Darren Shan - Procession of the dead

For about half an hour we waited, hands on laps, The Cardinal humming tunelessly. Then the doors slid open again and three Troops entered, pushing a gurney with a bagged body on top. They transferred it to the table in the center of the room, then withdrew without a word.

The Cardinal rose and strolled toward the table, nodding for me to join him there. He unzipped the body bag and peeled it back to reveal the naked corpse of a man in his late thirties or early forties. Impossible to tell how long he'd been dead, since he'd been frozen like a turkey.

"Simon Spanton," The Cardinal said. "A high-flying executive with a major software company until his sudden, unexpected demise. I suppose it was a stress-related heart attack or a drug overdose. Those are the killers of most execs who die young."

The Cardinal slid open a drawer in the table which I hadn't noticed. He produced a set of scalpels. From a hook on the side he fetched a saw and other heavier instruments to slice through the dead man's breastbone and crank the two halves of his chest apart.

"I'd never have made a good forensic scientist," he said as he set to work on the man's pale blue flesh. "I enjoy myself too much. You have to be serious for this job. I'd have forever been playing around with guts and bones, making puppets or funny shapes out of them."

I said nothing while he sawed, gritting my teeth against the crunching sounds. I kept waiting for him to ask me to give him a hand but he was having too much fun. He wanted to do it all by himself. For which small mercy I was grateful.

When he'd opened up the dead executive's chest, The Cardinal set his tools aside and wiped his hands on his trousers. He hadn't bothered with gloves and took no notice of the stains he'd left. His attention was focused on Simon Spanton's guts.

"I was always interested in divination," he said softly. "The ancients swore by it. They thought they could see the secrets of the universe in a person's innards if they looked hard enough. They thought we were all connected on some level, that what was within mirrored what lay without."

He glanced up at me. "I'm sure you recall what I said about connections when we first met. I think the ancients were right. If you know what to look for, everything is linked. It's simply a matter of knowing how to connect these"-he grabbed the corpse's guts, hauled them out of their stomach lining and dumped them unceremoniously on the floor-"with this." He waved a hand at the walls, indicating the world in general.

The Cardinal knelt over the mound of guts and began poking through them, ripping them apart, studying the patterns they formed. I felt queasy but I bowed over him politely, as if he were a collector of bottle caps showing me his latest finds.

"I made a study of divination," The Cardinal huffed as he worked, "but I wasn't impressed. Most of those who'd dabbled were fools. They wanted to tie our innards to the elements, the spirits of the dead, wacky shit like that. I mean, who gives a flying fuck if you can tell what the weather's going to be like tomorrow? Carry an umbrella and sunglasses at all times if you're that worried-you'll be covered for every emergency."

"I think they were more worried about famine or flooding, not what it was going to be like on their walk to the office," I said drolly, but The Cardinal only grunted.

"Since most of the evidence-as such-was pretty flaky, I decided to make up my own rules and applications." He stopped to pick up a purplish morsel that looked no different from any other part of the unfortunate Simon Spanton's innards. He studied it curiously, then licked it and smacked his lips together, eyes distant. I came very close to throwing up, but I just about managed to keep my supper down.

"I decided to connect divination to the stock market," The Cardinal said casually, as if it were no big thing. "I had the corpses of several executives from major companies delivered to me. I sliced them open, studied what I found, looked at how the patterns played when set against the fortunes of their companies before and after their deaths and took it from there."

"I don't get it," I frowned, staring at the guts on the floor. "I don't see any patterns."

"It's all in the eye of the beholder," The Cardinal chuckled. "Like with a Rorschach test. I look at Simon Spanton's remains and find a picture of a troubled man. He wasn't at ease when he passed. Problems at the office. He was stressed, even though he had no obvious reason to be. His company's been performing well of late, but appearances can be deceptive. I own a substantial share of their stock already and was planning to buy more. But if Spanton's guts are anything to go by, it's time to sell."

I blinked but I still couldn't see anything. "So you're telling me this is how you determine what to buy and sell, how you trade? You study the guts of a dead exec and base your plans on what you see in his entrails?"

"Crazy, isn't it?" The Cardinal grinned. "But it works. Maybe it's coincidence. Maybe I'm just on the luckiest roll ever. But for fifteen years I've yet to make a serious wrong call. I rule markets around the world. This is how."

"What if nobody dies?" I asked. "Executives can't be dropping like flies. How do you make a call if there aren't any company corpses?"

The Cardinal smiled like an angel. "They say only God gives and only God takes away. But Cardinals can give and take too. If the Grim Reaper needs a helping hand from time to time…"

As I stared at him wordlessly, he slapped my back and thrust his tools aside. "Come on," he said. "Let's get back to the office. I don't know why, having eaten just before we came down, but I feel devilishly peckish all of a sudden…"

Back on the fifteenth floor, he ordered and wolfed down a plate of ribs. A few memo sheets were stuck to his desk. He examined them briefly as he ate. "Miss Arne tells me you're a natural salesman," he said, licking sauce from his fingers. "Already one of our best agents. Says you'll be running her office this time next year."

I smiled. "That's nice, but bull. I make my share of sales. But I've no stomach for it. As a learning exercise it's fine, but beyond that…"

"Yes, Mr. Raimi? What lies beyond that? "

"I was hoping you'd tell me," I said.

"In time," he said teasingly. "You've got a few more tricks to pick up before I think about moving you anywhere. You're learning quickly. Mr. Tasso told me how you handled our Jewish friend. Impressive. Brutal, merciless, sly. I like that. Most would have beaten the signature out of him-effective but so unstylish."

"I did OK," I said smugly. "Better than I fared with Johnny Grace."

He waved the matter away. "No blame there."

"You heard about it?"

"I hear about everything, Mr. Raimi."

"You're not angry?"

"Better men than you have run up against Paucar Wami. Nobody's ever come away any the stronger. I would have preferred Johnny Grace alive, but I'm not about to get into a fight with Paucar Wami over him."

"Wami seems to be a taboo subject around here," I noted. "Nobody wants to talk about him."

The Cardinal nodded slowly. "There are people who never worry about walking under ladders, spilling salt or stepping on a crack. Then they meet Paucar Wami and cross themselves whenever anyone mentions his name."

"Is he as bad as that?" I asked seriously.

"Yes." He paused. "How much do you know about him?"

"He's a killer. Been around for thirty or forty years-though he looks much younger. He used to work for you, I think. Maybe still does."

The Cardinal smiled. "That's more than most people ever find out." He gazed at his hands and watched his twisted little finger wiggle about. "Paucar Wami was my greatest… creation." He chose the word carefully. "I discovered him, encouraged him, set him on his way. He's a lethal killing machine. Death is his coin of choice.