A scooter kicked into life and pulled up in front of me. An unhelmeted Paucar Wami grinned and saluted. "We must stop meeting likethis."
I stared at the scooter, the driver, then the dead man. "You saved me," I said.
"I was asked to."
"By who?"
"Your blind friends."
"The ones in the robes?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
He shrugged. "They didn't say. Just gave me the address and said you might need me."
"Why did you come?" I asked. "Why go out of your way to helpme?"
He smiled. "Like I said, you interest me. Luck, Capac Raimi."
With that he disappeared into the night.
I made my way back to the car, numb, head spinning. Margaret had already started the engine. I climbed in and stared at the useless gun in my hands.
"Who was that?" she asked.
"Drive," I told her. "Take me outside the city. Drop me at a train station. Any will do. You pick."
"But who was-"
"You don't really want to know, do you?"
She looked at my face in the mirror. Glanced at the body in the road. Pulled away. "Don't reckon I do," she muttered, and said no more as we sped through the dark.
I unzipped the money belt at last and examined the ticket. Sonas was the name. I held the stub between two reverent fingers. Sonas. It didn't mean anything. I'd expected bells to sound, memories to flash through my mind at the speed of light, everything to come back in the snap of a wasp's wing. But Sonas could have been the name of an Eskimo's ranch for all it meant to me.
As dawn broke above us, Margaret dropped me off about twenty miles outside the city. "You ever need a lift again," she said, "get out your thumb and hitch!"
"Here," I said, and gave her an extra roll of hundreds. "That's for sticking by me. You could have fled and nobody would have blamed you."
"Thanks," she said, and looked me over. "You've got blood down your front." I realized I looked like something out of an abattoir. "I've got a coat in the back. I use it when the weather's bad. You can take it if you like. It'll cover you until you find something better."
"You're sure?"
"Mister, for what you paid tonight, you could have my dress and panties."
The station was preparing itself for the morning rush when I entered. A tired man in his sixties swept the floor lifelessly. His uniform was crumpled and worn, like his face. He looked up as I passed, sniffed, returned to his work. A waitress was raising the grille of a cafe.
"We ain't open yet," she snarled as I approached. "Come back inten."
The newsagent was the only cheerful soul. He smiled, rambled on about the weather, studied my battered face with concern. I bought some chocolate, a couple of papers, a magazine and a map. I asked him about train times. When he was through talking, I thanked him, tipped and left. Cleaned my face in the washroom, bought a cup of coffee in the cafe, then purchased a ticket and caught a ride.
The train chugged west. I studied the map, trying to find Sonas. I had to search hard. It lay to the southwest of the city, about two hundred miles off. A small town like any of a million others.
I spent the day traversing the country. I'd hop on one train, go north, get off at random, head east, west again, then south. I avoided crowds, let busy trains pass, found the quietest compartments in those I boarded. I bought a new suit at one stopover, along with a pair of dark glasses and a hat to hide the worst of my bruises. I hid behind newspapers for hours on end.
I knew it was a waste of time. I wasn't being followed, so I had no one to throw off the scent. The Cardinal's men didn't need to track me-they'd be waiting for me at the other end. He knew where I came from and that I'd have to head back. The longer I took, the more men he could post. I'd be shot the minute I stepped off the train. I should just go and get the whole thing over with or forget about it all and flee for real.
But I couldn't forget, and moving around like this gave me a sense of working to thwart my destiny. I needed the distraction of the game. It gave me hope.
I thought about waiting. Leave things for a few weeks, wait for the flames to flicker out. There was no hurry. Staying away would give my body time to heal, my mind time to clear. I could formulate a plan, maybe get some more of my memory back. Nothing was compelling me to rush to a certain death.
But The Cardinal's patience was legendary. He might have none where personal dealings were involved, but on a broader scale there was no better man for sitting on a fence, waiting for things to swing his way. His talk of ruling the world proved that-he was prepared to wait beyond death to make his dreams come true. Hanging around in small towns and villages would be of no benefit. I could leave it for months, years, and the end result would be the same. I could walk into Sonas an old man, seventy or eighty, and there'd be a young punk waiting to put a dozen bullets through my head. Nobody could beat The Cardinal.
I caught some sleep, stretched across uncomfortable seats, waking every time the train lurched or jumped. People tried to enter my carriage several times. They all stopped, paused, then walked on when they saw me. I was grateful for the solitude.
I thought about the two lives I'd ended. One by hand, one with a gun. I'd enjoyed the stabbing more but there was a certain thrill in shooting a man, a voyeuristic pleasure in being able to stand back and murder from afar. You felt a bit like a god with a gun in your hand, dispensing death as you saw fit.
I boarded one of the night trains which passed through Sonas. It was twenty-four hours after my showdown with The Cardinal. I was still alive, courting death, moving another voluntary step closer to the grave. The Grim Reaper must have been shaking his head in disbelief, muttering, "Some guys just don't know how to quit."
The train was quiet, no more than a smattering of passengers. I found one of the many empty compartments and made myself comfortable. Leaned over to close the curtains and stopped. The night was pitch-black, so the window was almost as good as a mirror. I took my glasses and hat off, laid them on the chair to my right and stared at my reflection, tiredly wondering when the madness was going to end.
The face before me, which The Cardinal had split, cut and ruined for good. The broken nose and raked cheeks. The chewed ear. The puffy lips and tender cheeks.
It had healed itself.
A bit of bruising around the eyes. The nose slightly crooked. A couple of small scabs. Otherwise good as new. I checked my hands. Knuckles which had been torn and busted-fine. Palms which had been lanced by the shards of the vase-pure. I stood and jumped on the spot. No pain or the creaking of broken ribs. All my bones were whole. My flesh was clean. It was like I'd never been in a fight at all, as if the savage battle in Party Central had occurred only in my mind.
uma raimi
I didn't alight in Sonas. I wasn't about to make things too easy for my pursuers. Let the bastards work for their money. I peered out of the window as the train rolled through the unexpectedly large station. No sign of a welcoming committee. They were probably waiting outside, covering the exits. I couldn't expect everyone to behave as foolishly as Vincent had.
I got off at the next station and took a cab to Sonas. "I don't know why you didn't get the train," the driver grumbled. "It's just one stop further." Some people don't know a good thing even when it bites them on the ass.
He dropped me in the town center and made his way back home. I absorbed the surroundings. A milk van passed. The driver tipped his cap to me and I nodded in reply. A cat skulked past, sparing me a dirty glance as it skirted around my feet. Otherwise the streets were undisturbed. It was quiet as a grave. I'd spent so much time in the city, I'd forgotten places like this existed, towns without hookers, shift workers, gangsters and clubbing teenagers all heading home in the early hours of the morning, where police sirens didn't blare at any given hour. Out here, with the sun blinking over the horizon, I felt out of place. The quiet was eerie. I didn't like it.
I walked around, hat and glasses shading my face from the dawn light. I tried not to gaze at my reflection in windows as I passed. I didn't want to see that unblemished face. Didn't want to think about what it might mean.
Memories flooded back as I slipped from one street to another. I recognized landmarks. There was the sports store where I had bought my first tennis racket. I'd been a kid, six or seven. I could feel it even now, the wooden handle, the tight plastic strings.
The movie theater. Scene of many a teenage sexual encounter. My first kiss, tucked away in the legendary back row. Here was where I cupped virgin breasts, where a girl first let my hand slide up from her knee without resistance.
That small corner shop. We used to steal candy when I was nine or ten, me and some bigger kids. I got caught. I had glimpses of my parents shouting, my father taking a belt to me.
There was where I bought my lawnmower, shears and hoses for watering the grass in the hot summers. My barber. A visit once every six weeks, regular as clockwork, except for a couple of teenage years when I grew it long. The park-days of eternal sun, running around in shorts, firing water balloons at irate mothers, knotting the swings, smearing jam on the slides, not giving a damn if we were caught. The pool hall, cobwebbed lamps, rickety cues, chipped balls, pimply boys and girls mating clumsily, too young to get into the clubs.