City of the Snakes

1: the snakes

I’ve been lying awake, eyes open, for several minutes before I realize it. The darkness is so absolute that I mistook it for the darkness of my dreams. Groaning, I sit up and massage the swollen flesh around my throat. I’ve throttled men unconscious before, but this is my first time on the receiving end.

Swallowing stings, but I force myself to dry-swallow mechanically, and after a while the pain recedes and I’m able to breathe naturally, with only a minimum of discomfort. What I wouldn’t give for a glass of water.

Getting to my feet, I turn in a slow circle, arms outstretched, probing with my fingers — nothing. Bending, I pat the floor, getting a feel for where I am. Hard earth, damp, musky. I fan out with my hands but the area’s clear. I check for my belt of knives but they’ve been taken from me. The walking stick too.

Sitting again, I allow my thoughts to wander back to my encounter with the past in the Manco Capac statue, and try convincing myself that what I saw wasn’t — couldn’t be — real. Paucar Wami’s lost to the mists of time and reality. It must have been a look-alike. There’s no other logical answer.

But what about the Ama Situwa double? And the others Capac Raimi said he saw in the weeks leading up to his disappearance? Finding one person who looks similar to another is difficult. Finding a host of them, for a group of people… I don’t even begin calculating the odds. Something’s going on, something I can’t account for, and the best way to deal with it is to let it slide. First things first. I have to find my way out of here, wherever here is.

Rising, I sniff the air for any scent of a draft. “Hello?” I croak, grimacing at the flare-up in my throat. “Hello!” I shout, voice almost breaking — it feels as if I’m vomiting glass. Ignoring the pain, I listen for echoes. They come, faintly, from my left. Facing that way, I shout again, a wordless grunt this time, and the echoes are clearer. I hear nothing when I roar in the other directions, so I head left, hands stretched out in front. I count my steps silently, in case I need to retrace them. Five… eight… fourteen…

On my thirty-fourth step my hand strikes a brick wall, wet with condensation. I examine it with my fingers, then test the ground for puddles. I find several and — having dipped a finger in and tested the water, which tastes bitter but otherwise OK — I lean down and sip from one of the larger pools, quenching my thirst.

Refreshed, I stand, wipe my lips, choose a direction at random, lay my palm against the wall and walk, brushing the brick lightly with my fingertips, feeling for gaps or cracks. I think of nothing but the wall, pushing all other thoughts from my mind, as hard as that is.

I have no idea how long I was out or what the time is — my watch has been taken from my wrist and my cell’s gone too. Instead of worrying about it, or where I’ve been taken, I count my paces, making my world consist of nothing but the wall, the darkness and footsteps.

Forty-seven steps into my count, I run into another wall and come to the end of my path. I make a ninety-degree turn and continue walking and counting.

One hundred and seventeen steps later, my hand slides into space. I turn and take two steps forward. I stick my right hand out — wall. Stretching forth my left, I shuffle that way… a bit more… wall. I’m in a passage.

Standing in the middle, I can touch both walls. Keeping to the center, I start walking, feeling for openings on either side. After 659 steps the walls give way to emptiness. Exploring, I discover a four-way junction. I focus on each tunnel in turn, listening closely, peering through the darkness for the slightest flicker of light. There isn’t any. No sounds either, apart from the dripping of water. Then, as I’m examining the passages a second time, an extremely faint noise — perhaps a human cry, maybe only a rat squeaking — carries to my ears from one of the tunnels.

My choice made for me, I start ahead cautiously. This passage is the same width as the last. I’m progressing as before, hands outstretched, when the ground ends and I drop. Stifling a yell, I grab for the bricks of the walls. Then my feet hit and I relax. It was a short fall. Drawing in my hands, I stoop and feel the ground — concrete. I run my fingers forward into air, then down to more concrete. I’m on a step, the first, I suspect, of a set of stairs. Standing, I slide onto the next step, feel for the edge with my toes, find it and carry on down, deeper under the earth, in search of the origin of that elusive sound.

Fifty steps… a hundred… one-fifty… I’m only four shy of the two hundred mark when they finally run out and I hit level ground. I’m in a tunnel with an arched roof. I can tell because it’s lit by the most welcome torch I’ve ever seen, burning faintly ahead of me. The desire to rush to the light is strong, but I fight it and study the terrain. The tunnel runs in both directions, seemingly without end, but this is the only torch. Turning right, I walk to the torch. It’s set in stone, the head a replaceable wick, which runs down into an encased container. No way to remove it. I’ll have to continue without it and hope there are other torches ahead to light my way.

Concentrating solely on finding a way out, ignoring thoughts of my father, Ama Situwa and the villacs, I proceed, hand no longer on the wall, navigating by the glow of the torch, which gets fainter the farther I progress. I’m almost surrounded by total gloom again when I hear sounds from somewhere ahead. This time the noise is definitely human — men arguing loudly. Hurrying, I come to the mouth of another tunnel. There are no torches in this one, but fresh air wafts through it, and the sounds of the men are stronger than ever.

The tunnel’s long — I quit counting steps now that I’m no longer scouting blind — and the voices dwindle as I close in on them. By the time I reach the end the argument has come to a halt, but there are grunting, scuffling sounds. I pause, listening intently. I thought there were only two men, but by the varying noises I revise that figure upward. Then, since there’s nothing else to do, I step forward to face whatever awaits.

I find myself in a large, man-made cavern, ninety feet wide, maybe a hundred and fifty long, with a high ceiling. The walls are bare, save for candles. The floor’s covered by a thick, green, padded mat.

There are fifteen men and three women inside the chamber. All are young — the youngest looks thirteen or fourteen, the oldest no more than twenty-five — and most are black. Their heads are shaved and down the cheeks of each run tattooed snakes similar to mine, but monochromatic — plain blue, red, green, et cetera. All eighteen are clad in jeans and dark T-shirts. They’re barefoot.

I believe I’ve found the Snakes.

The young men and women are sparring in pairs or threes.

They punch, kick and twist with remarkable agility. Their fists and feet are unprotected and leave cuts and bruises where they connect too sharply, but nobody takes any notice of the wounds, getting up when knocked down, fighting on, pausing only to wipe blood away when it gets bothersome. They say nothing as they spar, although every so often one of the older members chastises a younger participant for making a mistake. The girls and boys contest equally, taking and meting out their fair share of the punishment, no allowances made.

I watch in silence, unseen, for several minutes. Finally I’m spotted by a young woman who steps aside to remove her ripped T-shirt. She pulls it off over her head, baring her breasts — none of the men bat an eyelid — then turns back toward her partner to continue — and sights me. She stops, hands dropping by her sides, and stares at me expressionlessly. Her partner turns to see what she’s looking at and soon everyone is facing me, silent, impossible to read.

Stepping forward, I come to a halt five feet short of the nearest member of the group, a tall, lithe, dark-skinned man in his early twenties. I croak, “Where am I?” The man says nothing, just raises a hand and strokes the red snakes on his face, eyeing me suspiciously.

“Do you have a name?” I’m finding it hard to speak.

In response the man walks around me, sizing me up, noting the marks on my throat. He’s rippling with muscles but there’s an air of uncertainty about him — he’s trying too hard to act cool — and I sense from the way he moves that he’s untested in real combat.

The man stops behind me. I feel his breath on the back of my neck but I don’t turn to face him. The woman with the bare breasts steps forward, her left hand going to my groin, hard brown eyes staring directly into mine, watching closely to see if her nudity or the contact unsettles me. They don’t and I stare back calmly, unaroused, waiting for her to quit with the games.

“How did you get here?” she asks, removing her hand.

“I walked.”

“Who are you?”

“I asked for your name first.”

The girl raises her right hand and makes a signal with her thumb and middle finger. In reply, eight of the group fan out behind her, four to her left, four to her right. They surround me, dangerous intent in their expressions.

“Your name,” the woman says.

I consider lying, but see no reason not to tell them. “Al Jeery.” The woman relaxes, as do those around her. “You’re expected,” she says and turns her back on me, looking for her sparring partner. They resume their contest. Within moments the other sixteen have also returned to their original positions and training continues as before.

I stare at the men and women, mildly astonished. “Who’s expecting me?” I ask. No answer. I grab one of the younger men and whirl him around. “Who the hell—” He flicks his left hand towards my face, fingers stiff. I have to move swiftly to avoid being blinded. Slapping his hand away, I snap out of range. As I steel myself for a counterattack, he recommences sparring. I feel like drawing him out and laying him flat, but that would be pointless. There are no answers here. Best move on and seek them farther ahead.

Circling the trainees, I come to a door in the opposite wall of the chamber. The handle turns smoothly. Sparing the sparrers one last, bewildered glance, I step through into a brightly lit corridor, let the door swing shut, and press on.

There are several doors in the walls of the corridor. I open each as I come to it. Storerooms, more corridors, all dark and empty. No signs of life. At the end I come to a set of swing doors. Pushing through, I enter a kitchen where a handful of men and one woman — dressed, shaven and tattooed the same as those in the sparring hall — work in silence over old-style stoves, baking bread. One of the men spots me and scowls. “You can’t come in here!” I ignore him and wander forward, noting microwave ovens in the background, a curious mix of new and old utensils, three huge freezers running along one wall, two refrigerators along another. The man with the scowl moves to block me. “You can’t come in here,” he repeats, softly this time, anticipating a fight.

I take stock of the chef and realize he’s as dangerous as those in the cavern, if not more so. I have to be careful. “My name’s Al Jeery,” I mutter.

The chef relaxes. “We’ve been expecting you.”

“You know who I am?”

“You’re Al Jeery,” he laughs.

“Is that all you know — my name?”

He nods. “We were told you’d be joining us.”

“Who told you?”

He pulls a face, as if he thinks I know the answer and am testing him. “Probably the same person who brought you here.” “And that’s…?”

“You know,” he chuckles and returns to his dough, which he kneads clumsily. I think he’s more of a warrior than a chef.

I watch the men and woman work for a while, then ask the chef for his name.

“Ray,” he says.

“Ray what?”

“We only use first names here.”

I change tack. “How many are you cooking for?”

“The eighteen of phalanx 5C.”

That could be the group I encountered earlier. “How many phalanxes are there?” “I don’t know.”

“Which do you belong to?”

“4A.”

“How many in your group?”

“Eighteen, the same as the others.”

“How many of you are there in total?”

He smiles. “You already asked me a question like that. I still don’t know.” “Who does?”

He shrugs. “The Cobras.”

“Cobras?”

“The captains of the triumvirates. There are three phalanxes per triumvirate.” He’s mixing Greek and Roman terminology, but I let that pass, doing the math. Eighteen multiplied by three is fifty-four. If there are at least five triumvirates, that makes two hundred and seventy — not counting Cobras.

“Where did you come from?” I ask Ray. “How did you get here?” He shakes his head. “We don’t ask questions like that.”

“Who controls the Cobras?”

A flicker of irritation crosses his face. “I don’t have time for this.” “Who should I report to?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who were you told to send me to?”

“Nobody. We were just told you were coming and not to interfere with you.” “Where can I find the Cobras?”

“They have their own quarters. I don’t know where. They come to us, not the other way around.” “Is there some kind of central meeting place?”

Ray walks me to the swing doors and points out a door on the left. “Take the corridor through there. When you get to the third door on the right, turn off. That leads to the main hall, though I doubt you’ll find anyone there now.” “What time is it?” I ask.

“Ten to four. Everyone will be in training or on assignment until six.” The last time I checked my watch was in the Manco Capac statue and it was a few minutes shy of midday. Less time has passed than I thought. I thank Ray for his assistance. He grunts and returns to the kitchen. I start for the door, then stop, follow Ray and ask for a glass of water. I slide a knife from a counter without anyone seeing, then go looking for the main hall.

Ray’s directions were true. Within minutes I’m standing inside the entrance to an enormous cavern that I recognize. I was here ten years ago, summoned by the villacs. It’s much the same as I remember, walls adorned with symbols, many blood-red depictions of the sun, a huge gold sun medallion hanging from the ceiling over a round stone platform, like the one in the Manco Capac solarium, only larger, maybe 120 feet in diameter. Three thrones sit at the center of the platform. Around the circumference mummies are lashed to chairs, though there are gaps. The priests must have moved some of their dead ancestors up to the compartments in the solarium.

I approach the platform warily, scanning the shadows of the candlelit cavern for villacs and Snakes. I appear to be alone. Skirting the platform, keeping my knife low, I edge farther into the cavern, feeling isolated and exposed.

“You found your way here quicker than I expected,” someone says from the darkness above. I raise my knife and peer uselessly into the layers of blackness that mask the ceiling. “Put away the knife,” the speaker says and a rope drops. “You won’t need it.” A man shimmies down the rope and lands catlike. He turns and smiles. He’s older than the others I’ve encountered, in his thirties. He’s bald, and sports light blue snakes on his cheeks, but he wears a leather jacket over his T-shirt.

“Are you a Cobra?” I ask, not lowering the knife.

He raises a thin eyebrow. “You learn quickly. Yes. I command the second triumvirate. You know about those?” “I’ve gathered the basics. How many triumvirates are there?” “Seven. We’re in the midst of forming an eighth.”

That bumps the number up to almost four hundred. No wonder Davern’s worried about the Snakes.

“Who commands and finances you?”

The Cobra smiles. “Ask no questions, told no lies. Come, Mr. Jeery, the master awaits.” He offers the rope to me.

“I’m not climbing up there until I know what’s going on,” I tell him.

He shrugs. “Then you’ll stay here and rot.”

“Who are you taking me to?”

“You’ll see when you get there.”

“Is it…?” I can’t bring myself to say the name.

The Cobra’s smile fades and he jerks the rope. Since I’ve got no real choice, I take it and start up, followed by the Cobra, to a balcony. Once there, I turn, stop the Cobra from mounting, and press my blade to his throat.

“I want answers and I want them now,” I snarl, but he laughs at the threat.

“Kill me if you must, Mr. Jeery, but you won’t scare answers out of me. Nobody fears death down here. We’re taught to accept it.” I’m tempted to slice his throat for the hell of it, but that wouldn’t bring me the truth. Standing back, I let him climb and I fall into place behind him as he marches to the end of the platform, into another tunnel.

“How many tunnels are there?” I ask after we’ve wound our way through several more passages.

“That’s a question I couldn’t answer even if I had a mind to,” the Cobra says. “I’ve been down here six years and I’m still discovering new routes.” “Six years is a long time to spend underground,” I note.

“Yes,” he agrees, just a touch of bitterness to his tone.

“Did the villacs build these tunnels?” He considers the question, then nods.

“Do they still control them?”

Clicking his tongue, he shakes a finger at me. We advance down one dark tunnel after another, twisting and turning. Finally we come to a door and the Cobra stops. “We’ve arrived. I’ll leave you. Proceed as you wish.” “Wait,” I stop him. “What’s your name?”

“Cobras don’t have names. Not as far as you’re concerned anyway.” He leaves.

I stand in the gloom a few moments, then push open the door. I enter a short corridor, both sides lined with human skulls, a few with scraps of flesh still clinging to the bone. The tops have been sliced off all of them and candles set within. I’m not given to superstitious fears, but my spine tingles as I walk the short stretch to the door at the opposite end of the corridor.

Driving the fear from my mind, I focus on the door and open it. Stepping inside, I study my surroundings. I’m in a fair-sized room, a single bed in one corner, knives, chains and other weapons in another. The third corner’s bare. In the fourth rests a desk decorated with human bones — dozens of them are pinned to the legs and around the rim. At the desk sits a man with his back to me. He’s breathing lightly, busy with something. Stepping closer, I peer over his shoulder and see that he’s prising the eyes from the sockets of a dead child’s head.

“Have you ever killed a child?” he asks conversationally.

“No,” I sigh.

“They afford great sport.”

There’s no answer to a statement like that. Looking away, I wait for him to speak again, which he does presently. “You know who I am?” “I know who you claim to be.”

I sense his smile. “Surely you do not doubt your own eyes and ears?” “I know how easy it is to mimic a man. I’ve been doing it for ten years.” “The appearance, yes, but not the voice,” he retorts. “I have eavesdropped on you many times. You never mastered my dulcet tones.” He swings around and faces me. This close, there’s no mistaking him. The face, the eyes, the snakes can all be copied, but that expression of sheer, gleeful, inhuman evil is unique. I’ve never come close to matching it and I don’t believe anybody else could either.

“Salutations, Al m’boy,” Paucar Wami says, then spreads his arms and grins his most charmingly twisted smile. “Don’t you have a hug for your dear ol’ pappy?”

2: pappy

You’re dead.” The words sound ridiculous said to him in the flesh. I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, across from my father, a man ten years deceased. He hasn’t moved from his seat at the desk.

“No,” he says thoughtfully, fingers toying with the child’s head as he speaks. “I have been, and shall die again soon I’m sure, but for the time being I live.” He chuckles. “You could say this is one of my better days.”

“Where have you been?” I ask.

“Most of the time… deceased. The rest down here, training my boys and girls to be good little killers.”

“You recruited the Snakes?”

“A few, but most were brought to me by the priests. I am the figurehead leader, the assassin who returns from beyond the grave. The priests slaughter me in front of the Snakes every so often, then resurrect me. It impresses my followers no end. I also make impassioned speeches and participate in training. And occasionally I accompany a phalanx on a raid to the upper world, where I glory in death’s wondrous embrace once again.”

“You killed Tasso’s and Davern’s men?”

“Some of them. The Snakes took care of the rest.”

So Davern was right. Paucar Wami did kill his men. It was just a different Paucar Wami from the one he assumed.

“I don’t understand this. You were an Ayuamarcan. You should have died with The Cardinal. Hell, you did! How have you come back?”

“I have not come,” he answers, eyes dark. “I have been brought.” He tosses the child’s head away, stands and stretches. He’s exactly as I remember. Hasn’t aged a day. He should be an old man, but time doesn’t weigh heavy on him. He looks younger than I do.

“Much up here”—he taps the side of his head—“is darkness. My memories are elusive. I know you are my son, my firstborn, but I cannot recall your mother or watching you grow. I have flashes of us ten years ago, working as a team, but I do not remember how our paths crossed or the common goal we pursued.”

“You don’t remember Bill Casey?” I ask quietly.

He frowns. “In dreams, sometimes, I think that name, but I do not know why. Who is he?”

“A police officer.”

“An adversary of mine? A man I killed or who tried to kill me?”

I shake my head wordlessly. I want to think he’s playing with me, but I see in his eyes that he’s not. He really doesn’t know.

“We’ll return to Bill,” I mutter, praying for calm. This is a surreal encounter and it would be easy to run mad in the face of it. I have to remain lucid and take it on its own terms. “Tell me about yourself… the last ten years… what happened.”

“That is a long story.”

“We have time.”

“Yes. More than you could imagine. At least I have.” He strokes his snakes the way I’ve so often stroked mine since having the tattoos. “Ten years ago I died. My last minutes are clear in my mind. You were with me at Party Central. I wanted to stop The Cardinal killing himself, because I knew that my life was bound with his. He created me. When he died, I would perish with him.

“I tried to stop him jumping but I was powerless. He leaped. A green mist enveloped me. I had a sense of the world fading, then nothing. I was dead.”

His eyes cloud over with anger and confusion.

“Did you kidnap Raimi?” I ask, getting ahead of myself but keen to know.

The killer shakes his head. “The priests were clear on that point — I was never to harm the new Cardinal. The punishment if I disobeyed was death.”

“I thought you could bounce back from death.”

“As I said, I can be brought back, but only by the villacs. If they choose not to resurrect me, I face real, final death. While I do not fear my end — I have always regarded death as a lover, not an enemy — I am in no rush to embrace it.”

“Tell me more about the resurrection process. How do they bring you back? Is it painful? How much do you remember of the past?”

His eyes are cold. “It is seven or eight years since I was first revived. I have no memories of the months before that — death is nothingness. I woke in darkness. At the time I remembered no previous life. I screamed like a newborn, instinctively aware that I should not be. A light entered my world. I saw men in white robes, with white eyes. They probed my face with their fingers. I was tied down but I struggled with my bonds and broke free. I killed three of them. As I pursued the fourth, green mist obscured my vision and I returned to nothingness.

“Some months later they brought me back again. This time I had memories. I was also more expertly chained. Through an interpreter, a priest said they would release me, but if I disobeyed their orders, they would undo my form as they had before.

“I gave my word that I would behave. The priest and some of his companions took me on a tour of these tunnels. He said they were recruiting an army, warriors who would model themselves after my legendary example. The villacs wanted me to work with them and act as a totemic leader. He promised untold riches and opportunities if I cooperated.

“Being a levelheaded man, I heard him out. When he was done, I strangled him and a few of the others, took one hostage and went in search of a route to the surface. Within minutes the green haze enveloped me again. I could only scream as my body unraveled and emptiness reclaimed me.”

Wami goes quiet. His left hand is clenched tight. The knuckles are almost white with tension. “Existence is a prison as conceived by the priests,” he snarls. “I live by their terms, obedient to their whims. Can you imagine how demeaning that is?”

“My heart bleeds for you,” I sneer, thinking of all the innocents he killed, finding it impossible to pity him.

He glares at me, lips lifting over his teeth. “I suppose you think this is a fitting end for your dear ol’ pappy.”

“Actually, yes.”

He grins menacingly. “But you rejoice too soon — it is not the end, only a beginning. The third time I returned, I knew I could not fight the priests. I did as they bid and spoke to their recruits, promising them the city. I let them kill me in front of the young men and women, to kindle a superstitious awe within them.

“I was not kept alive all the time. Months would pass when they had no need of me. During such times I was left to rot in limbo. I feared such periods, afraid they would not bring me back, but there was no point arguing, so I accepted my lot and waited for better times. Those times are almost here.”

He crosses the room and crouches beside me. Squeezes my knee, green eyes fierce in the dim light. “They have promised me freedom. A few more months and I can roam the world as I used to. I must return to mortality — there will be no further resurrections — but I will be free to live and kill in the time I have left.”

“You trust the villacs?”

“Of course not,” he snaps, “but in this instance they will honor their word. They have sworn on their blood and that is sacred to them. If all goes well and you do as they say, I will be—”

“Wait a minute,” I stop him. “What do I have to do with this? I have no interest in seeing you back on the streets. Fuck family ties. I’d rather see you dead than free to take more lives.”

“Al, m’boy,” he moans theatrically, “why do you say such horrible things to me? Don’t you know I love you? You’re breaking my heart.”

“Bullshit,” I sniff. “Now tell me what I’m supposed to do and how I can help earn your freedom.”

Wami’s eyes narrow. “I do not recollect you being this disrespectful.”

“Ten years ago I needed you but I never felt anything for you other than revulsion. You knew that then — it amused you — and I’m sure you know it now. So quit with the indignant act and give it to me straight.”

“Very well,” Wami sniffs. “The villacs want you to…”

The door to the room opens and a blind priest enters, clasping a curved dagger to his chest. Hatred springs to the surface within me and I dive for him, meaning to take the knife and slit his gut. My father holds me back with a powerful hand and shakes his head.

“Sit, Al m’boy, or I shall take my belt to you.”

“You might have to bow and scrape to these bastards,” I spit in reply, “but I don’t. Let me go or I’ll—”

“I throttled you once today,” he says sternly. “I will do so again if I must.”

The calm menace in his voice brings me to a halt. I haven’t feared anyone these last ten years. But faced with the man I’ve spent so long mimicking, I’m reminded how much wilder and sharper he is. I did a great impression of him, but this is the real thing. He’s fiercer than I could ever hope to be. Crossing him would be foolish. Dropping back onto the bed, I glare at my father as he faces the priest, but make no move to interfere.

“Welcome, O wise and blind-as-fuck Great One,” Wami greets his visitor. His mocking words are tinged with tension. Death must be truly terrible if the threat of it can cause Paucar Wami to tremble. The villac says nothing, but holds out the knife. The killer takes it obediently. “Who would you have me kill, O fashion-retarded lord?” The priest smiles thinly at Wami’s jest, then points to the killer’s chest. Wami’s lips tighten. “No.”

The villac barks something in his foreign tongue and points at Wami’s chest again. The assassin grimaces and looks at me. “See the shit I have to put up with?” he sighs, then presses the tip of the dagger to a point below his heart and drives it home to the hilt, its curved blade slicing upward as it enters. He gasps with pain, drops to the floor, convulses… and dies.

As my father’s chest subsides and the light fades from his eyes, the villac steps forward and toes the corpse’s head to one side, so his eyes are facing away. “That man can be an awful irritation,” he says in perfect English, “but he knows how to kill himself with style.”

The priest’s simple words astonish me more than my father’s suicide. “You can talk!” I gasp stupidly.

“We could always talk,” he replies. “We just never bothered to learn your language — your words are bitter to our tongues. But times change and we have rethought many of our ways since the passing of the last Watana. Most still cling to the language of our fathers, but some have learned to speak as you do.”

As I stare at the villac, lost for words, my father’s corpse shimmies and turns to green fog, as Ama Situwa’s did in the Manco Capac statue. Within moments it’s a cloud of glittering particles, which slowly disperses in the air.

“Paucar Wami returns to nothingness,” the priest laughs cruelly. “He dreads the emptiness of the beyond, but this time his stay will be short. We will bring him back soon.”

“How?” I ask.

The villac taps his nose. “That would be telling. Come.” He pushes the door open. “There are people you must meet.”

I start to follow him, then stare at the spot where Wami disappeared and stop. “Why did you make him kill himself?”

“You miss him?” the priest enquires slyly.

“I just want to know.”

The villac shrugs. “Partly to prove that we have the power of life over death. You know that by now, but knowing and believing are different things. We need to be certain you have no doubts. But also it was practical. Wami thinks we can only speak Incan. If he knew better, he might torture one of us for information.”

“You’re afraid he can hurt you?”

“No, but he can inconvenience us.” The villac taps a foot, sightless eyes as steady as ever. “Come. Time is passing. Your children await.”

I don’t know what he means, but there’s nothing to be gained by defying him. Suppressing my questions, I follow the blind priest into the corridor of skulls, closing the door on one section of the bewildering puzzle and subjecting myself to the myriad mysteries of another.

3: a destiny

The villac leads me through a series of long, twisting tunnels, back toward the giant cavern with the monstrous inti watana stone. Many of the tunnels are lit — for the benefit of the Snakes, I presume — and I seize the opportunity to study the villac’s featureless face, extremely pale skin, light brown hair and delicate hands.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“I have none,” he answers. “I am a servant of Inti, and he requires no names. He recognizes his sons by the burning fires of their souls.”

“Inti? Oh yeah, the god of the sun.”

He stops and his empty eyes narrow slightly. “You do not believe?”

“No. In this day and age I’m surprised to find anyone who does.”

The priest smiles. “If our powers are not god-given, how else do you explain us bringing the dead back to life?”

He starts walking again. I follow silently, unable to think of a reply.

As we draw closer to the cavern, I hear many people muttering, whispering and shuffling. I slow down. “Come,” the priest encourages me. “There is nothing to be afraid of. We will not harm you.”

“That’s not what worries me.” I nod in the direction of the voices — I keep forgetting he can’t see — and say, “That sounds like the Snakes.”

“Of course.”

“I thought we might be going to meet Capac Raimi,” I test him.

To my surprise he answers directly. “Not yet. You aren’t ready to take your place by his side. When you are, we will introduce you.”

“You have him?”

“Yes. Now come. Your children are restless. We must not keep them waiting.”

Letting the Raimi confirmation slide, I follow the priest to an opening in the side of the huge cavern, where I stand, hidden in shadows, observing the scene below. The cavern’s crowded, yet nowhere near full, with the hundreds of young men and women of the Snakes. All seven triumvirates must be here. The men outnumber the women by roughly fifteen to one and there are even more blacks to whites. All are bald and tattooed, clad in T-shirts and jeans, except for the Cobras, who also sport leather jackets.

The Snakes are lined up in ranks behind the giant inti watana stone, on which stands a lone villac, head bowed, three buckets at his feet. The troops are standing to attention, but slackly. Many talk softly and shuffle on the spot. The Cobras patrol the ranks, admonishing those who get out of order but allowing the softer murmurs and shuffling to continue.

I step back from the ledge, troubled. “What are they waiting for?”

“Their leader,” the priest replies. “They worship him, but he appears rarely, preferring to work through us. They’ve been told he is to address them today.”

“They’re waiting for Wami?”

“Yes.”

“You can resurrect him this swiftly?”

“No. Mama Ocllo works fast, but not that fast.”

“Who the hell’s Mama…?” I stop, eyes widening. “You want me to face them.”

The priest smiles. “You’re sharp, Flesh of Dreams. Yes, we wish you to play your father here, as you have above.”

“No,” I snap. “I won’t.”

I don’t know why I react so violently. I’m always inclined to say no to any proposal of the villacs, but it’s not just that. I sense a trap.

“They will be disappointed if their leader does not show,” the priest demurs.

“Like I give a fuck.”

“You should. The Snakes are only important to us because of you. If you show no interest in them, we will dispense with their service. That would necessitate elimination. We’d introduce some fatal, fast-working poison to their food.”

“You’d slaughter your own soldiers?” I snort.

“But they’re not ours. They’re Paucar Wami’s.”

“You’d do it too,” I growl disgustedly. “Murder them at their dinner table and leave them to rot.”

“We do what we must,” the villac says pompously.

I shrug. “So kill them. What do I have to lose?”

“Some friends,” the priest purrs, “and many brothers and sisters.”

“Brothers and sisters my ass. Just because most are the same color as me, it doesn’t…” I grimace. “You’re not talking figuratively, are you?”

“Forty are of your blood. We reaped the harvest of Paucar Wami’s bastards, drawing all that we could. They don’t know he sired them. We recruited them the same as the others and treat them no differently.”

I stumble back to the opening and gaze upon the massed ranks. With their shaven heads, tattoos and uniforms, they could all be his children, even the paler members — Wami chose white women as well as black.

“What makes you think I care about half siblings I’ve never met?” I ask gruffly.

“Ties of blood are usually impossible to ignore.”

“You won’t kill them,” I challenge him. “If I don’t play along with your plans, you’ll have to turn to another of Wami’s children. You won’t kill those you need.”

“But we don’t need them,” he retorts. “We have already chosen our alternatives in case you fail us. Those few will be spared. All others are expendable.”

I breathe in deeply, silently cursing the villacs and their knack for getting under my skin. First they use Raimi and Bill to draw me in. Now they introduce me to forty of my closest relatives and tell me they’ll be executed like vermin if I don’t toe the line. I hate these white-eyed dogs, but I can’t help but admire their cunning.

“What do you want?” I sigh, as if they’ve called my bluff. In fact they haven’t. As loath as I am to let these kids die, I will sacrifice them if the priests demand too much of me. But I don’t want them to know that. Not yet.

“We want you to take your place on the inti watana when it is raised above the folds of the earth, and help us rule this city. But that’s a position you must come to voluntarily. For now we wish you merely to parade before the Snakes as their master.”

“I just have to pretend to be Wami, then I can go?”

“Yes.”

“If I do this, will you tell me where Capac Raimi is?”

“No.”

I don’t like it — I feel the walls of a trap closing in — but I decide to play along, to learn more about the Snakes and where they fit in with the priests’ plans.

Without making a performance of it, I slip off my wig and wipe the paint from my face with a handkerchief. Normally I use moisturizing lotions to remove it, but here I settle for spit. As I’m rubbing hard with the handkerchief, a second villac appears and hands me a T-shirt, leather jacket and jeans. I strip and put them on, then the first priest reaches into a pocket and produces a pair of green contacts.

“You think of everything, don’t you?” I snipe.

“We try,” he replies.

I sourly slip them in and the transformation is complete. Showtime!

A third villac is waiting for me in the cavern, with a microphone. “I won’t need that,” I wave him away.

“It is not so much to clarify as to disguise,” the English-speaking priest from the tunnels says. “Your father always addresses them this way. It muffles his words, as it will yours. Without that distortion, sharp ears might note the differences in your voices. This way we hope to—”

“—Cover your asses,” I finish for him.

He smiles stiffly. The priest with the mike attaches it to the neck of my T-shirt, the control box to my waistband, then reaches for my left ear.

“What’s he up to?” I scowl, slapping his hands away.

“A receiver, for instructions. We will tell you what to say.”

I let him fit the piece in my ear. As soon as it’s in place, a voice comes over it. “Testing, one-two, testing.”

“Who’s that?” I ask.

“One of our brothers,” the first villac replies. “Is it working?”

“Yes.”

“Then proceed. Words will be fed to you as and when you need them.”

“What do I do?” I ask nervously — I was never comfortable speaking in public.

“Walk to the inti watana. Examine your troops. Be Paucar Wami.”

The priests withdraw. I’m alone, hidden by shadows. There’s an exit close by. I could make a break for freedom. But where would I run to? The answers are here.

Steeling myself, I head for the huge circular stone. I’m spotted immediately. There are excited gasps, then the sound of heels snapping together. I tread softly, glancing only briefly left and right as I converge on the young soldiers and pass through their ranks. Each of the Snakes lifts his or her head a couple of inches when I pass, saluting me. The Cobras, standing out from their charges, drop to one knee and rest their palms flat on the floor, heads bowed. I search for the Cobra of the second triumvirate, the one who guided me to my father’s room, but they all look the same when viewed crown-on.

As I near the platform, the villac on it lifts his head and walks to the edge to greet me. “Spread your arms wide,” a voice whispers in my ear, and this time it’s the voice of the priest who led me to the cavern. “Let him press his fingertips to yours and kiss the place on your chin where the heads of your tattoos meet.”

Spreading my arms as ordered, I stop at the platform and lean forward as the blind priest touches his fingers to mine. Muttering something unintelligible, he puts his lips to the spot below my lower lip and kisses the heads of my tattooed snakes. There’s a soft hissing sound and when he draws away his tongue flicks out at me — it’s forked.

I almost draw back from his serpentine tongue, but Paucar Wami never flinches, so I hold myself steady. Then the priest opens his mouth to chant some more and his tongue is normal again. Maybe it always was and I just imagined the fork.

The villac drones on for several minutes. I stand without moving, arms outstretched, awaiting further instructions.

Finally he stops and walks to the three buckets, which he transfers to the edge of the platform.

“Face the Snakes,” comes the voice. “Say what I tell you.”

I turn and repeat the words of the villac as they’re fed to me. If I was doing this as Al Jeery, I’m sure I’d stumble and stutter. But as Paucar Wami I’m fearless and eloquent, a natural orator.

“Our time is almost at hand. For long years we have existed anonymously. That is soon to change. Those who matter in the city have heard of us and grow anxious. Soon all will tremble at the sound of our name.”

My voice echoes around the cavern and is absorbed by eager ears. Many of the young men and women are grinning. A few even nudge their companions and wink.

“But we must be patient a while longer,” I caution them. “Our enemies turn on one another like dogs, but we must wait until they are fully engaged before we act, lest they sense our threat and unite against us.”

“Face the villac on the inti watana,” the voice whispers. I do as instructed, then continue.

“In preparation for your rise, you will now be blooded. You have come through much, but there is much still to endure. Let this be a reminder of what you have sacrificed, and a promise of what you will enjoy.”

The buckets are filled with blood. It could be the blood of animals, but I’m sure it isn’t. “Vegetarians should leave the building,” I mutter, unprompted, and there are ghoulish giggles.

“This is the blood of the conquered,” the voice says, and I repeat the words obediently. “The blood of the weak and impure. To cleanse this city, you must first taste of its foulness. Hold the blood down when you drink. Those who cannot stomach it have no place here and will be cast out.”

Three villacs march from the side of the cavern, chanting as they walk. They accept the buckets from their colleague on the platform, then weave through the ranks, offering the blood to each Snake in turn, not moving on until the soldier has drunk and kept down the thick red liquid. I speak as they administer the blood.

“Take a mouthful, no more, no less. Those who cannot drink of this city are not wanted, but nor are those who would drink too much. Only those who can drink in moderation are desired.”

I wait for more instructions, but there are none, so I stand and watch as the Snakes complete the bloody ritual, lips red, faces impassive. Nobody rejects or vomits up the blood. Maybe they’ve tried it before. I’m prepared to accept an offering if it’s made, but the buckets aren’t presented to me.

When the last of the Snakes has drunk, the buckets are returned to the platform and the villac stacks them behind the thrones. I’m told to mingle with the troops, making comments or asking questions. “But none about us,” I’m warned.

I prowl the ranks arrogantly, as my father would, studying the soldiers, trying to spot relatives. They stand three abreast, six deep, a gap between each phalanx, a larger space between each triumvirate. At the rear stand eleven separated members, rawer than the rest. New recruits, the beginnings of the eighth triumvirate.

I recall how the sergeants in the Troops treated me when I first joined. I stop at the back of one of the phalanxes and tap a burly teenager on the shoulder. He turns his head inquisitively and I punch his jaw hard, knocking him to the floor. “Did I tell you to look around?” I roar.

“No, sir,” he responds, face flushed, almost grinning through the pain — it’s an honor to be singled out by their leader, even for punishment.

“Get to your feet.” He stands. Medium height, heavy build, a wide, open face. Slightly foggy eyes. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Leonard, sir, first phalanx, sixth triumvirate.”

“Been with us long, Leonard?”

“Three years, two months, six days, sir.”

“An impressive memory.”

“I keep track on a calendar.”

I lean in close. “Tonight, take that calendar, tear it up and burn it.”

He hesitates. “But… sir… it belongs to—”

I club the back of his head. “I didn’t ask for a debate. I gave an order.”

“Yes, sir!” he shouts.

I swivel away from him and address the others. “That goes for the rest of you. Focus on the present. Embrace it. Breathe it. Become it. Cut yourself off from the world of time. If you do not, you belong to that world, and that means you don’t belong to me.”

By the shine of their faces I see that I’ve made an impression, and I feel the ridiculous stirrings of pride in my chest. I quickly quash it. These are pawns of the villacs, thus my potential enemies. I should cut the Patton shit. Get the inspection over with quickly and…

I’m hurrying past the eleven newcomers at the rear when one catches my eye. I move up close, making sure I’m not mistaken, and he takes a worried step back. “Drake? What the fuck are you doing here?” Flo’s boy gawps, astonished to be addressed by the legendary Paucar Wami. “Answer me!”

“I… I’m a Snake… sir.”

“How long have you been here?”

“A couple of weeks. I sneak back home every few days, but—”

“Does your mother know about this?”

“Of course not.” His spirit rises and he faces up to me squarely.

I start to ask what he thinks Flo would say if she knew, then remember who I’m meant to be. I step back from Drake. “Tell me why you’re here, boy. What brought you to this notorious den of thieves… this disreputable pit of snakes?” There are amused laughs. But Drake is deathly serious.

“I want to protect my mother, sir.”

“How?”

“By learning to fight. The city’s about to blow, but we’ve got nobody to fight for us, to stand up to the Troops or the fucking Kluxers.”

“Fucking Kluxers” is echoed by several Snakes. I silence the murmurs with a wave of a hand.

“Go on,” I tell Drake. “Say it so that everyone can hear.” Making it sound as if it’s for the crowd’s benefit, not mine.

“The Snakes will protect their people in the east,” Drake says seriously. “We’ll push back the Troops and Kluxers, and anybody else who threatens those we love. We’ll control the gangs. We’ll see peace and order restored. We’ll kick the ass of anyone who fucks with us!”

He shouts the last line and is greeted with cheers. I wait for them to die down before whispering harshly, so it’s only just audible, “And then?”

Drake pauses. “Sir?”

“What will you do when the streets are yours? Will you return to your mother or retreat back here to the depths?”

“That’s enough,” the villac hisses in my ear.

I ignore him. “Tell me what happens next.”

“I don’t know, sir. No one said.”

“Who will tell this boy?” I roar. “Who knows? Who has thought this through?”

“Jeery!” the villac screeches. “If you don’t quit right now, I’ll—”

A young woman raises a trembling hand. “Yes?” I ask her, tuning out the priest.

“We control, sir,” she says confidently.

“You win the streets, then keep them?”

“Yes.”

“How do you think your relatives and friends will react to that?”

She frowns.

“The public might back us against the Troops and Kluxers, but what happens when they want to return to normal, only to find—”

The English-speaking villac rushes into the cave. “Sapa Inca!” he shouts. “You must come with me. There is trouble. We need you elsewhere.”

“I am addressing my troops,” I growl. “I don’t like being interrupted when—”

“The Kluxers have attacked one of our posts. You must come.”

The Snakes mutter angrily at the mention of the Kluxers, and I know the villac has me. If I don’t accompany him, it will seem like I care more about talking big in front of my supporters than protecting them from their enemies.

“OK,” I mutter irritably, then raise my voice one last time. “But think on what I have said. Obedience is essential if you are to serve me, but a keen mind is just as important. My followers must be able to reason as well as obey.”

Turning my back on them, I trail after the priest, who hurries to an exit in the side of the cavern, where the darkness of the tunnels awaits. I don’t look back at the Snakes — Paucar Wami never looks back.

Once out of sight and earshot of the young soldiers, the villac relaxes.

“What does ‘Sapa Inca’ mean?” I ask.

“That is how we refer to Paucar Wami. It is the name we used long ago for our war leaders.” His lips crease in a sneer. “Speaking as you did was foolish. I warned you not to cross us.”

“You told me to behave as Paucar Wami would,” I counter.

“The performance was admirable,” the priest agrees, then adds cuttingly, “to a point. But prompting them to question their long-term goals was inflammatory. As soldiers it is their place to jump when we tell them, not ponder.”

“That’s where you and I differ. I think they’ve a right to know what they’re getting into, what may come of it.”

“When the Snakes are yours,” the priest sniffs, “you may treat them as you wish. But until that time, I would ask that you respect—”

“What do you mean, when the Snakes are mine?” I cut in.

“The Snakes have been recruited to serve Paucar Wami,” the priest says. “He acts as a figurehead, a symbol they can unite behind. But surely you do not think we would place such power in the hands of a psychopathic killer.”

“Listen,” I begin sharply, “if you think I’m going to lead your army, you—”

The villac raises a small pipe to his lips, blows hard and sends a cloud of pink dust flying into my face. As I cough and splutter, motes fill my lungs and my head goes light. My legs give way and the walls dissolve. “Bastard!” I shout, but the word is a whisper. I try to hit the priest but my fist blurs and my fingers turn to steam. I have a sense of unbecoming, of floating… then no sense of anything at all.

When I come to, someone’s holding my hand, leading me through a narrow tunnel. The drug’s still in my blood and my head throbs. Stopping, I wrench my hand from my guide’s and fall to my knees. I beat the floor with my fists, gritting my teeth, and that helps clear my head. The villacs drugged me before, and that time it was a long-lasting trip. But this drug isn’t as strong, and though the world around me shimmers at the edges, I’m able to recognize reality and cling to it.

“Are you all right?” my guide asks, bending to help. A woman’s voice. I slap her hands away and force my eyes to focus.

“Who are you?” I gasp.

“A friend. I’m taking you to the surface. We’re going home.”

I’m too weak to fight. Allowing the woman to grasp my elbows, I let her haul me to my feet, then lean on her for support. As we start forward, I examine her face and recognize it. “Ama Situwa,” I murmur, wondering if I’m really able to tell the difference between fantasy and reality after all.

“Yes,” she replies.

“Are you real or a vision?”

She doesn’t answer immediately. We come to a set of stairs. She pauses at the first step, looks sideways at me and says softly, “I’m not sure.”

We smile shakily at each other. I squeeze her hand for comfort and she squeezes mine. Then we climb.

4: conversations with the dead

Wednesday, just after midnight, my apartment. Ama’s in the kitchen, making sandwiches. I told her I could do it, but my legs are still weak and she insisted I sit and rest.

It was Monday when I encountered my father in the Manco Capac statue. When I came to, found the chef and asked the time, he told me it was afternoon. Which it was — but Tuesday, not Monday. I was out of commission an entire day.

Ama and I didn’t talk much during our climb. We emerged behind a garbage dump, where my motorcycle and Ama’s scooter were waiting. I asked Ama how they got there but she didn’t know. She wasn’t even sure how she knew the way up — she claimed to be navigating by instinct.

She slides in from the kitchen, tray of sandwiches in one hand, bag of cookies in the other. “These are stale,” she says, “but they’ll be OK if you dunk them.”

“There’s a twenty-four-hour store on the next block. I could—”

“Don’t bother. These will be fine.”

I sip the coffee she brewed earlier and chew on the sandwiches. Ama nibbles at a cookie but doesn’t touch her drink. Her eyes are serious and dark.

“Do you remember the statue?” I ask delicately.

She nods. “The priests made me lure you there, then offer myself as a sacrifice. I had no control over what I was doing. Sometimes when they bring me back, I’m a zombie and they can…” She trails off into silence and frowns. “Do you know what I’m talking about?”

“Yes. I met my… Paucar Wami down there.” No point telling her he’s my father if she doesn’t know. “He explained how the villacs bring him back from the dead and force him to do their bidding.”

“It sounds crazy said like that,” she smiles. “I was hysterical the first few times. Now I pretend I’m like anybody else, and when they tell me I have to die, I act like it’s no big deal, just falling asleep.”

“How many times…?” I wince. I’ve a splitting headache.

“You need rest,” Ama says. “We can talk about this in the morning.”

“I’d rather—”

“Morning,” she says firmly.

“Yes, nurse,” I grin, then get to my feet and hobble to bed, aided by Ama. I sit on the edge, breathing deeply, eyes shut against the pain.

“Who are the pair in the photo?” Ama asks, referring to the shot of Bill and a young Priscilla Perdue that hangs over my bed.

“Old friends,” I sigh without opening my eyes.

A pause as she takes in the rest of the room. “There’s a finger on your dressing table.”

“I know.”

Ama slips off my shoes and helps me out of my T-shirt. Her breath catches when she sees the scars on my chest and back — most from the explosion a decade ago — but she doesn’t ask about them. Her hands are on the buttons of my jeans when I stop her. “I’m not wearing shorts.”

“I doubt you’ve anything I haven’t seen before,” she says, but turns her back while I wriggle out of the jeans and slide beneath the covers.

“I don’t have a sleeping bag,” I tell her as she faces me again. “You’ll have to make do with the couch. Of course, if you’d rather, I could—”

“No. You need a good night’s sleep.” She starts to leave. Stops and looks at me. “Was I naked in the statue?”

“I think so,” I mutter.

She smiles. “Bashful, Mr. Jeery?”

“You were naked.”

“So I definitely don’t have anything you haven’t seen before.” Her smile fades. “You’ve no idea how lonely it is. They keep me locked in a room when I’m alive. I dread the isolation. I don’t want to sleep alone tonight.” I raise an eyebrow. “I’m not talking about that! I just want someone to cuddle up to. It’s been a long time since I had anybody to cling to in the dark.”

“I understand,” I answer softly. “It’s been a long time for me too.” I throw back the covers.

She undresses quickly, turns off the light and gets into bed beside me. We lie facing each other but not touching for a few seconds. Then she drapes an arm around me. I lay one over her. And we fall asleep, foreheads pressed together, clinging, dreaming… one.

Ama’s gone when I awake, though the shape of her body is clear in the lines of the sheets. Lurching out of bed, ignoring the pain in my head, I rush through the rest of the apartment. Not here. I stand in the living room, panting, trying to figure out if she disappeared in a cloud of green fog, was abducted, or…

The front door opens and Ama walks in, dressed in the same shirt and beige pants as last night, carrying a brown paper bag from the twenty-four-hour shop on the next block. She stares at me, standing naked in the middle of the room, then laughs. “You shouldn’t have been so shy when undressing — you’ve nothing to be modest about.”

My hands dart to cover my nakedness, then I hop back into the bedroom and pull on a pair of jeans before trailing her into the kitchen.

“I got milk, fresh cookies, bread, sliced meat, and these.” She tosses a packet of aspirin to me.

“Thanks,” I mutter, popping a couple and letting them dissolve.

“Head any better?”

“Still hurts. Throat too, though not as much as it did.”

“The bruises are beauts. You’re lucky he didn’t kill you.”

“It wasn’t luck. He knew what he was doing.” I cough. “We didn’t have a chance to swap histories. I’m not sure how much you know about me or—”

“You’re Al Jeery. Paucar Wami is your father. You pretend to be him.”

“The villacs told you?”

“No. It’s something I know. There are lots of things I know but can’t explain. I think the priests program me before they revive me.” She finishes unpacking and turns. “Sorry if I startled you by not being here. I was going to wake you but you looked dead to the world.”

“Leave a note next time.”

“Yes, boss.” She walks to the bathroom and flicks on the light. “I was going to take a shower earlier but there wasn’t any hot water.”

I check the time. “The hot-water tank is shared by all the tenants,” I explain. “Most people use it before work, so it’s normally empty by half past eight. It should be OK now but you won’t get long out of it, five or six minutes.”

“That’ll do. Want to use it too?”

I sniff my armpits. “Yeah.”

“Want to share?”

“Don’t tempt me,” I grimace.

I step into the shower as soon as she’s out, turn the heat up high and scrub myself clean of the stench of the tunnels. The water runs cold after a minute. I shiver but don’t get out. After a long soak I turn it off, towel myself dry and fetch a fresh pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Once clad, I catch up with Ama, who’s back in the kitchen, preparing breakfast.

“Can I ask you something?” I inquire, standing in the doorway.

“Shoot.”

“How did you know you could trust me?”

Ama butters a slice of bread. “You only kill guilty people. You’re not evil like your father. That’s one of the things I know. I also know you won’t take a lover, afraid that the villacs would use that person to hurt you, so I knew you wouldn’t make a pass at me in bed.”

“And you didn’t feel like making a pass at me?” I scowl.

She laughs. “Don’t take it personally. I don’t have a choice. I was created to love someone else.”

“Capac Raimi?” I guess.

“Yes.” She grabs another slice of bread. “We’ve a lot to talk about. It’s going to take a while. Let’s have some breakfast first.”

We eat on the couch. A simple meal — cereal, sandwiches, milk. Ama discusses her relationship with The Cardinal as we eat.

“My memories of Capac are vague. A conversation we had on the docks, raiding Party Central, meeting in a restaurant where I worked.”

“Cafran’s,” I interject.

She frowns. “I don’t remember.”

“You don’t recall the owner, Cafran Reed?”

She thinks a moment. “No.”

I file the information away. I can tell her about him later. Right now I want to find out about her life underground with the Incas.

“I know Capac’s an Ayuamarcan and what that means. I also know he was different, that he didn’t die when the rest of us did.”

“Do you recall him sacrificing you for his career?” I ask.

“Yes.” Her face goes bleak. “When I came back originally — two or three years ago — I hated him. Now I know better. He was only doing what he was made to. He had no choice. The Cardinal created him to be cold and focused.”

“You still love him?” I keep my voice neutral.

“I can’t not love him. I see that love for what it is — manufactured, unreal — but I can’t deny it.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“Party Central, I imagine. But,” she adds softly, “I have a recurring dream of meeting him in a cold, dead place and leading him down stairs into darkness.”

“The Fridge?” She stares at me blankly and I let it drop. “Tell me about coming back to life. Any idea how they do it?”

“No. When I first returned, I was terrified. I recalled my previous life and that I’d died, but I had no recollection of the years between. That hasn’t changed. Death is nothingness, no sense of time or space.”

“Where do you come back?”

“A small room, dark and red. There are many women, one in particular…” Her face creases as she tries squeezing out more memories. “Sorry. That’s as much as I remember. I’m always woozy when I return. Someone leads me to my room — close to the cave of the inti watana—and I rest there.”

The room and the women interest me. All the villacs I’ve met are men. But they must have partners to procreate. I never thought about it before, but now that I do, it makes sense that they’d mate with Incan women. They wouldn’t want to taint their precious bloodlines by breeding with ordinary females.

“Do the women come to the cave of the inti watana?” I ask.

“I’ve never seen them there. Why?”

It’s time to tell her about her missing lover. I talk swiftly, describing his disappearance and my search for him. She’s troubled by the news, but not overly.

“The villacs have him,” I finish. “If I could kidnap a few of their women, I might be able to force them to release him.”

“Why go to so much trouble?” she says. “He’s immortal. They can’t kill him, not really.”

“But they can hold him captive. Force-feed him. Keep him as a prisoner until the end of time.”

She frowns. “He could kill himself. Cut his wrists or bash his head off a wall.”

“Not if he was bound and drugged.”

Ama hisses. “Those sons of bitches. I bet they used me to lure him down. I’ve often wondered why they went to the trouble of reviving me. Now I know — to get their hands on Capac.”

“If that was their only use for you, they wouldn’t keep you on now that they have him.”

“Unless they want to use me against somebody else,” she murmurs, and her eyes meet mine.

“Don’t worry,” I grin. “I’m not going to ruin myself on your account.”

“Charming.” She finishes her milk and studies me over the rim of her cup. “You still haven’t said where you fit into this. Why do you care about Capac?”

“Influence. If I save The Cardinal, I’ll have a friend in the highest of places.”

She smiles smugly. “You’re lying. But that’s OK. We all have secrets.”

She’s sharp. I’ll have to be careful around her.

“What do we do now?” Ama asks. “Seems to me your investigation’s come to a close. You know that Capac’s underground but I don’t think anyone except the villacs can pinpoint his exact location.”

I nod. “I can try grabbing one of their women and using her in a deal, or maybe capture a priest who speaks English and torture him. But the villacs own the tunnels. I doubt I can take the fight to them down there and triumph.”

I fall silent, mulling it over, but no ideas present themselves. “I guess there’s only one thing for it,” I sigh. “I’ll go to Ford Tasso, tell him what I know and let him take it from there.”

“You think he will?” Ama asks skeptically.

“No,” I grunt. “I’d never be so lucky.”

Ama comes with me to Party Central but stays with the bikes in an alley at the rear of the building. I enter as Al Jeery and head for the fifteenth floor. The corridors are teeming with Troops and anxious execs. I push past them unnoticed, elbowing several out of my way at the door to Tasso’s office — they’re packed tight around it, clamoring for an audience with the fill-in Cardinal.

“Hi Mags,” I greet the tired-looking secretary. “Any chance of fitting me in?”

“You kidding?” she snaps. “I spent all of yesterday trying to reach you. You’re the one person Ford does want to see.” Hitting the intercom, she says, “Al’s here.”

Tasso roars at the other end, “About fucking time! Send him in!”

On my way, I swivel to avoid three terrified men — they race out of Tasso’s inner sanctum as if the devil himself were after them — then close the door on the chaos. Tasso’s sitting in front of the desk, neck stiff, good eye glaring. His left hand is busy massaging his right arm. “Tell me what you know about these fucking Snakes,” he growls by way of a greeting.

“When did you learn about them?” I ask, drawing up a chair.

“Night before last. A bunch took out a squadron of Troops on patrol in the east. Left a warning with the bodies. ‘Stay out of the east — the Snakes.’ Within hours the streets were wild with rumors, about how there are hundreds of the fuckers, all trained killing machines, led by the legendary vigilante, Paucar fucking Wami. Who are they, Algiers? And why the fuck are you heading up a fucking army?”

“If you really thought I was their leader, we wouldn’t be talking — you’d be washing my blood from your hands.”

“Too fucking true,” he snorts, then grins horribly. “What’s going on and where have you been?”

I give him an abbreviated account of my run-in with the real Paucar Wami, the villacs and Snakes. I say nothing about Wami’s being able to die and come back to life, nor of Ama’s similar abilities. He can make that leap himself, or else assume they’ve been in hiding for ten years. He quizzes me closely about the Snakes. How many? Are they armed? What are their intentions? I answer honestly, telling all I know, finishing with the observation that they could do a lot of damage.

“Tell me about it,” he groans. “I was just figuring out how to deal with Davern, then this shit hits. Where the fuck did they come from? You can’t assemble a force that size without attracting attention.”

“The villacs are masters when it comes to secrecy. They’ve been building the Snakes for years, recruiting slowly, targeting young men and women who want to be part of something big, who know how to keep their mouths shut, who are able to slip away without creating a fuss.”

“I could send Troops down the tunnels to flush them out,” he muses.

“I wouldn’t advise it.”

“You don’t think we could take them?”

“Not down there. At best you’d suffer a hammering. At worst you’d piss them off so much, they’d do something nasty to your Cardinal.”

“You’re sure they have Capac?”

“Yes.”

He scowls. “What are they after?”

“They want to protect their homes and families.”

“Not the Snakes,” he growls. “The fucking priests. Why have they raised an army? What are their plans?”

“To set them against you and weaken your stranglehold on the city.”

“But why? No matter how strong these Snakes are, they’re not gonna drive us out. Hurting us only makes it easier for Davern and his Kluxers to strike. Chaos serves nobody, so why generate it?”

“Are you asking me or thinking aloud?”

He chuckles tonelessly. “A bit of both. Any ideas?”

“No. And I’m not bothered. I was hired to find a man. I found him. Will you keep your side of the bargain?”

“Where is he?” Tasso inquires coolly.

“In the tunnels. I won’t get closer to him than that. Nobody will.”

“That’s not enough. The deal was for you to bring Capac back, not point me in his general direction. Deliver him and I’ll give you Bill Casey. You get nothing for coming close.”

“That’s not fair,” I mutter.

“Fuck fair. You were hired to do a job, Algiers — do it. And Al?” he says as I rise angrily. “Do it quick. If this shit continues, I mightn’t be around to honor our deal much longer.”

I take Ama to a restaurant, Sultry Sally’s, situated by the river. We study the menu leisurely — this is Ama’s first date in ten years and she’s savoring the moment — before ordering. When the waiter departs, Ama asks me to tell her what Ford Tasso said.

“Who’s Bill Casey?” she asks when I get to the part about Tasso not giving up Bill’s location unless I hand him Raimi.

“An enemy. The reason I got drawn into this mess.” I start to tell her about the past, finding my girlfriend murdered in Party Central, The Cardinal hiring me to investigate her death, the way my life fell apart, discovering the identity of the man responsible, becoming Paucar Wami in the hope that Bill was still alive and could be lured out of hiding. The tale sees us through starters and the main course, and I only wrap it up as dessert arrives.

“Jesus,” Ama whispers when I finish. “What do you think Wami did to drive him to such lengths?”

“I’m pretty sure he killed Bill’s sister. He had some sick game going with Bill. He forced him to commit crimes, and spared victims in return. I think it was meant to culminate in murder. He kidnapped a girl and told Bill to kill her. When Bill didn’t, Wami slaughtered his sister.”

Ama’s face whitens and she puts down her spoon. “That’s awful.”

“Yeah. It doesn’t excuse what he did to me, but I feel sorry for him, or at least for the boy he was.”

“Do you think…?” Ama stops. “No. It’s not my place to ask.”

“Go on. I can take it.”

“Is revenge the answer? Perhaps you should drop it and flee. Build a new life for yourself and try to forget about him.”

“If I was sane, that’s what I’d do. But I’m not.”

“You seem fairly sane to me.”

“Only on the outside. Inside I’m afire with madness. That’s why I can cut a deal with the villacs or a monster like my father. A sane man would have limits, lines he wouldn’t cross. I have none.”

Ama picks up her spoon and tucks into a bowl of ice cream. “If he’s really alive, and you find him, what will you do after you kill him?” I stare at my slice of cheesecake and don’t answer. “Al? Did you hear what I—”

“To all intents and purposes, I died ten years ago,” I murmur. “I’ve sub-existed since then as my father’s ghost. Once I finish with Bill, I’ll be done with this world. I don’t deserve a place in it.”

“You’ll kill yourself?” she asks hollowly.

I force a bleak smile. “Eat your ice cream.”

We’re silent for the rest of the meal, and during the lull I fall to thinking about what to do with Ama. I need to focus on the search for Capac Raimi. I must be alone to think, plan, act. But I can’t just dump her. There must be some diplomatic way…

I hit on the solution as I’m paying the bill. Outside, as we mount our bikes, I tell her to follow me. Cutting through the traffic, we make good time to Cafran’s. Ama frowns at the sign and stands by her scooter. “Recognize it?” I ask.

“It seems familiar but I don’t know why.”

“Let’s go in. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Cafran Reed is sitting at a table near the kitchen, engaged in conversation with a waitress. He doesn’t look so old when he’s laughing, though his fragile frame shakes with each chuckle. I cough to introduce myself and he looks up. “Al Jeery. Nice to see you again. I hope you’ll dine with us this time.”

“Afraid not. I’ve just eaten. Mr. Reed, I’d like to introduce you to a friend of mine, Ama Situwa.”

Ama steps forward, smiling. Her smile falters when she faces Reed. His smile slips too. “Have we met before?” he croaks.

“No,” Ama says stumblingly. “At least… I don’t think so.”

The pair stare at each other, unaware of the link they once shared, but somehow sensing a previous connection. I break the silence. “Ama’s a waitress. Are there any openings here?”

The old man blinks. “We’re not short of staff, but… yes. There’s a place for her if she wants it.” The waitress sharing his table looks at him oddly.

“Excuse me a moment, Mr. Reed,” Ama says and draws me aside. “What the hell are you—”

“Cafran Reed didn’t sire you,” I interrupt quietly, “but ten years ago you and he believed he was your father.”

The color drains from Ama’s face. “God,” she moans. “That’s why I recognize him! He…” Her throat seizes.

“I want you to stay with him, Ama. You wouldn’t be in the way in my place, but you’d be a distraction.”

“But he doesn’t remember me, and I remember nothing about him.”

“Use this time to catch up. I wouldn’t mention the fact that you were once his daughter — you’d confuse him — but you can get to know him again and forge a new relationship. He’s a lonely old man, missing someone he doesn’t know existed. He needs you. And you need him — you told me you were lonely.”

“But the priests… Capac…”

“I’ll tell you if I find him,” I promise. “I’ll keep you informed, and call on you for help if I need it — and I think, before the end, I will. But for now you’ll be better off here.”

Ama nods slowly. “Very well. I’ll stay. For a while.”

I bid Cafran farewell, give Ama my number and depart, pausing at the door to look back at the old man and his long lost “daughter.” They’re staring at each other, silent, slightly fearful, but touched with hope. I think they’re going to get on fine.

Pushing through the door, I wipe a dopey smile from my face, cast thoughts of Ama Situwa and Cafran Reed from my mind, and hurry to my bike. I slip off my wig and wipe my face clean of paint as I walk, insert my contacts, hang Bill’s severed finger around my neck, and become Paucar Wami by the time I hit the saddle and kick the engine into life.

5: riots

I spend hours in my apartment writing up a report of all that’s happened, detailing my sighting of Ama at the crematorium, following her to the Manco Capac statue, my father, the voyage underground. It helps to have it on paper. Sometimes I see things written down that I overlook when they’re only inside my head.

But not this time. Though I pore over the notes until four in the morning, analyzing and adding to them, I see nothing that might lead me to Capac Raimi, or any clues as to how I should proceed. I know the villacs have him. I know he’s in the tunnels. But how to determine his precise location? I could blunder down with a flashlight and keep searching, but that could take years — or forever, if the priests are moving him around. There must be a less hit-or-miss method.

I’m drawn again to the idea of using the Rats. The subterranean gang might know where to look. I’ll track them down and ask for their assistance. That can be my first step. Take things from there.

I read through the notes one last time before I destroy them (wary of thieves getting their hands on such sensitive information). This time I pause at the phrase “Sapa Inca.” Why are the priests so sure I’ll lead the Snakes? They know I’m not interested in power. They offered me a controlling stake in this city before and I turned them down flat. What makes them think I’ll comply this time?

Late Thursday, after much searching, I find the Rats in the bowels of a derelict football stadium in the northwest of the city, abandoned twenty years ago in favor of a new structure. All twelve of the Rats — a couple of new recruits have joined since I last saw them — are present, cooking strips of dog over a large fire.

Their leader, Chunky, spots me first and shouts, “Po!” That’s their nickname for me, a shortened version of Paucar. I force a grin as he embraces me, trying not to gag on the stench of the sewer dweller. Chunky drags me over to the fire and offers me a slice of half-raw dog. I take a few bites — not that disgusting — and wash it down with their homemade beer. The beer’s worse than the dog — Chunky once started to tell me how they brewed it, and I had to stop him before I threw up — but I drain half a cup of it and belch approvingly.

“Got yer messages,” Chunky says, running a hand through his greasy hair, then down the front of his ragged cardigan. The Rats make their outfits from clothes they find in the tunnels and garbage dumps. “What can we do for ya?”

“I’m looking for someone. Thought you might be able to help.” I quickly tell him about The Cardinal, that he’s being held by the villacs, and offer to reward the Rats generously if they help me find him.

Chunky hears me out, then shakes his head. “Sorry, Po. Ain’t on. We don’t fuck with the priests, ’specially now they got an army behind them.”

“You know about the Snakes?”

“Sure. Knew about them long before anyone else. There’s advantages to living beneath the streets, and not just beating the bombs when they fall. We’ve seen the Snakes grow and we’ve steered clear — snakes eat rats! Besides, they won’t stay down here forever. They’ll move up top eventually.”

“What about Raimi? Any idea where they might be keeping him?”

“Nope. We could maybe find him by shadowing the priests, but they ain’t the sort we want to get on the wrong side of.”

“Name your price,” I tell him.

“Sorry, Po, ain’t nothing could persuade us to make enemies of them blind bastards. We’ll have to share these tunnels with the priests long after you and the rest of the crowd above have been blown to bits in the big blast.”

“OK,” I smile. “But if you see or hear anything while you’re foraging, will you let me know?”

“Might, if I don’t think it’ll rile the priests. Want to hang a while? We captured a couple of koala bears from the zoo and we’re barbecuing ’em later. They smell like piss but they’re pretty good with gravy.”

“I’ll give it a miss,” I mutter, feeling my stomach tighten.

“Your loss,” Chunky chuckles.

I bid Chunky and co. farewell and head back to the normal world. I spend the rest of the night checking with my contacts, asking if anyone’s heard about Raimi, but all the talk’s of the Snakes and how everything’s going to change now that a new force is in play. In the end I head home and sleep soundly, without a hint of a nightmare, until I’m woken shortly after six by the sound of gunfire, and arise to discover the city in a state of civil war.

The trouble started with the assassination of four gang leaders last night, all from small gangs in the east. Brutally slaughtered at home, by parties unknown, for no clear reason. Their followers took to the streets, enraged, looking for someone to blame. Encountering each other, they clashed and violence flared. Other gangs joined in and a bloody battle developed, engulfing several blocks. The fighting could have been contained by the police, but around the same time two police stations were attacked and set alight, again by persons unknown. Forces rushing to deal with the street fights had to be diverted. Then, as if things weren’t chaotic enough, another two gang leaders were executed, along with a number of priests, medics and community workers. By dawn the streets were clogged with furious gangsters and citizens baying for blood. In the absence of a definable foe they took their grievances out on each other, and the fighting quickly developed into a savage, unchecked free-for-all.

As I patrol the streets, observing the warfare, I find it hard to believe that things got this bad this quickly. Windows of shops and cars have been smashed to pieces and many have been set on fire. Looters are making off with anything that isn’t tied down. The smoke of a thousand fires blocks out the sky, giving the appearance of dusk. People I know — good people — are in the thick of the action, beating, maiming, even killing. A madness has washed over them and I can’t explain it. Everyone knew the city was heading for riots, but I don’t think anybody anticipated a blowup of these proportions. It doesn’t make sense.

There’s little I can do to counter the chaos. My presence normally makes people pause, but nobody’s taking the slightest notice of me today. I’m just another face in the crowd. I break up a couple of especially vicious fights, where children are at risk, but quickly realize I’m wasting my time — the combatants scatter, run a few blocks, regroup and find someone new to attack.

I decide to take a break and check on those I care about. I slip back to my apartment, become Al Jeery, then head to Flo’s, where I learn that Drake was an early victim of the violence and has been rushed to the hospital. It’s only three blocks from where they live. Hurrying over, I dodge the people fighting out front — nurses locked in combat with a street gang — and push my way along corridors cluttered with bleeding patients bleating for assistance.

The nurses on reception look scared and harried. They’re guarded by a ring of security officers who hold back the crowd, but the ring looks as if it could break any moment. A few of the braver nurses and doctors wade through the walking wounded, picking out the more serious cases for treatment.

Slipping past the guards — not difficult in the uproar — I gently nudge aside a woman with a large gash in her head and ask the receptionist which room Drake Martins is in. “Are you shitting me?” she barks. “We got World War III erupting and you want to go visiting!”

“He’s a friend. I’d like to see how he is.”

“I don’t care what you’d like. Get out of my face before I—”

Behind us a man screams insanely, draws a rifle and fires. A guard goes down clutching his leg. The crowd splinters, shrieking and wailing. The man with the gun — a large white male, eyes wild — moves in to finish off the guard. I’ve had enough of this shit. Drawing my.45, I wait for a clear line of fire, then pop him in the upper right arm. He curses, drops the rifle, stoops to reclaim it. I step forward and kick his head, knocking him out. I make sure the guard’s OK, then return to the desk, where the receptionist regards me with new respect.

“Drake Martins.”

“Give me a minute,” she mumbles, consulting her computer. “He was admitted before the rush. Ward 3, room 5B. Take the stairs — the elevator’s out of order.”

“Much appreciated.” I glance around at the crowd in the lobby. I’ve caught their attention, so I might as well make use of it. Scanning those nearest me, I pick six who look like they can handle themselves. “You, you, you, you, you and you!” I shout. “Come here.” They obey instantly. I fan them out in a half-circle, fitting them in between the guards, who watch mutely. “Work with the guards. Help keep order. Understand?” They nod uncertainly, then face the crowd and assume solid stances. I don’t know how long they’ll last, but they’ll keep the peace for a while.

Hurrying up the stairs, I jog to Ward 3 and find Drake. Flo’s by his bed. There are blankets on the floor, on which excess patients lie, some groaning, some unconscious, some staring blankly at the ceiling.

“Doing anything later, gorgeous?” I grunt, touching Flo’s shoulder.

“Al,” she smiles through tears. “I tried calling but I lost your number.”

“I’ll give it to you again before I leave. How is he?”

“He’ll be OK,” she sighs, wiping sweat from his face. “We were attacked. They wanted Drake. They thought he was in a gang, but that’s crazy, I’d know if he was.” I let that slide. “He helped me out a window and down the fire escape. They knocked him off when he was trying to follow. Ran when they saw him hit the ground — thought he was dead. I did too, but he got lucky. The doctor only gave him a quick examination, but she said it wasn’t as serious as it seemed. She was meant to check on him again but we ain’t seen her. I guess she’s busy elsewhere.”

“It’s turning into a real busy day.” I roll up Drake’s left eyelid. He groans and blinks, half-waking. “Take a break,” I tell Flo.

“That’s OK, I don’t—”

“Take a break,” I say firmly. She frowns, then leaves. I pop in my contact lenses and remove my wig, then slap Drake’s cheeks just hard enough to wake him. When he’s conscious, I lean close so that nobody else in the packed room can hear. “Are the Snakes behind this?”

Drake blinks and focuses. When he sees my green eyes and shaved scalp, he freezes, not even noticing the fact that my tattoos are covered up. “Sapa Inca!” he gasps.

“Are you fit to continue, soldier?”

“I think so, sir,” he says, trying to rise.

I push him down. “No, you’re not. But you will recover soon. Report to the priests when you are able.”

“Excuse me, sir,” Drake says, a quiver in his voice, “but why are you here?”

“I heard you had been singled out for attack. I thought those who assaulted you might know of our plans.”

“No,” he snorts. “They were just neighborhood kids, itching for a fight. They know I’m in a gang but they don’t know which.”

“They don’t know that the Snakes initiated the riots?”

“No, sir.”

That confirms my suspicions. “Do you know why we instigated this uproar, why we destroy that which we are supposed to protect?”

“I’m not sure,” Drake replies cautiously. “We were told it’s necessary, that we have to demolish before we can build. I know the Snakes will step in soon, make our presence known and calm things down. I guess, in the long run, it’ll be for the best, but I wish…” He trails off into silence and bites his lip, afraid he’s spoken out of place.

“That’s OK, soldier. I share your sentiments. I will be discussing this with our white-eyed friends later. Maybe we can put an early end to the fighting.”

“I hope so,” he says. Then, as I stand to leave, he calls me back. “Sir, will you warn my mother not to drink the water?”

“What?”

“The tap water. I meant to warn her but I didn’t get a chance. I don’t want anything bad to happen to her.”

“Of course,” I mumble, then let myself out, the pieces of the puzzle clicking together as I remove the contacts and put on the wig again. The villacs didn’t just order the executions — they polluted the water supply. I wasn’t imagining the madness. These people really are insane, at least temporarily. I have no idea what the priests added to the supply, or how far it might drive those who ingest it, but I don’t think it will cause a serious imbalance. Just enough to turn this part of the city on its head for a few days, so they can send in the Snakes and become heroes of the hour.

I warn Flo about the water, give her my number, then rush from the hospital and head for the nearest radio station, to spread the word and do what I can to thwart whatever grand, twisted scheme the villacs have cooking.

The station manager dismisses me as a psycho until I put a knife to his throat. I still don’t think he believes my story, but with his life on the line, he agrees to broadcast my warning, urging people to stick to bottled water. Within minutes of the story airing, it’s picked up by a TV show and word spreads swiftly. Whether or not people pay heed is another matter, but at least they’ve been warned.

I release the manager and depart the building, looking for a quiet spot where I can make a call. Finding a deserted café, I dial Ford Tasso’s direct number. It rings sixteen times before he answers with a curt, “Yes!”

“It’s Al.”

“I know who it is. What do you want?”

“You’ve heard about what’s happening?”

“Is that a trick fucking question?”

“You’ve got to do something to stop it.”

“Such as?”

“Send in the Troops. They’ll be more effective than the cops.”

“Have you been drinking that contaminated water?” Tasso laughs. “The sight of the Troops would send everyone wild. It’d be like throwing water on an oil fire.”

“At least people would have a real target to rally against. Right now they’re attacking each other. Hundreds of innocents are dying. If you send the Troops in, everyone will unite—”

“—And wipe my men out!” Tasso barks.

“You can withdraw them before they’re massacred. All I’m asking for is a respite. These people have been drugged but I don’t think the effects will last. Distract them. Stop the killing. By dawn tomorrow it’ll have blown over.”

“No.”

“But—”

“I’m not prepared to risk the lives of my Troops. Besides, moving my forces there would leave me open to an attack by the Kluxers.”

“If you don’t quell the riots, the Snakes will take control of the east. You’ll face a war on two fronts.”

“The Snakes won’t work with the Kluxers. They hate each other. It’ll be war, a war neither can win by themselves. Sooner or later Davern or his counterpart will come to me for help.”

“Playing both ends against the middle, Ford? A dangerous game.”

“Leave me to worry about the games, Algiers. You focus on finding Capac.” He cuts the connection, leaving me to curse his name to the smoke-obscured heavens and kick the nearest wall with frustration.

I spend the afternoon and evening as Paucar Wami, doing what little I can to restore the peace. I shouldn’t get involved, but I can’t stand by and let looting, raping and killing go ahead unheeded. These are my people. If I can protect some few of them, I must.

After hours of action, I knock the heads of a pair of muggers together and break their fingers. Leaving them in the gutter, I head for home. I need food and rest — I’ve got a long, taxing, bloody night ahead of me.

I smell the visitor when I open the door, the musky stench of the underground impossible to disguise. I pause in the doorway and consider retreat, but this is my home and I’m not about to give it up lightly. Entering, I shut the door and switch on the light in the living room. The real Paucar Wami smiles at me from where he stands by the window. “A fine night, hmm, Al m’boy?”

I go to the kitchen, fix a sandwich, fetch two cans of beer from the fridge and toss one to my father. He catches, opens and raises it to his lips in one smooth movement. I flop on the couch and munch my sandwich. “How long have you been back among the living?”

“Since this morning.” He belches and eyes me, amused. “You don’t seem fazed by my ability to return from the dead.”

“When you’ve seen one zombie, you’ve seen them all.”

“You have changed. The Al I remember had no time for the occult. He would have been busy seeking logical solutions to explain my existence.”

I shrug. “I’ve learned to take the world for what it is. If corpses return to life, so be it.”

Wami observes me intensely. His eyes linger on the finger hanging from my neck but he doesn’t ask about it. “If I did not know better, I could almost think I was gazing into a mirror,” he remarks approvingly. “You look older than me — you need to hide those wrinkles — your face isn’t quite as angular as mine, and some scars show through your tattoos, but otherwise you’re a near-perfect likeness.”

“Mother always said I favored your side of the family.”

He laughs. “And you’ve developed a sense of humor! You have done the old man proud.”

I’m not sure whether he’s being sarcastic or paying me a genuine compliment. I don’t much care. “Why are you here? Did your masters send you?”

“No man can call himself my master,” Wami growls. “The priests command me but it is a temporary arrangement. Their hour of control will pass, as Ferdinand Dorak’s did. I am my own man.”

“You’re deluding yourself,” I sneer. “You’re their puppet and always have been. Now be a good boy and spit out whatever message they gave you for me.”

His face darkens and his lips curl. I stare at him impassively. “They said they started this riot and they can finish it,” he mutters bitterly, dropping his gaze. “If you pledge allegiance, they will send in the Snakes and restore order.”

“Do you know they plan to oust you in favor of me? The Snakes are designed to be led by me, not you.”

“I would not have it any other way,” he says. “I savor my own company. I could not tolerate leadership. You can have your pitiful Snakes.”

“But I don’t want them. Tell the villacs to go fuck themselves.”

Wami throws back his head and laughs. His white teeth flash in the light of the bulb. “You should choose your words carefully when dealing with your enemies, Al m’boy. There is a time for honesty and a time for diplomacy.”

“Then put it diplomatically to them. I don’t give a rat’s ass.”

My father’s eyes narrow. “That is foolish. I hate the priests but I respect them. You think the world cannot hurt you, that because you do not fear death, no one can tell you what to do. That is not so. As free as you have become, you are not invulnerable. By no means give yourself over to the Incan devils, but work with them. We all must make concessions at various times.”

I shake my head. “I won’t dance to their tune. They want me to lead the Snakes — I won’t. They want me to work with Capac Raimi — I won’t. They want me to make this city theirs — I won’t.”

“Very well.” Wami stands. “I have passed on their message and you have given your reply. I think they expected no different.” He strides to the window — when it comes to entering and leaving a room, I guess it’s a case of like father, like son — then stops. “Out of curiosity, where have you been?”

“On the streets, doing what I can to help.”

He frowns. “Why?”

“I grew up here. I know these people. I care.”

“Caring is dangerous. The villacs might use it against you.”

“They can’t. There’s a limit to my sympathies. I’ll help where I can, but if the priests threaten my neighbors and make it a condition that I do as they say or they’ll go to war on those I know…” I shrug.

“Calculated care,” Wami muses. “A curious concept. Do you intend returning to the streets tonight?”

“After I’ve rested and eaten.”

“Would you care for a partner?”

“You want to help me restore peace and order?” I ask suspiciously.

“Fuck that,” he laughs. “These people’s plight is of no interest to me. But it has been a long time since I had the run of the city. The villacs did not tell me to hurry back, only to return once I had finished with you.”

He playfully kneels and puts his hand on his heart. “Let me run beside you, Al m’boy. I swear I will follow your lead and only kill those you deem fit. I will be your right-hand man. Together we can do more than you could by yourself.”

“That’s true,” I murmur. “But could I trust you?”

“I give my word that I will be obedient, and my word is as strong now as it was ten years ago.”

“But two Paucar Wamis would be confusing.”

“Slap on your paint and wig and be Al Jeery.”

“I won’t — can’t — kill as myself. You’d have to don the disguise.”

“Very well. Your will is mine, O great and noble Caesar.”

“And cut the wisecracks,” I snap, returning to the kitchen.

“That may prove more troublesome,” he chuckles. “But for you, Al m’boy, I will try. Now, where do you keep the weapons?”

We prowl the night like a pair of panthers, gliding silently above and around the chaos on the streets, observing, monitoring, interceding when I judge fit. I’d forgotten how swift and ethereal my father can be. His feet barely seem to touch the rooftops and pavements. Sometimes, as we’re moving, I close my eyes and it’s impossible to know he’s there.

His fingers twitch occasionally as we study the fighting, and I know he’d love to be in the thick of it, cutting loose, making up for the years he’s missed. My father was created for one purpose only, to kill. Holding himself in check at a time like this, when the opportunities for murder are countless, must be torture. But he remains true to his word, acting only when I say, restraining himself when we strike.

We pull rioters off three cops who’ve been detached from their unit, and guide them to safety. We spy a leering man leading two children down an alley. His intentions are sickly clear. We stop him before he assaults them and crucify him to a door, using nails from a nearby crate.

The night air’s hot and smoky. Sweat has drenched the back of my T-shirt but not my father’s. He’s as cool as ever, breathing in the thick, toxic air as if it were blowing fresh off a mountain.

We’ve been on patrol for almost two hours and still haven’t killed. I sense Wami’s growing impatience. I’d like to feed him a victim, to ensure he doesn’t snap and go off on a slaughter spree, but I’m not going to single out anyone for execution unless they truly deserve it.

Finally, half an hour later, we spot a gang of five youths torturing an old man. An old lady, presumably his wife, lies on the street beside him, raped and butchered, her naked body a bloody, shredded mess.

“Now?” Wami asks politely, testing one of the knives he took from my kitchen.

“Now,” I agree darkly.

“Let me go first,” he says, moving to the edge of the roof, pocketing the pair of sunglasses I gave him to camouflage his green eyes. “You pick off any runners.”

There’s a pipe down the wall that I expect him to use, but he merely steps off the edge and drops three stories, landing like a cat, ready for combat. I’m tempted to leap like him — anything he can do — but I don’t want to end up in the hospital with a broken leg, so I take the pipe.

By the time I hit the ground, two of the gang are down, clutching their throats, dying. Wami moves upon the third, blocks a knife as it’s thrust at his face, ducks, grabs the young man’s penis and testicles — he’s naked from the waist down, his lower body red from his rape of the old woman — and rips them off.

As Wami drops the sexual organs and moves on to his fourth victim, the fifth man makes a break for freedom. He rushes past the spot where I’m standing in the shadows. I stretch out a hand, a sharp blade held rigid between my fingers, and press it to the side of his neck. His momentum forces the blade in deep and he hits the ground heavily, blood spraying from the opened artery, limbs thrashing.

Leaving the dying boy, I check to make sure my father doesn’t need any further assistance — he’s put the fourth teen down, and has returned to the third, to feed him his severed manhood — then go to see if the old man’s alive. He is, but one of his eyes has been gouged out and there are ugly wounds to his chest and stomach.

“Easy,” I whisper as he tries to struggle to his feet.

“Elsa?” he wheezes, gazing at me imploringly.

“Dead.” I hold him down, trying to judge the severity of his wounds.

He goes limp in my arms. “They wanted money,” he sobs. “I gave it. But it… wasn’t enough. They dragged us out and…”

“Save your breath. You’re going to live, but only if you—”

“No,” he gasps. “Don’t want to. Not without… Elsa.”

I hesitate, but only briefly. “Are you sure?” I ask. He locks gazes with me, sees the intent in my eyes, and smiles peacefully. I make it quick and painless, then lay him beside his wife and cover her body with scraps of clothes I find lying nearby.

“A touching scene,” Wami murmurs. He’s standing directly behind me.

“I thought you’d spend more time on your playthings,” I retort, wiping my hands clean on my pants.

“I am rusty. I hit them too hard. But not to worry — the night is young and there are more to be killed. I will find my touch before we are through.” He steps over the dead pair and studies my face. “You killed impassively, Al m’boy. Very commendable.”

“I did what I had to,” I answer simply.

He clears his throat. “It may be an imprudent question, but can I ask how many you have dispatched since taking to the streets all those years ago?”

“I gave up counting.”

“A hundred? Two hundred? More?”

“I don’t keep track. I kill when I have to but I take no pleasure from it.”

Wami can’t hide a look of disappointment. “Not as advanced as I thought,” he mutters. “You live with death but do not love it. To truly be me, you should savor each murder. To kill mechanically is not enough. You must kill lovingly.”

“If I did, I’d become you for real. Then I’d care about nothing but the killing, and the reason for putting myself through this would be lost.”

“What is that reason?” Wami asks.

I tug gently on the finger hanging from my neck. “You haven’t remembered any more about Bill Casey?”

“The policeman,” my father sighs. “I thought about him in the quiet moments since the priests resurrected me, but my memories are no clearer now than before.”

“When you recall who he is, you’ll know why I had to become you.” With that, I spin away and take to the rooftops again, leaving him to make of the puzzle what he will.

We monitor, intervene, break up and kill until the sun rises and Saturday dawns. We keep conversation to a minimum, conferring only when it’s time to take life. I sense Wami racking his thoughts for memories of Bill, but he asks no more about him. I’m not sure how many we execute between us — I allow the memory of one kill to blend with the next — but somewhere between fifteen and twenty. All guilty. All deserving of their fate.

As the sun rises and the east quietens for the first time since the outbreak of violence, my father returns my sunglasses and wig, and says he’d better head back underground. “The villacs will not approve of my being out all night, but they will accept it. If I remain absent much longer, however, they might recall me by that most irritating of devices — extinction.”

“They can kill you even when they aren’t near you?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Ever worked out how they do it?”

“I would not be scraping my knee to them if I had,” he growls. “You will know if I unearth the source of their power, because the streets will be lined with white-robed corpses.”

“What do you think their next move will be now that I’ve rejected them again?”

My father shrugs. “They have set one sector of the city on fire in a bid to bend you to their will. Perhaps they will burn the rest.”

“It won’t make a difference.”

“That is their affair, not mine.” He offers his hand. I consider refusing it, but he kept his word during the night and his assistance proved invaluable. “Our paths will cross again soon, Al m’boy,” he predicts as we shake hands.

“I don’t doubt it.”

“I hope we can run together again. This night has been a pleasure.”

“We’ll see,” I mumble, releasing his hand and lowering my gaze. “You helped me, and I’m grateful, but you have to understand, I’m not like you. I only do this because…”

Looking up, I stop. I’m alone. Wami has slipped away, unseen and unheard. Sighing, I sheathe my weapons, wipe my hands clean of the worst of the blood, and head for home, to shower and sleep, until it’s time to rise again and kill.

6: cry of the harpy

I’m woken by my phone. Groaning, I answer to find Ama Situwa on the other end. “I tried calling you last night but your cell was switched off. I was worried sick. I would have come looking for you, but there are police blocks everywhere.”

“I’m fine,” I sigh, rubbing my eyes and yawning.

“Where were you?”

“On the streets. Damage limitation.”

“I think the Snakes started the riots.”

“I know they did.”

“I’m scared, Al. If they can provoke something like this…”

I walk through to the kitchen and run the tap. I’m reaching for a glass when I recall the pollution and kill the flow. “Any news about the water?” I ask.

“I heard a reporter say it should be safe to drink by early afternoon, though the mayor’s advised people not to take any chances.” A pause. “Are things as bad as the media make out?”

“Yes.” Then, changing the subject, “How’s life with Cafran?”

“Wonderful. We’re getting on famously. I’ve rediscovered my waitressing skills too. I did a full shift last night, though I kept ducking out to call you.”

“Don’t bother about me. I can take care of myself.”

“I can’t help it. Maybe I should come over and…”

I talk Ama out of that idea and promise to keep in touch. When she finally lets me go, I return to bed and slip back asleep immediately.

The riots continue through the weekend. Gangs claim streets by breaking up the roads and erecting crude barricades to keep out traffic. Booby traps and ambushes are set for police or soldiers unfortunate enough to be ordered in. Buildings are annexed, looted or gutted with fire. Fights flare hourly. The polluted water’s no longer working its antagonizing charms, but by this stage most people don’t need a chemical irritant to make their blood boil. Their homes have been destroyed, their friends and relatives injured or killed. They’re fired up for revenge. Some have the good sense to drop everything and get out, but most remain, hackles up, teeth bared, hell-bent on giving as good as they get.

I’m kept busy assisting those who need it, guiding refugees who want to leave to safety, cracking down on looters, killing those intent on evil.

I’ve tuned my TV sets to local news stations and leave them switched on when I’m home, keeping abreast of developments. As I eat a late Sunday dinner, Stuart Jordan, our crooked-as-they-come police commissioner, pops up, wearing the grim but stoic expression he’s been perfecting since the riots erupted. He promises a swift end to the violence and says he’s in the process of drafting more soldiers. If the rioters don’t play ball, he vows to level them, along with as much of the east as he needs to. A reporter asks if he’s worried about injuring the innocent. He growls, “In war, there are no innocents!” With luck the quote will return to haunt him in the next election.

As the report continues I note the worst-hit areas, where I’d be best employed. To my amusement there’s a short piece about “the dreaded Paucar Wami,” warning people to be on the lookout. There are CCTV shots of me in action last night, killing two men who lobbed homemade bombs through the windows of a church full of people being treated for injuries. No mention of the church — the men are portrayed as upright citizens — just a number of pictures of me callously finishing them off.

I can’t complain. With surveillance cameras in place all over the city, I should have been highlighted long before now, and would have been if not for the fact that I have allies in high places — Ford Tasso and the villacs. I’m surprised this piece made it through. The editor must be new to the game. I’m sure someone will explain the rules to him before he has time to run a repeat.

Stepping clear of the furniture, I warm up. My body’s taken a lot of punishment these last sixty-odd hours and I’m feeling the strain — I’d give my back teeth for a full massage. Then I return to the fiery cauldron of the streets, hugging the walls and roofs, slipping by and through the baying crowds, looking for trouble and moving to quell it, resting only when I have to, thinking and operating as a machine.

Most of the rioters have retired by three in the morning. Ambulances and fire brigades move in to mop up and are allowed to operate unopposed. Stuart Jordan had the uncommonly good sense not to send his armed squads in. There must be new advisers on his staff. I continue my rounds for a couple of hours, enjoying the relative serenity, before circling back to my apartment. My legs drag as I climb the fire escape. Bed will be a blessing after this.

A note has been pushed through my letter box. No name or address. Frowning, I slit it open and look for a name at the bottom — Eugene Davern. My eyes slide back to the top and I read quickly. He wishes me well and offers his sympathies for any friends or relatives I may have lost in the fighting. He says these riots are good for nobody, and if there’s any way he can help, I’m to let him know and he’ll do what he can. “The prejudices of the past need no longer apply,” he writes with fake sincerity. “It’s time for our people to come together and forge a new, lasting, peaceful union. I extend the hand of friendship — accept it, and let’s put an end to this madness.”

I crumple the letter into a ball and toss it in the bin. Davern must have guessed that the Snakes started the riots, and figures they’ll come out of this as the dominant force in the east. The letter’s an invitation to join forces with him against the Troops.

I consider letting Ford Tasso know about Davern’s overtures. He’s sitting back smugly because he doesn’t think there’s any chance of the Kluxers and Snakes forming an alliance. He might be more willing to help if he knew Davern wanted to strike a deal with his traditional enemies. Alternatively, it might send him off in a panic after the Kluxers, leading to riots elsewhere. That would divert Stuart Jordan’s forces, making it easier for the Snakes to take control.

All this intrigue is giving me a headache. I’m not cut out for it. All I want is to smoke out Bill Casey and get even with him. Why the hell can’t the clowns of this demented political circus look elsewhere for a ringmaster?

Night again. I shave my skull and face before heading out. I haven’t had a chance the last few days, so bristles fall thickly into the basin. I slip into a fresh pair of jeans and a clean T-shirt. The local laundromat was firebombed in the riots, so I do my laundry in the small sink in the kitchen. I wring out the socks and T-shirts and hang them on a rack inside the living room to dry.

After a simple meal I grab a few knives, reload my.45 and let myself out. I’m not expecting much trouble — word has leaked that Stuart Jordan’s planning a Tuesday raid, so most of the rioters are holding themselves in check for the big showdown — but the first few hours turn out to be some of my most testing. Lone agents — burglars, muggers, rapists — have taken advantage of the lull and scuttle around like malevolent spiders, hitting the weak while the strong aren’t looking. I have my hands full keeping track of them.

I take a break about one in the morning, grab some sandwiches and a Coke from a busted vending machine, and sit on the shell of a burned-out car. The street lights are out — much of the east is in darkness — and I have as clear a view of the night sky as I’ll ever get in this city. I’m admiring the stars when a woman shrieks. As I come alert, there’s another cry, softer this time, and I relax, recognizing the call of a feasting Harpy. Finishing off the last sandwich, I go looking for the cannibalistic ladies.

I find the three old women in a side door of a shopping precinct, feasting on the remains of a cop who must have been dumped there during the weekend. Jennifer Abbots stands nearby, keeping watch, patiently waiting for them to finish. “Good evening, Mrs. Abbots,” I call as I approach, not wishing to startle her.

“Mr. Wami,” she smiles. “I’m glad you haven’t been harmed.”

“You know what they say — only the good die young.” We stand in silence for a while, watching the Harpies eat. “You should choose more carefully next time,” I advise her. “Letting them feed on a cop is a bad idea. His colleagues will take it poorly if they find him half-eaten.”

“I know,” she sighs, “but there’s no stopping them when they get the scent. Luckily I found a lot of bottles filled with gasoline nearby — some anarchist’s stash, I suppose — and I’ve borrowed a few to soak him with before I set him alight. That should destroy the evidence.”

I nod approvingly. “Managing OK otherwise?”

“Yes. The girls were keen to get out all weekend, but I held them in until the trouble died down. One of Rettie’s teeth played up last week. I had to take her to a dentist for the first time in years. He was shocked by the bloodstains and scraps of flesh. He’d have called in the police, but Mr. Clarke bribed him.” She frowns. “I can’t say I approve of bribery, but in this case I had to make an exception.”

I hide a smile. It’s OK in Jennifer’s mind for her sister and Harpy friends to strip the dead of their flesh, but bribery’s a serious offense.

“Did she have to get the tooth removed?” I ask.

“No, just filled.” As we’re talking, Rettie finishes her meal and comes over to squat beside her sister. “Rettie,” Jennifer coos, “show Mr. Wami your tooth.”

The Harpy tilts her head and opens her mouth wide. To be polite, I peer into her red maw and pass favorable comment on the gold filling.

“Mr. Clarke made him use gold,” Jennifer chuckles. “He says it’s more ladylike.”

“I must meet this Mr. Clarke of yours sometime,” I smile. “He sounds like a character.”

Rettie closes her mouth, pulls a book out of the folds of her clothes and plays with it, opening the covers and peering at the words as if she can read. Jennifer yanks the book from her and wipes bloodstains from the pages. “Bad girl, Rettie!” she snaps. “This is Mr. Clarke’s. You know you’re not supposed to take it.”

“Perhaps she’ll make a scholar yet,” I laugh, then spot the spine and pause. “Can I have a look at that?” Jennifer passes the book to me and continues to scold her sister. I study the title—Heart of Darkness—and run a finger over the creased cover. It’s old and worn. I turn to the title page but it’s been ripped out. “This looks valuable,” I mutter.

“It probably is,” Jennifer says. “It’s a first edition, I think.”

My fingers freeze and the night seems to darken around me. “What makes you think that?”

“Most of Mr. Clarke’s books are first editions. He’s a collector. He’ll be furious at Rettie for taking it. Maybe I can slip it back before he realizes.”

My head spins. I gaze at the Harpy by my feet and a switch clicks. “Is ‘Rettie’ short for ‘Margaret’?” I ask, my voice a broken whisper.

“Yes,” Jennifer says, rubbing her sister’s head, gently tugging her hair to chide her for taking their friend’s book.

“Your name before you married — was it Jennifer Crowe?”

Jennifer stares at me, mildly surprised. “How did you know?”

I start to tremble. Rettie is Margaret Crowe, the girl Paucar Wami kidnapped all those years ago, the girl a tormented teenager was meant to kill in exchange for his doomed sister’s life.

“What’s Mr. Clarke’s first name?” I wheeze.

“William,” she says, and I laugh sickly.

“Your friend… Mr. Clarke… William,” I croak. “Does he ever absentmindedly refer to himself as Bill?”

7: killer’s secrets

Jennifer doesn’t object when I ask if I can accompany the Harpies home to meet Mr. Clarke. I tell her I think I know him, and want to say hello. She has no reason to suspect my real motives. She packs the bloody ladies into her small car while I fetch my motorcycle, then leads the way across the city, out to the suburbs, driving slowly in order not to lose me.

I keep my thoughts blank while trailing her. I warn myself not to get excited. It’s possible that the bibliophile William Clarke isn’t the bibliophile Bill Casey. But I know in my heart that I’ve found him. After all these years, a mad cannibal has shown me the way. If I wasn’t so terrified by the prospect of the encounter, I’d howl with glee at the absurdity of it.

After a long, fretful drive — I keep thinking the car will crash or explode, taking the secret of Bill’s whereabouts with it — we pull up at a sorry-looking excuse for a house, set in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by industrial wasteland. I gaze wonderingly at the boarded-up windows, the corrugated iron roof, the warped door that doesn’t quite meet with the frame most of the way around. Why has Bill chosen to hole up in a dump like this?

“It’s not so bad inside,” Jennifer says. She lets the Harpies out and they amble around to the back. “It’s cold in the winter but dry. And nobody comes here. That’s the most important thing.”

“Is Mr. Clarke there now?” I ask, fingers tickling the handle of the knife jammed inside my belt.

“He should be. He doesn’t go out much. He’s a lonely old man. I believe you’re the first visitor he’s had in all the years he’s lived here.”

“And I’ll be the last,” I mutter, too low for Jennifer to hear. “Could you do me a favor and take the girls back to your place tonight? I’d like to have William to myself. We’ve a lot of catching up to do.”

“I suppose,” she says hesitantly. “I don’t like changing their routine but I guess it can’t hurt this once.”

“I appreciate it.” I don’t know what she’ll do when she returns and finds her friend’s brains splattered across the floor, but I can’t say I care. As much as I like Jennifer, the extermination of Bill Casey takes precedence over everything.

I wait until she’s rounded up the Harpies and driven away before pushing the creaky door open and entering. I’m clutching the copy of Heart of Darkness in one hand and a knife in the other. The house is dimly lit and smells of blood and sweat. I explore the downstairs area quietly, drifting from room to room. No doors in any of the frames. Three beds are set close to each other in the largest room. Another is packed with spare sheets, pillows, towels and other such items. All the rooms feature laden bookshelves.

“Jennifer?” comes a tremulous voice from the top of the stairs.

My fingers tighten on the knife at the sound of the voice, which I recognize instantly. Moving to the side of the stairs, I wait for him to descend. My heart’s beating more quickly than usual. I concentrate on slowing it down. I want to be as cool as Bill was when he faced me ten years ago and admitted responsibility for the destruction of my life.

“Jennifer?” he asks again. A long pause. Then footsteps, slow, coming down the creaking stairs. “I have nothing of value. Nor am I armed. You may take what you wish, as worthless as it is, or if you’re hungry and looking for a place to stay, perhaps I can…” He trails off as he reaches the foot of the stairs and peers at me through the gloom. “Who’s there?” he whispers.

I step forward, revealing myself, and he draws back, eyes widening, hands shooting to his wrinkled mouth. He’s much thinner than when we last met, and stooped with age. His hair’s gray and unkempt. He looks ill.

“Hello Bill,” I hiss, closing the gap between us, until he’s backed up against a wall. I lay a hand on either side of his arms, imprisoning him. “Remember me?”

“Snakes!” he croaks, eyes watering as he gazes with horror at my tattoos. “Please… don’t… not the snakes… please…”

“Forget the snakes,” I snarl. “Forget the bald head. Forget the”—I remove my green contact lenses—“eyes. Look at me. Do you remember me?”

The old man gradually stops shaking. His tears dry. “Of course,” he sighs. “I’ve been waiting ten years for you to find me. How have you been, Al?”

I step away, disgusted by his amiable tone. “Don’t Al me, you fucker! Do you remember what you did, how you screwed me over?”

His smile fades. “For a moment, I didn’t. Sorry. I forgot I’m your enemy, that you’ve come to kill me. The mind deteriorates when you’re my age. Oh well, I have no one but myself to blame. You may execute me now if it suits you.” Closing his eyes, he spreads his arms, Christlike, offering himself.

I almost kill him — my knife quivers in my hand, thirsting for blood — but it’s too soon. I need to hear what he has to say in his defense. I have to make him talk — make him scream.

“You don’t seem surprised to see me,” I grunt, lowering my knife.

“I’ve been expecting you every day for a decade,” he replies. “I knew you’d find me. No matter how old and feeble I got, I never feared death, because I knew it wouldn’t take me until I’d sorted things out with you. I could have lived a hundred years if you hadn’t come.”

“Open your eyes,” I growl. “I want you to look at me when you die.”

“As you wish.” His lids open and his eyes settle on the finger hanging from my neck. His left hand twitches. Next he studies my tattoos and scalp, and frowns. “I’d heard about the getup. Can’t say I approve. It doesn’t suit you, Al. Why do you go about like this, calling yourself that terrible name?”

“You know who Paucar Wami was?”

He shrugs. “He was a killer. I never worked out whether he was real or a bogeyman, or why you chose to model yourself after him.”

My breath catches. He doesn’t remember! I always dreaded this, that he’d forget his reason for ruining my life. I had prepared myself against the eventuality, but it still comes as a shock. For a moment I want to grab him by the neck and choke the truth out of him, but that would be a waste of time. People who don’t remember the Ayuamarcans can’t have their memories jogged. But there are other ways to get to the facts. I have to be sly.

“What’s upstairs?” I ask.

“My living quarters. The ladies reside down here. I don’t allow anybody up, not even Jennifer when I’m sick and can’t get out of bed.” He grins coyly. “But I’ll let you up, Al.”

“Lead the way,” I nod, and follow him up the stairs, matching him step for step, knife by my side, ready to cut him down if he makes a false move. I stop when I get to the top and stare at the walls, all of which have been crudely painted with snakes. There are serpents of every kind, color and length. Some are incredibly detailed, beautifully portrayed. Others are childish squiggles.

“My scaly companions,” Bill chuckles, moving to the closest wall to stroke the coils of a long boa constrictor.

“Did you paint them?” I ask.

“Yes. It’s how I pass the time. I’d go crazy without a hobby. I’ve whitewashed these walls three or four times and started again from scratch. I suppose it’s an unhealthy obsession — it feeds my snake-haunted nightmares — but it keeps me busy. Keeps me sane.” He laughs when he catches my expression. “I know what you’re thinking — a guy who paints snakes all day long has to be crazy. And that’s true. But there are different shades of craziness. I’ve had the kind where all I do is storm around, screaming and harming myself. This kind is infinitely preferable.”

He walks to a doorway at the end of the corridor. I follow edgily, nervous of the snakes. I pause suspiciously at the entrance. Just because Bill’s crazy (there’s no doubt about that, he’s not putting on an act) doesn’t mean he’s stupid. He may have set a trap. But I don’t spot anything to be afraid of. This is a simple bedroom with a thick mattress laid on the floor, a chair in one corner, shelves to the ceiling loaded with books.

“Welcome to my palace,” Bill says, squatting on the edge of the bed and gesturing toward the chair. I remain standing.

“Is this place wired?” I ask.

“Of course. We’re off the beaten track but we’ve been running on electricity for a long time. You don’t think…” He groans. “Oh. You mean wired for explosives.” He shakes his head. “I have my old tools in the cellar, bombs and bugs, but I no longer play with them. I lack the enthusiasm. I don’t read much either, except to the ladies, but I never could bring myself to get rid of the books.”

“Speaking of which…” I toss the Conrad novel to him. He catches it, studies the cover and smiles ruefully.

“I bet you got this off Rettie. She enjoys my recitations the most. I never read this to them — their lives are dark enough — but I keep it downstairs with the bulk of my collection. She must have swiped it when I wasn’t looking.”

“You should have blown up the books with the rest of the house,” I tell him. “They’re how I knew you were alive. I’d have surrendered my grip on life a long time ago if I hadn’t noticed they were missing. And now they’ve led me to you.”

“A costly vice,” he agrees, laying the book down. Then he says quietly, “Are you going to kill me now, Al?”

“In time. I want to talk first. There are things you must tell me. About the past, your life, the snakes.”

“Don’t ask about them,” he snaps. “I won’t talk about them.”

“Oh, I think you might,” I chuckle and drag the tip of my knife along the crumbling wall.

Bill laughs. “I’m too old and crazy to be threatened. What could you do to hurt me?” He unbuttons his shirt, revealing a chest riven with scars and burn marks. “I’ve punished myself beyond the point where I even feel. You can put me to the test but it won’t work. Nothing can loosen my tongue if I choose to hold it.”

I look from his tortured chest to the drawings on the walls, then stare into his eyes. I grin viciously and hiss, “I can feed you to the snakes.”

His face whitens and he buttons up the shirt, fingers trembling. I’ve found his weak spot. He’s mine.

“Where do you want to start?” he mutters.

Drawing out the chair, I sit, cross my legs, lock gazes with him and say softly, “Tell me about Jane.”

He wasn’t expecting that. His face tics and the trembling of his feet on the floor is like a drum snare. “Jane? What’s she got to do with anything? I thought you’d want to know about the blind priests and why I betrayed you.”

“I already know. In fact I’m willing to bet I know more about it than you.” I lean forward challengingly. “Do you remember why you did it?”

“The snakes,” he whispers, eyes far away. “You were a servant of the snakes. I tried to destroy them. By harming you, I hoped…” His senses seem to swim back into place. “No, not exactly. There was someone I meant to hurt by exploiting you, but I’ve forgotten who he was. That’s the madness, I guess.”

“So tell me about Jane.”

The veil of fear sweeps across his face again. “Why?” he groans. “She has nothing to do with this. That was long in the past, long before I set after you.”

“Tell me what you remember about Jane and her death,” I persist. “I know what happened but I want your version of it.”

“You know?” He stares at me, and the terror in his eyes surpasses any I’ve seen before, even in the faces of those I’ve killed. His fear’s so great, I almost take pity and spare him the painful trip down memory lane. But I need to hear him say that his sister was killed and that’s why he set out to destroy me. I might even squeeze out his reasons for coming after me and not my father, though that would be a bonus, not a necessity. I’ll settle for the confirmation.

“You were a teenager,” I start him off. “You’d finished school. You were living with your mother, stepfather, brother and sister. It was summer. You were leading an ordinary life. Then…”

“The snakes entered my life,” Bill croaks. His hands have crept together and his fingers squeeze and tear at each other while he speaks. “They made me do awful things. I saved lives. I mugged, stole, bullied — worse — but I saved others from the snakes by serving them. Can a villain be a hero? Is a man wicked if he performs a lesser act of evil to prevent a greater one?”

“I’m not interested in a moral debate,” I growl. “I don’t know if you were good or bad, hero or demon, and I don’t care. Tell me about Jane and Margaret Crowe.”

“Rettie…” He smiles sadly. “I visited her often in the nursing home before I went into hiding. It was so sad, what happened to her and the others. I kept an eye on Jennifer and Rose when they took the survivors into their care. It was clear that they’d need help, so I befriended Jennifer, using a pseudonym. I knew it was risky, that you might trace me through her even though she didn’t know my real name, but I had to do what I could to protect poor Rettie.”

“Wami kidnapped Rettie and Jane, didn’t he?”

Bill frowns. “It was the snakes. They hid behind a man’s features but I don’t know whose. You think it was Paucar Wami?”

“It doesn’t matter. Someone kidnapped them. Told you to kill Rettie or he’d kill Jane. You couldn’t, so he murdered her. Right?” My fingers grip the handle of the knife. I’m readying myself to bring the decade of self-torment to an end. I might kill myself as soon as he’s dead, or spin off into madness even deeper than his. I don’t know. It’s impossible to look that far ahead. But first the execution. That much I’m sure about.

Bill’s shaking his head, crying, confused. “Jane,” he sobs. “I loved Jane. I did it… for her… to save… I’d have done anything to bring her back…” He falls off the bed and crawls to where I sit impassively. Grabs my legs and howls. “Hear my confession! Please… I can’t stand it any longer… will you…?”

“Yes,” I answer bleakly, and lay the edge of my blade to the dry flesh of his mottled throat. “I’ll grant absolution as well.”

Bill’s features relax and he sobs gratefully. I let him cry, waiting patiently. I’ve got all the time in the world now that the moment has come. I’m in no rush. Let him make his confession and go to meet his maker clutching the illusion of spiritual cleanliness.

“The snakes kidnapped Rettie and Jane. They told me to kill Rettie to spare Jane. I tried all I could think of to defy them. I even tried to kidnap you.”

“Me?” I interrupt, surprised. “What the hell had I to do with it?”

“You were important to the snakes, even as a baby. I tried to steal you, to trade you for the girls, but it didn’t work out. I was left with no choice. I had to do as the snakes bid. I couldn’t let Jane die.”

Bill stops shaking and his eyes close. His chin drops a few inches. I have to lower the knife before he inadvertently slits his throat on it.

“It happened here,” he says softly. “The snakes brought her to this house. That’s why I came back. There was no roof or upper floor then. I had the floor restored and a roof put on when I returned. But back then it was a shell.

“The snakes tied her to a chair in the living room,” he continues. “They shaved her bald — like you — and blindfolded and gagged her. They made me strip naked, made me torment her with weapons and… myself. You understand?”

“He made you rape her?” I frown.

Bill flinches, but nods. “It was a living nightmare, all the worse because a sick part of me enjoyed it. That’s why the snakes chose me — they sensed evil inside me and they wanted to coax it out. When it was finished and they could wring no more entertainment from me, they made me kill her.” Bill weeps pitifully.

“This doesn’t make sense,” I mutter, then prod his chest with the tip of the knife. “Hey, old man, look at me.” He doesn’t respond. “Look up now!” I jab him and his head lifts wearily. “What you’ve told me doesn’t tally. They wanted you to kill her but you didn’t. You couldn’t. That’s why your sister was slaughtered. You didn’t kill Rettie. She’s here, alive, with the Harpies.”

“Yes,” Bill says. “Naughty Rettie. She took my book. I must scold her, but not severely. She doesn’t mean to be bold. It’s just her nature.”

“Then what’s this crap about killing her? If you’re playing for sympathy…”

He scowls. “This is my last confession. You think I’d waste it on games?”

“Then what—”

“It was simple,” he interrupts. “Rettie’s life for Jane’s. As confused and desperate as I was, I did as they ordered. Jane was my sister. I couldn’t let her die, even if I had to torture, rape and murder to save her. I knew there could be no forgiveness. I meant to kill myself afterward, the only fit punishment I could think of. But I had to do it. Jane…”

He breaks down in a fit of tears. I let him cry, trying to work out the angles but failing. As his fit passes, without needing to be prompted, he wipes the tears away and says hollowly, “The snakes swapped them.”

My eyes narrow. “What?”

“The girls were similar in looks and build. With her hair shaved, her eyes blindfolded, her mouth gagged, dressed in Rettie’s clothes, I mistook Jane for the other girl.”

My hand drops and I pull back from Bill, eyes filling with horror.

“The snakes gave me a girl to torment. To save Jane, I killed the one they put before me, thinking it was Rettie. But it wasn’t. The snakes switched them.” He looks up at me and grins the grin of a man who’s been to hell and is trapped there still. “I tortured, raped and butchered Jane, mistaking her for Rettie Crowe. When it was over, the snakes revealed the truth, then stood by and cackled while I wept over the bloody remains of my poor, damned sister.”

With that the old man finishes, closes his eyes and calmly waits for me to put him out of his misery.