Darren Shan - Hell's Horizon

I frowned — that wasn’t so great.

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

“That’s reasonable,” I agreed.

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

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

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

I let myself out without a murmur.

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you make a match?”

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

“Yes.”

“You don’t look happy.”

“I hoped I was wrong.”

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

“You didn’t get rid of it?” I asked.

“You didn’t ask me to.”

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

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

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

“Fine.” I started for the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You sound confident,” she remarked.

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

“Then you can’t go after him!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Any idea who the other lady was?” I asked.

“No. I didn’t know many of Ellen’s friends.”