I push my bike to its utmost limits and chew up the streets at ninety miles an hour, a hundred, faster. I defy red lights and one-way streets, take bends without braking, challenging the city to blast my wheels from under me and send me crunching to my death.
The police are soon after me, sirens wailing. They set up roadblocks that I dodge automatically, brain ticking over mechanically, analyzing the routes ahead, anticipating the blocks, detouring before I come upon them. Part of me wants to ride into an ambush and go down in a hail of gunfire like a Wild West outlaw, but another part resists and pleads with me to cling to life. While the two halves wrestle with one another, I fly one step ahead of death, ready to stop, turn and greet it with open arms if my darker desires win out.
Thoughts of Bill whistle between the spokes of my wheels. They’re faster than my bike—faster than anything—but they don’t overtake me, content to tag along, tickling the back of my neck, whispering, “No escape, not even in death.”
I turn into a long open stretch and spot a burning barricade. This is an entry point to the east, blocked off by the locals. Nobody’s manning it this early in the morning. As soon as I see the flames, my decision is made. With a suicidal grin I aim for the center of the mound of old tires, tables, wardrobes and chairs, and hit the gas.
I’m doing eighty-seven when I hit. I close my eyes as I plow through the molten mess of rubber, wire and wood. Splinters strike my hands and cheeks. Something hot singes my left ear. The air is thick and unbreathable.
I burst free of the barricade, still alive. Irate, I brush glowing embers from my face and scalp, then probe the damage with my fingertips. Lots of cuts and nicks. A small chunk gone from the lobe of my left ear. Otherwise unharmed. Cursing the inadequacies of the fools who built the barricade, I push on, picking up speed again, cutting corners tighter than ever. I’ve lost the cops—they won’t venture this far east. Now it’s just me and death in a straight-up contest.
I snake and snarl through the streets, so fast that the houses, shops and signs blur. If I’m to die, this is as good a place as any. I’m glad it’s early and that the riots have confined most people to their homes. There’s almost nobody on the streets, so when I crash, I’ll hopefully not harm anyone else.
Finally, as I’m beginning to think that my bike’s conspiring against me, I hit a dead dog as I scream around a corner. My wheels choke, the bike coughs and suddenly I’m flying. My bike spins lengthwise through the air, back wheel over front, shattering the iron grille and window of a shop, continuing into the store, cutting a destructive swath through the display. I pitch along next to it, but smash into what’s left of the grille and bounce back to the pavement. Air whumps out of me, my head whips backward and I snap into blackness. Yes!
No.
My bike’s finished, but I’m not. I return to consciousness within minutes and struggle into a sitting position, groaning with agony, hating this world for clinging to me. As an alarm blares uselessly—no police will answer—I assess the damage. Grazed elbows and knees—the material of my jacket and pants cut to shreds around the bloody protuberances—and a deep gash across my forehead, from which blood runs thickly. My back feels as if a sumo wrestler used me as a trampoline, but incredibly I can’t feel any broken bones.
I stand, and though I’m light-headed and wobbly on my feet, I don’t fall. I let the gash in my head bleed, hoping I’ll lose too much blood and collapse, but when I lift a hand and test it, I feel it scabbing over and I know I’m going to live.
What the hell does a guy have to do to die around here?
With a wry chuckle, I accept the world’s refusal to acknowledge my death wish. As much as I long to embrace the eternal darkness, it’s clear that some higher force in this universe thinks I should hang on for a while yet, and who am I to argue with a power like that?
I stumble through the wreckage of the shop and check my bike. It’s a write-off. The frame’s buckled, the handlebars lie somewhere under a mound of leather jackets and gloves, the tank’s busted, wires hang exposed, engine parts bleed pitifully. I find a pen and paper on a counter and scribble a note, promising to pay for the damages. I pin it to the wall with a knife, then hobble out and start the long, painful walk home.
A shower. Caked blood rinses away, turning the water at my feet a dark reddish brown. Hot becomes cold. I stay where I am, head propped against the wall, letting the chill of the spray numb the worst of the pain.
Eventually I turn off the water and crawl, dripping wet, to bed. I can’t lie on my back—too painful—so I turn facedown and shut my eyes. Sleep isn’t on the agenda, but it’s easier to lie peacefully than to sit or stand.
I remain prostrate for most of the day. It’s cloudy outside, and it rains lightly in the early afternoon, the first shower since April. The planned Tuesday raid by Stuart Jordan’s forces fails to materialize—maybe the rain put him off—and it turns into a damp squib of a day. People mop up the worst of the carnage, shop in stores on the outskirts that have escaped the riots, and grumble about the rain.
My cell rings. It’s the third time someone’s called. I ignored it before, but now I reach over and answer. “Hello?” I croak.
“I phoned earlier but I guess you were out.” Ama.
“I was here. Didn’t feel like talking.”
“Are you OK?”
“Not really. I’m tired. Of everything. Would you do me a favor?”
“What?”
“Hire someone to kill me.”
There’s a long pause. “Is this a joke?”
Another pause, then, “I’m coming to see you.”
“No, don’t…” I stop. She’s already hung up. Groaning softly, I drop the phone and wonder whether or not to let Ama in when she arrives.
Some time later I’ve just about decided not to admit Ama, when she knocks and calls my name. My legs swing over the edge of the bed and next thing I know, I’m creeping to the door to open it.
“Jesus!” she gasps at the sight of me.
“No,” I chuckle hoarsely. “Just me.”
“What happened?” she asks, pushing in and turning on the light, standing on her toes to examine the cut on my forehead.
“Came off my bike.”
“You crashed? When? Are you hurt? Have you seen a doctor?”
“I’m fine,” I scowl. “There’s nothing broken. I’m bruised and winded, but with a bit more rest I’ll be good as ever, worse luck.”
I retreat to my bedroom, where I sit tenderly on the bed and prod glumly at my wounds. Ama follows slowly, frowning. “What do you mean, ‘worse luck’?”
“I’m sick of living. I wanted to crash. I wish my neck were broken. My spine. My skull. I want to be dead, Ama. I can’t take this life any longer.”
“Al,” she says quietly, crouching. “What’s wrong?”
“For ten years I’ve hated and hunted—for nothing. He was pitiful, not evil. I thought I’d imagined the worst, but the truth was worse than anything I dreamed. I understand him now, and that’s the most god-awful feeling in the world.”
Ama takes my hands. “You’re not making sense, Al.”
“That’s the trouble,” I moan. “It does make sense. For ten years it didn’t. I was able to hide in madness, thinking it my friend. Now I see clearly, but I don’t want to. Better to perish and not see at all.”
“Al!” She squeezes my fingers. “Tell me what happened. Explain. I want to help but I can’t if you won’t tell me what’s wrong.”
I look into her eyes, calm and pure, and realize that I want to tell her. I thought it was a story I’d take to my grave
(sooner rather than later)
but now I find myself desperate to share. “You remember my ex-wife, Ellen?”
“Vaguely. We were friends. She was killed in the Skylight. You came to see me about her. It’s how we first met.”
“She was murdered by a woman who was working for Bill Casey. Bill was my best friend, the closest thing I had to a loving father.” I take a breath, put my thoughts in order, then start over. “I guess it began, for me, with a fishing trip…”
I tell Ama the whole story, leaving nothing out—Bill, Paucar Wami, everything. I even tell her of the offer the priests made, for me to share this city with Capac Raimi, and how I turned them down. It takes hours, and I’m still going long after midnight, but I bring her bang up to date, finishing with Bill’s revelation and crashing my bike. She’s silent for a long time, holding my hands, staring dead ahead, thoughtful. I wait for her to make a comment.
Finally, without glancing at me, she asks, “How did you feel when you killed him?”
I crack a ghastly smile. “I didn’t.”
Her head shoots around. “You didn’t kill him?”
“I couldn’t. Not after what he told me. I tried. I’ve spent ten years hating him, killing in an attempt to lure him out of hiding, with the sole purpose of executing him. But when I looked into his eyes and saw the insanity, the terror, the pain… He begged me to kill him—followed me out of the shack, weeping, pleading—but my hands wouldn’t lift against him.”
Ama starts to cry, but she’s smiling through the tears. “You took pity on him!” she exclaims, hugging me tight.
“No,” I wince, pushing her away. “He’s suffering more than any man I’ve seen. Execution would have been a mercy. It’s crueler to let him go on, tormented by dreams of snakes, wondering why he destroyed me, hating himself. I let him live because it’s worse than killing him, not because I pity the bastard.”
She shakes her head. “Tell yourself that if you want—you might even believe it—but I see the truth in your eyes. You understand why he did it, that he was tied to his course, just as you’ve been to yours for ten years, and you forgave him.”
“No!” I shout. “He killed Nicola Hornyak. One of his servants butchered Ellen. He brought me to my knees, took away everything I valued. I hate him. I let him live to punish him. I…” My throat tightens. My shoulders shake and my eyes fill with tears. “What have I done? What have I become? Ten years hunting a broken old man who raped and murdered his own sister while trying to save her. Ten years of killing, madness, hate…”
“But it’s over,” she murmurs. “You can rest, get out, start clean. It’s taken ten years, but you’re free, Al. You’re free!”
I stare at her, then bawl like a child, a scream that’s been building inside me for a decade, a howl of rage, despair and loss. Clutching Ama to me like a life buoy, I bury my head in her lap and roar into the folds of her dress. Within seconds it’s dark with tears and crumpled from where my teeth close and open, but Ama doesn’t push me away. Instead she hugs me and whispers, telling me it’s OK to yell and cry. And I do, losing myself in grief, cutting out the world and its hurt, giving myself over to the waves and rhythm of release, until, in the early hours of the morning, my head still in her lap, her arms wrapped tight around me, I can cry no more, and fall into a dark, dreamless, demonless sleep.
When I wake, the nightmare’s over. For ten years I’ve lived it, each day a new installment of terror, fear, hatred. That dreadful driving force is gone. There’s pain, regret, longing—I wish I could have those wasted years back—but no thirst for vengeance. As I lie facedown in the gray gloom of the morning, I mutter into the pillow, “I am Paucar Wami,” but the words are meaningless. That part of me died during the night and evaporated in the light of the dawn. I need never again stalk the streets or kill as my father. I don’t know if I can be the person I was before the madness, but I’m no longer a monster.
I stretch and groan, muscles aching, joints stiff, head on fire. I sit up and the sheets fall away. Ama enters. “I thought you were going to sleep all day,” she says, setting down a cup of tea and coming over to examine my scar. She’s taken off her dress and only wears a long shirt over her underwear. “How do you feel?”
“Shaken. Sore. Small and weak. But alive.” I grin at her and she must see the realization of freedom in my eyes, because she returns the smile and kisses my forehead, just beneath my scar and above my eyebrows.
“Glad you didn’t die in the crash?” she asks softly.
“Yes.” I take her hands and kiss them. “Thank you.”
“For what—being here?”
“And listening. And understanding. And helping me to understand.”
“Don’t get sappy on me, Al,” she chuckles.
“Without you, I might never have known that I was free.”
“You would,” she replies. “It just might have taken you a bit longer to figure it out. So, what do you want to do on your first day of freedom?”
“So many things,” I sigh. “Put right the wrongs of the last decade. Bring back to life the people I killed. Say sorry to those I terrorized. Get rid of these horrible fucking snakes.” I stroke my tattoos, then my scalp. “Grow my hair back.”
Ama laughs. “You can’t do all that in a day.” Her smile fades. “Some of it you’ll never be able to do.”
I nod soberly, thinking of the dead.
“But let’s not waste time worrying about that,” she snorts. “What’s it to be—a walk in the park? A swim? Maybe you’d like to stand naked in the center of Swiss Square and roar your delight?”
“I think not.” Scratching my thigh, it suddenly strikes me that I’m naked. Ama must have undressed me. My hands start to pull up the covers, then stop. “Know what I really want?”
“What?”
“To make love.” Her face darkens. “I know you love Raimi. I won’t embarrass you by pleading. But for ten years there’s been no love in my life. I need to hold and make love to a woman, and I need to do it now. If I have to, I’ll go hire a hooker. But I’d prefer it to be you. If you won’t, I understand.”
Ama looks away. “My heart is Capac’s. I don’t want it to be, but it is.”
“I know. And I won’t try and win it, though I wish I could. All I’m asking is that you share this morning with me. If you can bring yourself to lie down with me, just once… if you don’t think I’m too grotesque… if you can forget all the awful things I’ve done…”
She looks at me, eyes soft. “It’s been a long time for me too. And though my heart beats for Capac, I hate him. I want to… but…” Her jaw firms. “What the hell. Let’s do it. But on the understanding that it’s only sex, nothing more.”
Ama pulls her shirt off, then slips off her underwear and stands before me naked, unsmiling. “I don’t know if I can enjoy this,” she warns.
“If you can’t, we’ll stop,” I promise, then peel back the sheets and invite her into bed. After a moment’s hesitation she joins me, and I toss the sheets over us, covering us, hiding us, bringing us together in the gloom.
Our lovemaking is slow and gentle. We’re clumsy to begin with, but that makes us laugh, taking the tension out of the act, and soon we’re moving as one, lips and bodies locked. It lasts a long time, filled with many stops and starts, and by the end we’re sweating and panting, despite the leisurely pace of the joining.
Lying on my back, holding her, I kiss her gently. “Was it OK?”
“Best lay I’ve had in ten years,” she smirks.
“You know what I mean. Did you enjoy it?”
She nods thoughtfully. “I feel guilty, but glad at the same time.”
“Has it freed you? Can you forget Raimi and make a new life for yourself?”
She nips my nose and grins. “You weren’t that good! I realize I’m not tied as tightly to Capac as I thought, but I’m his by destiny, and even though it’s a manufactured destiny, it’s not a bond I can break. He’ll always be here”—she taps her heart—“whether I want him to be or not.”
“It isn’t fair,” I mutter sourly.
“Life wasn’t designed to be fair, Al. You know that better than most.”
Ama rises and stretches. She’s beautiful naked. I wish I could win her over. I think of reaching for her, loving her again, loving her continuously until I grind away her feelings for Raimi. But I don’t have the right to make demands of her, so I let my hand stay where it is, resting on my chest.
“How are the ribs?” Ama asks, slipping on her shirt.
“Tender. Head’s worse. Think you could get some painkillers for me?”
“Sure. Any particular brand?”
“Tell me something I don’t know!”
I shower while she’s gone, water as hot as it gets. My knees and elbows have scabbed over. There’ll be scars when the scabs clear, on my forehead as well. More to add to the collection.
I swallow a handful of pills when Ama returns, washing them down with water. Then she makes me lie on the bed and massages my back. She’s not very skilled at it, but she’s dogged. After an hour I’m feeling much more limber than I was.
“What’s next on the agenda?” Ama asks, rolling off.
“Sleep,” I groan, eyes shut, relaxed.
“I mean tomorrow. Next week. Next year. You’ve been given your life back. What do you plan to do with it?”
My smile turns to a frown and my eyes flutter open. I tilt my head so her face comes into view. “What do you think I should do?”
“Get out,” she says immediately. “Catch the first bus, train or plane and take off. It doesn’t matter where. Just get away, where nobody knows you, where none of the shit of this city can touch you. Worry about the future later. First you need to escape, from the villacs, your father, the riots, everything.”
“You make it sound easy.”
“It is,” she hisses, digging her nails into the flesh of my bicep. “You’re human, Al. I’m not. I don’t have a choice. I was made to love Capac and stay by him. I can’t leave. But the priests have no hold over you. Get out and don’t look back.”
I’m tempted. My mind runs with the idea. Pack a bag, use the credit card Tasso supplied me with to buy tickets and withdraw piles of cash, run until I can’t be found, leave this city, its gangsters and Incan priests to go screw themselves.
I limp to the window and gaze at the shaded stretch of street beneath. A few kids are circling posts set in the concrete on newly acquired bikes, shouting, laughing, unaffected by the riots and the threat hanging over them all. I mean nothing to Ford Tasso or Eugene Davern—useful at the moment, but thoroughly dispensable. And although the villacs have a vested interest in me, my disappearance wouldn’t throw them too much either. They’d wash their hands of me and turn to another of their fall guys. But the kids, their parents, my half brothers and sisters in the Snakes…
Who’ll look out for them if I quit? I don’t owe them anything—I didn’t start the riots, or recruit the Snakes—but I feel responsible. I don’t control their destinies, but I can maybe influence them for the better. If I stay.
“I can’t leave,” I tell Ama, sensing the outline of a new destiny forming around me. “I’ve unfinished business to attend to.”
“Such as?” she snaps.
Answers click into place swiftly as I reel them out. “The villacs. The Snakes. The riots. The Kluxers. My father.”
Definitely my father, if only for what he did to Bill. I always knew he was a monster, but terrorizing a kid into raping and killing his sister goes beyond the bounds even of monstrosity. He could do it all again if the priests free him.
“That’s a lot of business,” Ama says skeptically. “Think you can handle it all?”
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “I can confront my father—though I don’t care for my chances—and I think I can put an end to the riots by playing ball with the priests. After that… we’ll see.”
“It’s not your place to cure this city of all its ills,” Ama says.
“Of course it isn’t. But if I can stop the riots, free my relatives and the local kids from the Snakes, settle matters with my father, spit in the blind eyes of the villacs… That wouldn’t be a bad legacy. And I need to leave a legacy other than one of terror and bloodshed. I couldn’t live with myself the way things stand. I’d always be looking back.”
Ama gazes at me silently for long, probing seconds, then sighs. “You’re crazy, but I see you’re set on this.” She licks her lips. “What about Capac? Your bargain with Tasso’s off, now that you found Bill. Will you leave Capac to the priests?”
I could. Tasso no longer has a hold over me. I’m free to tell him what he can do with his deal. But Raimi’s important to the villacs, and they’re the key to the Snakes and the riots. If I quit, I’d risk isolating myself. I’m focal as long as the priests need me. Outside the loop of their creation, I’m as powerless as any other pawn in the city.
“I’d happily leave him to rot,” I grunt, “but I need to restore Raimi to his throne to put an end to the unrest. I also want the villacs to think I’m still playing by their rules. The search for The Cardinal continues.”
“Then I’m sticking with you,” Ama says, and she doesn’t leave room for me to argue. “Where do you start and what can I do to help?”
“First,” I yawn, “I catch more sleep. When I feel ready, I want you to lead me to the villacs. I have a proposal to put to them.”
“What is it?” Ama asks.
“I don’t know,” I grin. “But hopefully I’ll have thought of one by the time I wake.”
Wednesday, late, the tunnels. My back’s killing me but I couldn’t put this off until tomorrow. Stuart Jordan launched his counterattack earlier, taking everyone by surprise for once. He hit the headquarters of the Lobes, one of the larger gangs in the east. Eliminated them swiftly and efficiently. Spreading wide his mixed force of cops and soldiers, he moved on the next four gang strongholds and looked likely to make a clean sweep, when his men were attacked by ghostlike, deadly warriors in dark T-shirts and jeans, with shaven heads and serpents tattooed on their cheeks. The Snakes made short work of Jordan’s men—reports put the death toll between fifty and seventy—and forced him to sound a full retreat.
Relief at seeing Jordan’s forces repelled was short-lived. The Snakes, having routed the enemy, attacked the gangs that Jordan had targeted, scattering those they didn’t kill. The Snakes disappeared back underground, but the gang members are still active, scouring the streets, clashing with each other, hungry for a fight.
Once I became aware of what was happening, I had to intervene, regardless of my condition. Ama helped bandage my ribs. She also disguised the scar on my forehead (I don’t want to appear vulnerable). Then she came with me to the underworld entrance, and led me down into the darkness.
I try keeping track of our direction, for fear something should happen to Ama, but it’s impossible in the twisting tunnels. If we were going slowly, and I were carefully marking my path, it would be different, but we need to move swiftly. The longer we take, the more lives will be lost.
We encounter nobody until we enter a short tunnel, lit by a torch at the far end, and come face-to-face with a blind priest. He stretches his arms wide and chants.
“Is this who we’re looking for?” I ask as we approach.
“No,” Ama says. “I don’t think he speaks English. He’s only here to greet us.”
“In that case…” I stick out my right arm and poleax him. I could break his neck, but settle for dumping him on his ass and leaving him to splutter in the dust.
Four turns later we enter a large, bare room, where the villac I spoke with before is waiting, seated on a high stool. “Welcome, Flesh of Dreams,” he intones.
“Cut the shit,” I snap. “I want to discuss terms. Can I do that with you, or is there some other prick I have to go to?”
“I am prick enough,” he says, gesturing to a couple of chairs set by the wall to his left. Once we’re seated, he smooths the folds of his robes. “You are ready to pledge yourself to us?”
“In a manner of speaking,” I reply shortly.
“You will do as we bid? Lead the Snakes? Assist Blood of Dreams?”
“Yes. But I have conditions.” He smiles and nods for me to continue. “I want to end the riots. There’s been enough bloodshed.”
“We can grant that wish. We will have to strike hard to secure peace and exert control. More must perish. But within a couple of days the fighting will cease.”
“What about the Troops and Kluxers? You think they’ll sit back and let the Snakes annex the east?”
“You need not worry about them. Shortly after peace has been restored, we will return Blood of Dreams to his rightful position—assuming he cooperates—and he will see that your authority is not undermined.”
I glance at Ama and catch her relieved smile at the news that her lover is due to return. “And my father?” I ask.
The villac shrugs. “He is of no interest to us now. He will be released, since we gave our word that we would set him free, but he must go elsewhere to kill. He would be an irritant if he stayed.”
I could make it part of our bargain that they terminate Paucar Wami—I doubt the priest would object too strenuously—but I want him for myself. His fate should be mine to decide, not theirs.
I’m getting most of what I wish for, an end to the riots, the city at peace, the freedom to move against my father. I’d like to see the priests come to grief as well, but I can’t have everything. There is, however, one final point. “When it’s over, I want the Snakes disbanded. Send them back to their homes with orders to get on with their lives.”
The priest shakes his head. “The Snakes are essential. Without them you would stand alone in the corridors of power. They are your bargaining chip when dealing with Blood of Dreams and the others. You need them.”
“I don’t want them,” I snap. “Set them free or it’s no deal.”
“Then it’s no deal. You are important, Flesh of Dreams, but so are the Snakes. For centuries we worked without an army. We see now that we were mistaken. We need a force of our own, for when political machinations are not enough.”
“But—”
“This is not open to debate,” he interrupts curtly.
I curse beneath my breath, but I know when I’m beaten.
I have nothing to offer the villacs except myself. If that’s not enough to sway them, I have no other card to play.
“OK,” I sigh, glaring at the white-eyed priest. “I’ll lead them for you. I’ll work with you. But if you try and screw me over…”
“Flesh of Dreams,” the villac chuckles, “would we do that? Come. We have much to do if we are to realize our plans. Let us begin.” He offers a hand. I stare at the pale fingers a moment—I hate these bastards, but what choice do I have?—then take them and let him lead me through the tunnels, ever deeper beneath the earth, to embrace the destiny of their making that I was for so long so determined to avoid.