Darren Shan: Procession of the dead

He raised his arms and posed. He was tall, six-five or more. Thin to the point of emaciation. A large nose, hooked like a boxer's. His hair was cropped, shaved to the bone at the sides. He had a protuberant Adam's apple. His head was small for a big man's, narrow and pointed, with too wide a mouth. His cheeks were little more than taut, paper-thick flesh. His skin was a dull gray color. He was dressed in a baggy blue tracksuit and scuffed running shoes. He sported a cheap digital watch on his right wrist. No jewelry. He had long fingers, bony and curved. His fingernails were chewed to the quick. The smallest finger of his left hand bent away from the others at the second knuckle, sticking out at a sixty-degree angle. He was in his late sixties or early seventies but I wouldn't have pegged him for a day over fifty.

After I'd scanned him, he lowered his hands. "My turn," he said and examined me closely. He had hooded eyes, like Uncle Theo's, but when he focused they opened wide and it was like staring into twin pools of liquid death.

"Well," he said, "you're not what I'd expected. How about you? What do you think of me?"

"You're thin," I said, matching his own nonchalant tone. I didn't know what the game was, but if he wanted to play it cool, that was fine by me. "I thought you'd be fatter."

He smiled. "I used to be plump, but with running the city and everything, I don't have time to worry about small matters like food anymore."

He lapsed into silence and waited for me to speak. Trouble was, I couldn't think of anything to say. I held his gaze and tried not to fidget. In the end he put me out of my discomfort.

"So you're Capac Raimi. An Inca name, isn't it? From the days of Atahualpa and the Ayars?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Oh, it is," he assured me. "I read all about the Incas a few decades back. Their founding father was Manco Capac. Some group's building a statue of him here later in the year. This city's full of Incan links. You'll fit in well with a name like yours.

"You know what the Incas' motto was?" I shook my head, dazed by the surreal conversation. " Manan sua, manan Iluclla, manan quella. It means don't steal, don't kill, don't be lazy. Totally impractical apart from the last part. But that was the Incas for you.

"Enough." He smacked his hands together. "You want to know why I brought you here, why I had your uncle and all his men killed but not you. Right?"

"The question crossed my mind," I admitted.

"Any guesses or theories?"

I shook my head negatively.

"Good. I hate guesswork. Never pretend to know more than you do. I've no time for fools like that. There's nothing wrong with good old-fashioned ignorance. You can't learn anything if you think you know it all."

He fell into silence again. As before, I said nothing, but as the minutes passed I remembered something from the warehouse. I thought about it for a moment, then cleared my throat and took the chance.

"Ford Tasso said something."

"Oh?" He looked up. "Mr. Tasso is well versed in the ways of silence. He doesn't waste words. If he spoke, it must have been important."

"I didn't take much notice at the time, but now that I look back… He said something about dreams. About you dreaming about me."

The Cardinal's face darkened. "I spoke too soon. Mr. Tasso obviously hasn't learned as much about silence as I thought. Still," he mused, scratching his chin, "maybe it's for the best. I was wondering how to get around to the dream without seeming like a lunatic.

"I'll tell you about it," he decided. "You might find it hard to believe, but this is a world of wonders, Mr. Raimi. Those who deny the impossible do the majestic magic of the universe a grave disservice.

"Last week I had a dream. I'd already made plans to kill your uncle. It was a minor matter, one I hadn't given much thought to. Then, as I slept, I dreamed of his murder. I saw it as if watching a film, the warehouse, the unsuspecting Theo, the assassins in the aisles. He entered with his men. I heard the guns blare. I saw Theo and his team drop, mown down like lambs.

"Just as I was turning on my side and preparing to move on to a brighter dream, I noticed one of Theo's men still standing. Bullets were exploding all around but he stood there, smiling, a cocky son of a bitch.

"He strode toward me. I was looking him straight in the face, my dream camera zooming in to an extreme close-up. Closer still, until his face filled the world of the dream, smiling and confident.

"Then I awoke. The first thing I thought was, I could do with a man like that. A man that hard to kill, that cocksure and invulnerable… he had something to offer. So I checked on Theo's men, his confidants, the ones most likely to come with him to the meeting. Mr. Tasso provided me with a list of names which I scanned quickly, following the logic of the dream. One stood out. Capac Raimi. An Incan name. A name of power and portent."

He pointed at me. "That's why you're here, Mr. Raimi. That's why you're not rotting in the warehouse, surrounded by chalk-wielding detectives. My dream and your unusual name.

"Would you like a job?" he asked politely.

"You're joking," I spluttered once I'd recovered from the shock. "You're spinning me a wild tale, waiting to see if the dumb hick buys it."

"Why should I lie to you?" he asked.

"For fun. To confuse me. To see how I'll react."

He chuckled quietly. "Is it so hard to believe, Mr. Raimi? We've all had deja vu and lived out scenes from our dreams. Why shouldn't I dream of you?"

"Because you're The Cardinal," I snapped. "You don't dream about people like me. We're not just beneath you, we're buried a hundred miles underfoot. Even if you happened to dream of Theo and the massacre, even if you did see a figure walk unscathed through a rain of bullets, you wouldn't bring him here and offer him a job. It isn't logical. In fact it's dumb."

I waited for his wrath to fall. The Cardinal was a man with a huge temper, who blew up at the least provocation. I'd just called him a dumb, illogical liar. I was history.

But instead of attacking, he pondered my words, fingers crooked, lips pursed. When he finally spoke, he asked a question. "Do you know the secrets of the universe?"

"What?" I blinked.

"Are you privy to the secrets of the universe? Can you account for the workings of nature, the movements of the heavens, the advent of life? Do you have an insight into the inexplicable which the rest of us lack? If so, I would pay much for such information."

"I don't see what-"

"You don't see anything," he snapped. "You're as blind to the wonders of the world as the rest of us. We know nothing, Mr. Raimi. We have theories, guesses and opinions. We hold beliefs, each as valid and ridiculous as the others. We trust scientists to delve into the pits of time and space, tinkering with great questions like children playing with sand.

"In all my years I've met just one man who seemed to really know. He was crazy, a drunk working on the docks. He had trouble tying laces and buttoning his coat. He spoke in fits and riddles, but every word struck me to the core. I listened a very short time, then had him executed. I was afraid of him. If I had listened much longer, I'd have gone mad too. Truth is too much for minds as small as ours."

His eyes were burning into mine. His long fingers were wrapped around the arms of the chair, biting into the soft leather.

"I gave up on truth after that," he said. "From that day I resigned myself to a life of ignorance and blind acceptance. If I couldn't understand the universe, I decided I'd roll along with it and make the most of its own unfathomable rules. I'd no longer seek answers. I opted to wear my ignorance like an armband.

"Do you know what the secret of my success is?" he asked, changing tack again. I shook my head numbly. "Knowing how to ride the waves of luck. Everything in this world ties together at some level. I'm sure you've heard the old chestnut about a bird's wingbeat in Australia determining the weather on the other side of the globe. An exaggeration, but as good an example as any.