Hell's Horizon by Darren Shan Page A

ends. Don’t go near him again.”
    “Why? Has he got something to hide?”
    “No. But he likes his privacy.”
    “Don’t we all?”
    “Sure, but Hornyak’s got the money to protect it. He has friends in high places, who know people like me, who don’t like it when he runs to them with tales of being manhandled by some punk ex-humper-of-his-sister.”
    “I didn’t manhandle him. I asked some questions. He answered politely. We parted on good terms. I don’t see what the problem is.”
    “I don’t care what you see or what you think,” Kett sneered. “I’ve warned you nicely—stay away from Nicholas Hornyak. Next time it might not be a cop that’s sent. And it might be more than a verbal warning.”
    “You threatening me, Howie?”
    He laughed. “Now who’s asking the dumb questions?”
    “These friends of Nick’s,” I said slowly. “Don’t suppose you’d care to pass their names on to me, so I could drop them a line and let them know—”
    “Out,” he snapped, reaching over and opening the door. I swung my legs out and stepped onto the pavement. “This conversation never happened,” he hissed. I smiled at him in answer and slammed the door in his face.
    Upstairs I dug out my notebook and jotted down a brief transcription of my encounter with Kett. When I was done I read over what I’d written, scratched behind my ears with the tip of my pen and wondered what it added up to. I’d said nothing to Nick to warrant such treatment. I’d had no reason to suspect him of any involvement with the murder. Until this.
    It didn’t make sense. Sending Kett after me had only raised my suspicions. I found it hard to believe the sharp guy I’d found playing pool in the Red Throat would make such a clumsy move, implicating himself when there was no need. He might be toying with me—using the ever-serious Kett to mess with my head—but so soon after his sister’s death?
    Something was foul. Howie or Nick had made a dumb move by coming down on me. But the fact that I couldn’t figure out which it was, or why they’d done it, hinted that I was dumber than both of them. The sooner The Cardinal pulled me off this crazy case and put me back on patrol at Party Central, the better.

8

    I was passing a peaceful Sunday morning in bed, enjoying the lazy silence, when someone knocked on the door. I groaned, shrugged off the covers, pulled on a pair of shorts and a shirt, and went to see who it was. I discovered a skinny mulatto kid on the landing, leaning on a skateboard almost as big as himself.
    “Help you, son?” I said as pleasantly as I could.
    “Al Jeery?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Fabio asked me to fetch you. Says he needs your hands.”
    It had been a couple of years since Fabio last called but I knew instantly what he wanted. “Give me a few minutes to change,” I said, and slipped back inside.
    I asked the kid where we were going when I was dressed but he wouldn’t tell me—insisted on leading the way. He hopped on his board, waited for me to mount my bike, then set off, cutting a fair pace through the quiet streets. I had to be sharp to keep up, especially when he turned corners in a screech of dust and vanished halfway down dark alleys while I was struggling to brake and correct my course.
    It was a muggy day and I soon began to wish I’d stuck with the shorts, but it was too late to turn back. I just had to sweat and bear it.
    My guide led me deep into the south of the city, its literal heart of darkness, where members of the Kool Kats Klub feared to tread. It was familiar territory—I’d grown up here—but I hadn’t been back much since marrying Ellen and moving out.
    The skater stopped outside a six-story building of sorry-ass apartments, most of which were occupied by squatters or those existing just above the poverty line. “He’s in 4B,” the kid sniffed.
    “Thanks.” I started up.
    “Hey! He said you’d tip.”
    I eyed the grifter suspiciously. I doubted he’d have skated all the