Procession of the Dead Read Online Free PDF Page B

were everywhere, dangling from the walls, slumped over on the floor, lying drunkenly on the huge desk in the middle of the room. Apart from the puppets it was sparse. No pictures hung alongside the marionettes. No computers, plants, water coolers or statues. There was the desk—at least twenty feet long—and several plastic chairs were lined against the wall to my right. Two more chairs by the window, one plastic, the other plush, ornate leather. Little else of any note.
    Apart from The Cardinal.
    He was stretched out in the leather chair, feet crossed, sipping mineral water. He waved a gangling arm, inviting me over. “Sit,” he said pleasantly, indicating the plastic chair. “Do you like my display?” he asked, nodding at the puppets.
    “Nice,” I gasped without looking around. My mouth was dry, but I managed to force out a few more words. “Very… decorative.”
    He smiled. “Your eyes betray your lack of interest. You should learn to control them. Now,” he said, lowering the glass, “take a long look at me. You must be full of curiosity. Give me the once-over, Mr. Raimi, and tell me what you think.”
    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