City of the Snakes (30 page)

“
Me?
” I interrupt, surprised. “What the hell had I to do with it?”

“You were important to the snakes, even as a baby. I tried to steal you,
to trade you for the girls, but it didn’t work out. I was left with no choice. I had to do as the snakes bid. I couldn’t let Jane die.”

Bill stops shaking and his eyes close. His chin drops a few inches. I have to lower the knife before he inadvertently slits his throat on it.

“It happened here,” he says softly. “The snakes brought her to this house. That’s why I came back. There was no roof or upper floor then. I had the floor restored and a roof put on when I returned. But back then it was a shell.

“The snakes tied her to a chair in the living room,” he continues. “They shaved her bald—like you—and blindfolded and gagged her. They made me strip naked, made me torment her with weapons and… myself. You understand?”

“He made you rape her?” I frown.

Bill flinches, but nods. “It was a living nightmare, all the worse because a sick part of me enjoyed it. That’s why the snakes chose me—they sensed evil inside me and they wanted to coax it out. When it was finished and they could wring no more entertainment from me, they made me kill her.” Bill weeps pitifully.

“This doesn’t make sense,” I mutter, then prod his chest with the tip of the knife. “Hey, old man, look at me.” He doesn’t respond. “Look up now!” I jab him and his head lifts wearily. “What you’ve told me doesn’t tally. They wanted you to kill her but you didn’t. You couldn’t. That’s why your sister was slaughtered. You didn’t kill Rettie. She’s here, alive, with the Harpies.”

“Yes,” Bill says. “Naughty Rettie. She took my book. I must scold her, but not severely. She doesn’t mean to be bold. It’s just her nature.”

“Then what’s this crap about killing her? If you’re playing for sympathy…”

He scowls. “This is my last confession. You think I’d waste it on games?”

“Then what—”

“It was simple,” he interrupts. “Rettie’s life for Jane’s. As confused and desperate as I was, I did as they ordered. Jane was my sister. I couldn’t let her die, even if I had to torture, rape and murder to save her. I knew there
could be no forgiveness. I meant to kill myself afterward, the only fit punishment I could think of. But I had to do it. Jane…”

He breaks down in a fit of tears. I let him cry, trying to work out the angles but failing. As his fit passes, without needing to be prompted, he wipes the tears away and says hollowly, “The snakes swapped them.”

My eyes narrow. “What?”

“The girls were similar in looks and build. With her hair shaved, her eyes blindfolded, her mouth gagged, dressed in Rettie’s clothes, I mistook Jane for the other girl.”

My hand drops and I pull back from Bill, eyes filling with horror.

“The snakes gave me a girl to torment. To save Jane, I killed the one they put before me, thinking it was Rettie. But it wasn’t. The snakes switched them.” He looks up at me and grins the grin of a man who’s been to hell and is trapped there still. “I tortured, raped and butchered Jane, mistaking her for Rettie Crowe. When it was over, the snakes revealed the truth, then stood by and cackled while I wept over the bloody remains of my poor, damned sister.”

With that the old man finishes, closes his eyes and calmly waits for me to put him out of his misery.

I
push my bike to its utmost limits and chew up the streets at ninety miles an hour, a hundred, faster. I defy red lights and one-way streets, take bends without braking, challenging the city to blast my wheels from under me and send me crunching to my death.

The police are soon after me, sirens wailing. They set up roadblocks that I dodge automatically, brain ticking over mechanically, analyzing the routes ahead, anticipating the blocks, detouring before I come upon them. Part of me wants to ride into an ambush and go down in a hail of gunfire like a Wild West outlaw, but another part resists and pleads with me to cling to life. While the two halves wrestle with one another, I fly one step ahead of death, ready to stop, turn and greet it with open arms if my darker desires win out.

Thoughts of Bill whistle between the spokes of my wheels. They’re faster than my bike—faster than anything—but they don’t overtake me, content to tag along, tickling the back of my neck, whispering, “No escape, not even in death.”

I turn into a long open stretch and spot a burning barricade. This is an entry point to the east, blocked off by the locals. Nobody’s manning it this early in the morning. As soon as I see the flames, my decision is made. With a suicidal grin I aim for the center of the mound of old tires, tables, wardrobes and chairs, and hit the gas.

I’m doing eighty-seven when I hit. I close my eyes as I plow through the molten mess of rubber, wire and wood. Splinters strike my hands and cheeks. Something hot singes my left ear. The air is thick and unbreathable.

I burst free of the barricade, still alive. Irate, I brush glowing embers from my face and scalp, then probe the damage with my fingertips. Lots of cuts and nicks. A small chunk gone from the lobe of my left ear. Otherwise unharmed. Cursing the inadequacies of the fools who built the barricade, I push on, picking up speed again, cutting corners tighter than ever. I’ve lost the cops—they won’t venture this far east. Now it’s just me and death in a straight-up contest.

I snake and snarl through the streets, so fast that the houses, shops and signs blur. If I’m to die, this is as good a place as any. I’m glad it’s early and that the riots have confined most people to their homes. There’s almost nobody on the streets, so when I crash, I’ll hopefully not harm anyone else.

Finally, as I’m beginning to think that my bike’s conspiring against me, I hit a dead dog as I scream around a corner. My wheels choke, the bike coughs and suddenly I’m flying. My bike spins lengthwise through the air, back wheel over front, shattering the iron grille and window of a shop, continuing into the store, cutting a destructive swath through the display. I pitch along next to it, but smash into what’s left of the grille and bounce back to the pavement. Air whumps out of me, my head whips backward and I snap into blackness.
Yes!

No.

My bike’s finished, but I’m not. I return to consciousness within minutes and struggle into a sitting position, groaning with agony, hating this world for clinging to me. As an alarm blares uselessly—no police will answer—I assess the damage. Grazed elbows and knees—the material of my jacket and pants cut to shreds around the bloody protuberances—and a deep gash across my forehead, from which blood runs thickly. My back feels as if a sumo wrestler used me as a trampoline, but incredibly I can’t feel any broken bones.

I stand, and though I’m light-headed and wobbly on my feet, I don’t fall. I let the gash in my head bleed, hoping I’ll lose too much blood and
collapse, but when I lift a hand and test it, I feel it scabbing over and I know I’m going to live.

What the hell does a guy have to do to die around here?

With a wry chuckle, I accept the world’s refusal to acknowledge my death wish. As much as I long to embrace the eternal darkness, it’s clear that some higher force in this universe thinks I should hang on for a while yet, and who am I to argue with a power like that?

I stumble through the wreckage of the shop and check my bike. It’s a write-off. The frame’s buckled, the handlebars lie somewhere under a mound of leather jackets and gloves, the tank’s busted, wires hang exposed, engine parts bleed pitifully. I find a pen and paper on a counter and scribble a note, promising to pay for the damages. I pin it to the wall with a knife, then hobble out and start the long, painful walk home.

A shower. Caked blood rinses away, turning the water at my feet a dark reddish brown. Hot becomes cold. I stay where I am, head propped against the wall, letting the chill of the spray numb the worst of the pain.

Eventually I turn off the water and crawl, dripping wet, to bed. I can’t lie on my back—too painful—so I turn facedown and shut my eyes. Sleep isn’t on the agenda, but it’s easier to lie peacefully than to sit or stand.

I remain prostrate for most of the day. It’s cloudy outside, and it rains lightly in the early afternoon, the first shower since April. The planned Tuesday raid by Stuart Jordan’s forces fails to materialize—maybe the rain put him off—and it turns into a damp squib of a day. People mop up the worst of the carnage, shop in stores on the outskirts that have escaped the riots, and grumble about the rain.

My cell rings. It’s the third time someone’s called. I ignored it before, but now I reach over and answer. “Hello?” I croak.

“I phoned earlier but I guess you were out.” Ama.

“I was here. Didn’t feel like talking.”

“Are you OK?”

“Not really. I’m tired. Of everything. Would you do me a favor?”

“What?”

“Hire someone to kill me.”

There’s a long pause. “Is this a joke?”

“No.”

Another pause, then, “I’m coming to see you.”

“No, don’t…” I stop. She’s already hung up. Groaning softly, I drop the phone and wonder whether or not to let Ama in when she arrives.

Some time later I’ve just about decided not to admit Ama, when she knocks and calls my name. My legs swing over the edge of the bed and next thing I know, I’m creeping to the door to open it.

“Jesus!” she gasps at the sight of me.

“No,” I chuckle hoarsely. “Just me.”

“What happened?” she asks, pushing in and turning on the light, standing on her toes to examine the cut on my forehead.

“Came off my bike.”

“You crashed? When? Are you hurt? Have you seen a doctor?”

“I’m fine,” I scowl. “There’s nothing broken. I’m bruised and winded, but with a bit more rest I’ll be good as ever, worse luck.”

I retreat to my bedroom, where I sit tenderly on the bed and prod glumly at my wounds. Ama follows slowly, frowning. “What do you mean, ‘worse luck’?”

“I’m sick of living. I wanted to crash. I wish my neck were broken. My spine. My skull. I want to be dead, Ama. I can’t take this life any longer.”

“Al,” she says quietly, crouching. “What’s wrong?”

“For ten years I’ve hated and hunted—for nothing. He was pitiful, not evil. I thought I’d imagined the worst, but the truth was worse than anything I dreamed. I understand him now, and that’s the most god-awful feeling in the world.”

Ama takes my hands. “You’re not making sense, Al.”

“That’s the trouble,” I moan. “It
does
make sense. For ten years it didn’t. I was able to hide in madness, thinking it my friend. Now I see clearly, but I don’t want to. Better to perish and not see at all.”

“
Al!”
She squeezes my fingers. “Tell me what happened. Explain. I want to help but I can’t if you won’t tell me what’s wrong.”

I look into her eyes, calm and pure, and realize that I want to tell her. I thought it was a story I’d take to my grave

(
sooner rather than later
)

but now I find myself desperate to share. “You remember my ex-wife, Ellen?”

“Vaguely. We were friends. She was killed in the Skylight. You came to see me about her. It’s how we first met.”

“She was murdered by a woman who was working for Bill Casey. Bill was my best friend, the closest thing I had to a loving father.” I take a breath, put my thoughts in order, then start over. “I guess it began, for me, with a fishing trip…”

I tell Ama the whole story, leaving nothing out—Bill, Paucar Wami, everything. I even tell her of the offer the priests made, for me to share this city with Capac Raimi, and how I turned them down. It takes hours, and I’m still going long after midnight, but I bring her bang up to date, finishing with Bill’s revelation and crashing my bike. She’s silent for a long time, holding my hands, staring dead ahead, thoughtful. I wait for her to make a comment.

Finally, without glancing at me, she asks, “How did you feel when you killed him?”

I crack a ghastly smile. “I didn’t.”

Her head shoots around. “You didn’t kill him?”

“I couldn’t. Not after what he told me. I tried. I’ve spent ten years hating him, killing in an attempt to lure him out of hiding, with the sole purpose of executing him. But when I looked into his eyes and saw the insanity, the terror, the
pain…
He begged me to kill him—followed me out of the shack, weeping, pleading—but my hands wouldn’t lift against him.”

Ama starts to cry, but she’s smiling through the tears. “You took pity on him!” she exclaims, hugging me tight.

“No,” I wince, pushing her away. “He’s suffering more than any man I’ve seen. Execution would have been a mercy. It’s crueler to let him go on, tormented by dreams of snakes, wondering why he destroyed me, hating himself. I let him live because it’s worse than killing him, not because I pity the bastard.”

She shakes her head. “Tell yourself that if you want—you might even believe it—but I see the truth in your eyes. You understand why he did it, that he was tied to his course, just as you’ve been to yours for ten years, and you forgave him.”