Darren Shan: Hell's Horizon

We flipped her onto her back. Vincent tugged her toward the edge of the slab. I started pushing but then my gaze fell on her face and I froze.

“At least look like you’re trying,” Vincent huffed. “Don’t leave me to do it all by my—”

He caught sight of my face and stopped.

“Christ, Algiers, you look worse than the corpse. What’s up?”

I shook my head numbly.

Vincent leaned over and slapped me. “Algiers! Snap out of it. Focus on my lips. What’s. Wrong?” He spoke slowly, as if to a dim-witted child.

“The girl,” I managed to sigh.

“Like you’ve never seen a corpse before. It ain’t like you know her or anything.” He started to laugh, then stopped, his eyes narrowing. “Or do you?”

I nodded wordlessly.

“Shit.” He licked his lips. “Who is she?”

“Nuh-Nuh-Nuh-Nuh,” I stuttered.

“You wanna sit down? Doc, you got a chair?”

“I might be able to rustle one up,” came the dry reply.

“No. Don’t need one,” I gasped. “I’ll be OK.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.”

“So who is she?”

“She’s…”

“Here we go again. Take a deep breath, Algiers. Concentrate.”

I looked him in the eye and said it. “Her name’s Nic Hornyak.” A moment’s silent beat and I added the kicker. “She’s my girlfriend.”

First things first — we had to take Nic’s body back to the Skylight. Vincent offered me an out but I said I’d see the job through. I’d been trained not to let personal feelings get in the way of work.

We said nothing as we crossed the city. What was there to say?

I averted my eyes as we bundled the corpse into the elevator at the Skylight. The general manager was waiting on the eighth floor with four Troops, who silently accepted our consignment. Vincent accompanied them to 812, making sure everything was suitably arranged. I stayed by the elevator, rubbing my hands up and down the sides of my thighs, wondering if this could be a dream. Maybe it was still Friday and I was upriver with Bill, dozing on the damp grassy banks.

“C’mon,” Vincent said, taking me by the elbow and guiding me into the elevator. “I phoned Tasso. He’s busy but said he’d call Frank and have him meet us back at Party Central.” I could tell Vincent was bursting with questions but he kept them to himself.

Frank was standing by the gate at Party Central when we arrived. He told Vincent to park the ambulance and beat it. For once Vincent didn’t argue.

We sat in a downstairs office and I told Frank about me and Nic Hornyak. He listened sympathetically, phrasing his questions delicately. When I was through, he took me for lunch to Shankar’s. We ate quietly, heads down. I went for a long walk after that, sticking to backstreets, oblivious to my surroundings, trying not to think about Nic.

When I got back to Party Central, The Cardinal wanted to see me.

I hadn’t seen as much of The Cardinal as a neutral observer might have supposed. He was a reclusive, rarely glimpsed creature. The more his empire grew, the less he ventured from his base on the fifteenth floor of Party Central. He even dined and slept up there.

I thought about it while waiting to be admitted and could recall only eight or nine occasions when I’d come within touching distance of the city’s infamous crime lord. I’d shared a car with him once, on his way to the airport. He was heading for Rome to pay his last respects to the recently deceased pope, an old friend of his.

He hadn’t said anything to me during the ride. I was up front, he was in the back with Ford Tasso, issuing last-minute orders. He had to be blindfolded before getting on the plane — he was terrified of flying. On the way back, Tasso told me and the two other Troops that if word of The Cardinal’s fear leaked the three of us would be taken out and shot, no questions asked.

Another time, I ran into him coming out of a bathroom on the ninth floor of Party Central. I held the door open and saluted as he tucked the hem of his shirt back inside his pants. “Thanks,” he said.

“Thanks.” The only word he’d exchanged with me prior to that night.

I felt sick. The one thing they don’t teach you in the Troops is how to converse with The Cardinal, since it’s not something you have to do in the normal run of things. How was I to address him? What would he ask me? How should I respond? I wasn’t even sure I could tell him the time — my teeth were chattering. I was still in shock at finding Nic in the Fridge. Now this.

His personal secretary — Mags — tapped me on the shoulder. “Mr. Jeery,” she smiled. “I’ve called you three times. He’s ready and waiting.”

“Oh.” I wiped sweat from my brow. “Thank you.” I stood.

“Do you want a glass of water?” Mags asked.

My throat was dry but I shook my head. The last thing I wanted was my bladder acting up during my meeting with The Cardinal.

“Don’t worry,” Mags said. “He won’t bite you.”

I managed a weak smile. She squeezed my hand comfortingly, then led me to the door, knocked and gently shoved me in.

The first thing I noticed was the puppets. Dozens of them, hanging from the walls, draped across his huge desk, slumped over in corners. I’d heard about them, of course — everybody knew about The Cardinal’s penchant for puppets — but hadn’t been anticipating the display. For a moment I thought I’d wandered into a toy store by accident. Then I spotted The Cardinal in a monstrous chair behind the desk and everything snapped back into place.

“Al!” he greeted me like an old friend. “Take a seat. Make yourself at home. Get you anything? Coffee, a snack, a beer?”

“No. Thanks.” I was dazed by the reception. It wasn’t what I’d been expecting. I pulled up a plastic chair and sat opposite The Cardinal. Out of habit my fingers strayed to my beret and I began to straighten it. The Cardinal watched, amused.

“You can take it off if you want,” he said. “Never did like those damned berets. They were Mr. Tasso’s idea.”

I smiled gratefully and removed it.

The Cardinal wasn’t handsome. Nearly six and a half feet, though you couldn’t tell when he was sitting down. Too thin for such a big man. A crooked nose. Cropped hair. An Adam’s apple that looked like a golf ball stuck in the middle of his throat. Gray skin. A leering gap in his lower face for a mouth. His dress sense wasn’t the keenest either — a baggy blue tracksuit and sneakers. No jewelry. A cheap digital watch. If I dressed like that, I wouldn’t make it past the rear gate of Party Central.

“Let’s get down to business,” he said. “You knew Nicola Hornyak?” I nodded. A file nestled snugly on his lap. I’d have loved to see what was in it. “Knew her long?”

“About a month.”

“You were screwing her?”

“Yes,” I answered calmly, overlooking his bluntness.

His eyes flicked down to the notes. “But you told Mr. Weld it wasn’t serious.”

“We’d meet a few times a week, maybe have a drink or something to eat, head home or to a hotel. Nothing more than that.”

“Hmm.” He studied his notes again. “You went out drinking together. I thought you were a teetotaler.”

“I am. Nic ordered wine, I stuck to minerals.”

“What about drugs?”

“No.”

“Neither of you?”

“No.”

“Nicola Hornyak never did drugs?”

“Not with me.”

Again the “Hmm.” Then he changed tack. “You’ve been with us quite a while. Respected by your superiors, admired by your colleagues. Brains. Talent. A hard worker. Haven’t made much headway, though, have you?”

I shrugged, smiling uncertainly. “I get by.”