Darren Shan - Hell's Horizon

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

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

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

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

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

“What did it say?” Priscilla asked.

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

“What does that mean?” Priscilla asked.

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

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

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

Guess whose, Al m’boy.

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

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

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

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

“Yes, ma’am.”

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

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

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

“Can’t it wait?”

“No, sir.”

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

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

“Offhand, I couldn’t.” He cracked up.

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

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

“Yes, but I’d rather not say.”

“It would be quicker if you did.”

“Regardless…”

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

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

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

“Why not?”

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

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

“I’d appreciate your assistance more.”

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

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

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

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

“Probably, but that’s not the—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

“I’d rather not say.”

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

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

“I think it comes from a cop.”

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

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

“Great,” I smiled.

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