He looked at the cabinet and his eyes narrowed. He was pondering something. "How much do you know of me?" he asked, fingers rising to stroke the tattooed snakes.
"Not much. You're an assassin. You used to work for The Cardinal. Everybody who knows you fears you. They say you're the meanest, coldest man alive."
He smiled modestly, liking what he heard. "It's not an easy task, being the most feared man in a city like this. I have had to work hard for my reputation. But I am only an occasional assassin. When I'm in the mood, or if an old acquaintance asks. Most of the time I kill for my own reasons. I am a pioneer. I was one of the first real serial killers, back in the days before it was fashionable. For more than forty years I've blazed trails others can only dream of. I've adopted more guises than the police can count. I've been the Black Angel, Moonshine, the Weasel, Eyeball Ernie and more. I've taken life in every corner of the world, rich and poor, young and old, male and female.
"I kill because I am a killer," he said. "It's that simple. It's who I am, what I do. When I kill, I'm being true to myself. There are no hidden motives, no perverse longings. Do you think it's wrong, Capac Raimi, to be true to oneself?"
"When you put it that way…"
"There's no other way to put it," he said, then added conversationally, "I keep notes of my killings. I write of every one. I have dozens of notepads, full of times and places, names, methods, results. That's how I relax in my spare time. I write about my work and dwell upon it at length. I enjoy reading about my old murders. The problem with being responsible for so many is one tends to forget a lot of the details. One death is much the same as any other. They blend.
"I'm thirsty," he said. "Will you fetch a beer from the fridge? You may have one yourself if you wish."
I felt uneasy having my back to him, but I didn't think he was going to kill me, not yet. I opened the door of the fridge and looked for the beer. The fridge was full of jars with hand-applied labels and contents I didn't want to think about. I ignored those easily enough. What I couldn't ignore was the child's head near the top, staring out at me with ruined, innocent eyes. It had been neatly severed and allowed to drain. There was a bowl underneath to catch the last few drops and, as I stood rooted to the spot, I saw a pearl of blood swell and fall.
"The beer's on the second shelf from the top," Wami said pleasantly. "Behind the head."
I repressed a shiver of revulsion. I had a feeling there was a lot riding on this. A wrong move now and that face would be the last I'd ever see. Reaching out, I gently took the head by the ears and moved it to one side. The flesh was cold, scaly, a texture I'd never forget. When there was space, I reached past and grabbed a couple of cans, then laid them on a lower shelf while I returned the head to its previous position. I looked into those young eyes-five? six?-one last time, retrieved the beers and closed the door.
Wami was emotionless as I handed him the can. But, as I was taking my hand away, he suddenly grasped it. I tried to jerk free but he was too strong. He smiled and shook his head slightly. I stopped struggling. Without saying a word he put his can down and closed my fingers into a fist. Then he took my index finger and pulled it out so it was pointing straight ahead. He leaned back so his chin was sticking up. Slowly he guided my hand forward, bringing the tip of my finger to the spot beneath his lip where the heads of the snakes twined around each other. I stared at their painted mouths, their venomous fangs. Then he touched my finger to the flesh.
There was a sudden burning sensation. I yelped and dragged my hand back. He let it go and picked up his beer, saying nothing. I rubbed the finger and examined it. There were no bite marks but there was a small red swelling. I sucked the finger and studied it some more. The flesh wasn't broken and the redness was already beginning to fade.
"How did-," I began, only to have him cut in.
"There's a file over there," he said, nodding toward the cabinet. "Bring it to me."
The cabinet was loaded with files, notebooks and loose pages. I looked up and down a couple of times, wondering which he wanted. I was on the verge of asking when I saw it, a small file halfway up,ayuamarca scrawled roughly in the top right corner. I handed it over. He opened it and took out two sheets of paper. Turned to the second and studied it. Grunted, found a red pen and made a mark. He showed me the page, pointing to the bottom. The name he'd made the mark beside was Adrian's.
"Adrian Arne," he said, passing me the sheets. "Sit. Don't look at them yet." I did as ordered. "I don't know this Adrian Arne. As far as I am aware, we never met. I don't recall him being with us in the alley, or writing his name.
"I noticed something many years ago," he went on. "One day, perusing my older journal entries, I spotted a couple of names I had no memory of. I'd described killing them, so I must have, but I couldn't recall doing it. Confused, I went through my records-a lengthy task-and found six names, half a dozen murders which didn't fit in with my memories. I was disturbed, naturally, but also intrigued. Madness has always fascinated me. If I was losing my memory, it might be the first sign of a slide into something darker, an abyss I'd always longed to explore. I considered it an opportunity, a chance to experience life from a different perspective.
"Alas, the condition didn't worsen." He looked genuinely glum. "I was able to operate as efficiently as always. I didn't find myself making mistakes, drooling in my sleep or coming to my senses in strange places. I was the same Paucar Wami I'd always been, bar the memory lapses.
"Later, searching the files in Party Central, I discovered that." He nodded at the sheets of paper. "I had looked for the missing names elsewhere but found no trace. When I saw them there, I made a copy and brought it home to study. There were other names on the list I knew nothing about, people who had nothing to do with me. But I knew a few and found records on some of the others.
"I decided to play a game with myself. I made a red mark to the left of each name I knew or could find in the files. Then, every once in a while, I checked the sheets to see if the names still registered with me. Whenever I found one I'd forgotten, I made a red mark to the right of it.
"You may study the names now."
I quickly scrolled through the names on the two sheets. There were fifty, maybe sixty in all. The majority had red ticks to the left, including mine and Adrian's, whose names had been added at the end by hand. There were five or six above us, also penciled in.
"The list is old," he said. "Out of date. I have tried to find a more recent copy but it was moved after I found it and I've never come across it again. I add new names as and when I chance upon Ayuamarcans in my travels."
Virtually all of the names with a mark to the left also had one to the right. I knew most of the ones which didn't-Leonora Shankar, Conchita Kubekik, Paucar Wami, my own. Ama's name wasn't there and I decided not to ask about it. If he didn't know of her, so much the better.
"What is this?" I asked. "Who are these people?"
"Apart from the few unmarked on the right," he said, "I don't know. Their names mean nothing to me. There are the six my journals tell me I killed, and a further five since, but as for the rest…" He shrugged. "I knew them once, according to those marks. Not any longer."
"What's an Ayuamarcan? You said you recognized me when we met. How?"
"We share a certain look," he said. "An emptiness. I cannot explain it any better. I have studied so many of these people-though I do not remember most-that I can spot one instantly. I don't know what it means, who these people are or what's different about them, why they keep disappearing both from memory and the physical world. But one day, if I continue searching, I will find out. That's why I was trailing you. I hoped you might lead me somewhere."
I looked down at the sheets again. "You didn't kill Adrian?"
"To the best of my knowledge, no."
"And you've no idea what this might be about?"
He hesitated. "I know one thing-where the name comes from. Ayuamarca is Incan."
I remembered The Cardinal and Y Tse speaking of the city's Incan connections. I shifted uneasily and readjusted the position of my legs.
"It was the name the Incas had for the month of November," Wami explained. "Translated literally it means procession of the dead. Of course our names are Incan too-you are December, the magnificent festival. I am March, a garment of flowers according to the history books."
"Are all the-," I began.
"-Names on the list Incan?" he finished, and shook his head. "No. There are a few others-Inti Maimi, Hatun Pocoy-but most are not." I pored over the sheets as though persistent examination would force them to reveal their secrets. Procession of the dead. That sounded bad in any language.
"Have you ever asked The Cardinal about this?"
"No," Wami said. "He doesn't appreciate such questions."
I cocked my head. I thought I'd heard something in his voice, possibly the slightest hint of fear. "But he is involved, isn't he?" I pressed.
"Nobody else could order such a purge of the files in Party Central, except maybe Ford Tasso, but this isn't Tasso's style."
"What about our minds?" I asked. "Who purged them?"
"You have lapses too?"
"Sort of. I can remember people-like Adrian-but I can't recall my past before coming to this city. I thought it was just amnesia but after hearing you…"
"You believe it is more." He nodded. "That is my reasoning also. At first it is easier to suspect oneself, but when you notice the flaws in others… There are things beyond us. That is why this file interests me. I have always been captivated by the beyond."
Beyond…
"Do you know anything about blind men in robes?" I asked.
"Who never speak?"
"What?"
"They never speak." Wami nodded knowingly. "Not in English. Even when tortured by an expert."