a mouthful of bile. “Fucking Goldonis—too much was never enough for them. That sonuvabitch Dominic—what kinds of fucking dreams did that rat bastard have, that he decided to turn on us? What he leaked to the feds when he was in WITSEC! The new capi Dom betrayed—nothing, compared to what he did behind my back, the sonuvabitch. He betrayed me, made a deal with Mikio Okami, and the two of them set out to cut Veil off at the knees.”

Waxman abruptly turned away from the head, impaled Do Duc with his gaze. “But that Dominic, I gotta admit he was some kind of genius. He fooled all of us. First, he makes us believe he’s a part of Looking-Glass, then, when we negotiate to expand Looking-Glass worldwide, he becomes a part of the Godaishu.”

He whirled on the head, his face red with fury. He struck the head a heavy blow, sending it careening into the corner of the room, where it lay grotesquely on its crown. “What the fuck happened to you, Dominic? What were you and your partner, Okami, planning? Why did you betray us?”

Memory and emotion combined to make him tremble as if he were ill. Then he turned away, while Do Duc retrieved the head, set it back on top of the armoire. Upside-down, with its aura, it disturbed him.

All at once Waxman’s expression softened. “I can see from the Gim,” he said, staring into Dominic Goldoni’s dark, intelligent eyes, “that you did your thing with him.”

“Yes.”

He chuckled. “Must be scaring the shit out of Lillehammer right about now.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Do Duc said.

“Watch out for him. He’ll want to skin you alive.”

“I’m counting on it.”

“I know. That’s why I chose him to head the investigation. The two of you need to meet again.” Waxman grunted. “And you had fun. I suppose it hasn’t changed any.”

“No.”

“Rituals never do, that’s part of their strength—and a measure of their comfort.”

“You’re wrong. I don’t need comfort.”

Waxman pursed his lips. “We all need comfort, now and again. Only the dead can forgo it.”

He was right, of course. There had been the girl. Do Duc would never say a word about her existence or what he had done to her, that wouldn’t be smart. She had been a risk—a risk for more power. But Do Duc lived with risk, thrived on it as others did peace and quiet. Because he didn’t have to concentrate with her in the same way he had had to do with Dominic Goldoni, the ritual he took part in with her was different; he hadn’t needed to dissect her mind and extract information. She became Kshira: the Path. With Goldoni he had had to placate the gods, damp down the psychic engines to avoid a backlash. But with her, just the opposite: he had feasted on her soul and it had increased his power.

“Blood’s going to spill, and plenty of it,” Do Duc said, “before I get all the way to the man who provided Goldoni with his secrets.”

“Hey, I don’t give a rat’s ass what you do as long as you do it quickly.” Waxman gave him a warning look. “Remember that even the dead aren’t powerless.”

“You know all about power.”

Waxman nodded. Then, carefully, as if handling an extremely deadly serpent, he gripped Do Duc’s left arm with his.

“We both do.”

Waxman clasped Do Duc’s arm tighter, one Roman centurion to another, turned it slightly, opened his fingers to reveal the wrist beneath. And there it was:

The face split down the middle, its right eye open and staring just like Dominic Goldoni’s, the dark left side scarred with the Gim, the sacred crescent.

Their eyes held for a long time.

“Now, tell me, who was Dominic’s source?” Waxman said at last. “Who was feeding him the information he was using to control his contacts in government and business?”

“Linnear,” Do Duc said. “Nicholas Linnear.”

“What he was doing was trying to draw me out,” Nicholas said.

Celeste, her long red hair whipping against her cheek, stood very close to him. “I don’t understand.”

“I think you do.” Nicholas put his arm around her. It was cold here on the outer deck of the
vaporetto,
the wind clawing its way along the snaking Grand Canal. The shirt and jacket they had bought for him were inadequate to the temperature, but he did not want to go inside because the color of the water was a curious, enigmatic green, the same hue, precisely, as the finest Murano blown glass.

But was the chill the only reason he wanted some of her warmth? He did not want to think about that, just as he did not want to call his office or speak to Justine. What would be the point? Immersed as he was in the enigma of Okami and the Messulethe, he would be of no use to either Nangi or Justine. Best to wait. Nangi would get all the help he needed from Seiko if Tinh had run into a bit of trouble. And as for Justine, he suspected the longer he waited until their emotions cooled down the better.

Sunlight, punished by zinc-colored clouds and a bitter, harbinger wind, fell upon the water, turning it into an ancient copper mirror. Celeste said nothing. She was staring out at the palazzi as they drifted past. A police launch raced by, and in its rough wake, a postal boat chugged, making its rounds. Rain began to pucker the water, making of its rich reflections pointillist impressions.

Looking at her face, he had no idea of her reaction to his touch or his proximity. It was as if she had lost a piece of herself during the encounter with the Tau-tau adept and was now only partially there.

“Celeste, you’re so quiet. What are you thinking?”

“I’m surprised you have to ask.” For an instant, her eyes blazed. “God in heaven, we were almost killed back there!”

“You may be right.”

She shuddered heavily, but her face was full of scorn, a fitting mask perhaps for her terror. “Well, look at you, as calm as if we’d just come back from a stroll along the Lido beach! What’s the matter with you? Is this a common occurrence in your world? Because if it is, I want nothing to do with it.”

“You must have known there’d be danger in associating yourself with Okami-san.”

“Oh yes. Bullets and sword blades. Those kinds of dangers I can deal with. But this—” She shook her head. “This is something out of my ken.” She turned to face him as the
vaporetto
began to nose into a station. “Frankly, it scares the hell out of me. Some bastard with God alone knows what kind of powers almost kills us with… with what? Magic?” She shuddered heavily, turned away from him, and thrust herself into the temporary security of the crowd disembarking from the boat.

Nicholas hurried after her. Ahead of them was the Accademia with its footman, the splendid wooden bridge. But now it reminded him of the Kanfa of the Messulethe.

They were near Okami’s palazzo, and he saw this was where she was headed.

“Yes,” he said, catching up to her. “Tau-tau is a kind of magic. But it’s as explainable as physics.”

“Not to me it isn’t.”

“Celeste, listen to me, I let us walk into that trap.”

That got to her. She stopped, whipping around to glare at him. “You did
what?”

The rain was in her face, strands of deep red hair plastered to one cheek. She looked very beautiful, and at that moment terribly vulnerable.

“I felt him in there—in that palazzo. In so confined a space he couldn’t hide what he was from me. He was already summoning his power—that strange rhythmic pulse we heard in there—remember?”

Celeste put her arms around herself as if to ward off a chill. “I couldn’t forget even if I tried.”

He pulled her into a doorway, out of the rain. The eternal morning lineup for the Accademia was gone; budget cutbacks dictated that the museum close just after lunchtime. Now just a few students in backpacks and Nikes sat on the front steps, waiting for the rain to let up. “You’ve got to understand. I had to find out what we’re up against. I had to test him just as he tried to test me. He tried to draw me out, to get a measure of my powers. I wouldn’t let him.”

“Good for you.”

She began to turn away, but Nicholas grabbed her elbow.

“You don’t understand.”

“The hell I don’t!” she flared. “You let us walk into that trap. You had no idea how strong this man was. He could have beaten you; he could have killed us both. Christ, what kind of person are you to take such extreme risks!”

“Whatever risks I took were worth what I learned.”

“No risk is worth—”

“Please listen to me,” he said carefully. “Whoever is coming after Mikio Okami isn’t your normal Yakuza hit man.” He projected his inner mind outward, forcing her to concentrate on what he was telling her. “You’re right about one thing. This man who trapped us is very dangerous. He possesses the knowledge of the Messulethe, the most ancient race of magicians. Their particular form of sorcery emanated from the mind. They were psycho-necromancers. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

There was a light in her eyes, akin to the one seen in that moment just before a fulgent sun crosses the eastern horizon.

“According to legend, the Messulethe were able to access the elemental energy of the cosmos, the god-stuff from which the universe was created.”

Celeste seemed to be trembling. “Are you mad? You’re talking of gods.”

Nicholas nodded. “As close to gods as we can imagine.” He gripped her hard. “And one of these people has been sent here. What for? If Okami-san is right, it’s to kill him.”

“Oh, my God!”

They ran all the way to Okami’s palazzo. Celeste used her key to unlock the front gate, and they raced through the portico. The canal was very close, the water as black as ice at night. The cold rain felt as hard as buckshot, and the wind took the branches of the pear tree, whipping them back and forth. The petals of the bougainvillea and the roses were strewn across the courtyard like droplets of blood.

Celeste’s fingers shook as she unlocked the front door.

“Okami-san!” she called as they went inside. The palazzo was dark.

“Christ,” she said, “we’re too late!”

They headed up the stairs to the second floor with its long, leaded windows overlooking the Grand Canal. It was chilly in the living room; the windows were open, and one of the panels was banging against the frame.

Celeste ran to the raised section at the far end and, kneeling on the cushions, stuck her head out the window, peered down.

He would have said, “Do you see him?” but there was no need.

With a convulsive gesture, she withdrew from the window, closed the panel. Then she turned to face him. “He’s not there. But you knew that already, didn’t you?” She said it in an accusatory tone.

Nicholas nodded. “I would have felt the Messulethe if he had been here. If he had murdered Okami-san, the atmosphere would have remained in a state of excitation for some time after he had left.”

“You say that so matter-of-factly.”

“Celeste, it
is
fact.”

She looked at him for some time, and he could feel her bitterness toward him, but not fully understand it. She got up, went down the three steps to the main area.

“I’ll take this floor, you search downstairs.”

“There’s no need.” Nicholas watched her as she turned back to face him. “He’s not here, Celeste.”

Color crept into her face, and her hands clenched into white fists at her side. “Is he alive or dead? What does your magic tell you?”

So that was it; it was not only the Tau-tau that terrified her. It was him. “You don’t understand,” he said. “I don’t know.”

“Well, you sure as hell better find out what’s happened to him.” She was shaking, the veins standing out in her long neck.

He came down off the raised area to stand beside her. “We’ll find out, together.”

She looked up at him with an enigmatic expression. “So much power. How can I ever trust you?”

They went into Okami’s bedroom first, but there was nothing there to guide them. The bed was made, his clothes hung in the closet, in his dresser they lay folded, the corners neatly aligned. His personal items were in their appointed places in the adjoining bathroom.

“Well, at least he hasn’t run off,” Celeste said, pointing to his luggage stacked on the top shelf of a deep closet.