“You know the L.A. Library has digitized copies of every city newspaper going back to the 1840s? Didn’t take long to find the stories. I’m thinking someone found them a while ago, dug into the history, drew some connections, and got Quetzalcoatl involved. Now whoever did it knows Q wants that bottle, and they want it, too. Whichever one of them gets their hands on it first can let Darius loose to kick the shit out of the other. They’re not only betting I have the bottle, but they’re also counting on me not knowing what the bottle is.”

“That’s an interesting theory. You have a suspect?”

“I do, but proving it might be a little tough.” Not that I really care about proving it. I know the fucker doing this. I don’t need proof. But a veritable king like Werther, here, he will.

“Would a confession work for you?” I say. “If they did do it, then not only did they start all this mayhem, but they might as well have fired the gun that killed your granddaughter.”

“I’m not sure if you’re lying or not,” he says. Thank fuck for that.

“I’m not a very good liar,” I say. “Look at it this way. If it turns out I have lied to you, you’ll just kill me. Hell, you might just kill me, anyway. But if I’m telling the truth, I’m sure you wouldn’t want to aim your vengeance at the wrong person. Not because I think you care much about innocents, but the real killer would get away.”

“And I suppose you’d like something in return for pointing me toward the real killer?”

“Call off the bounty. That file’s already circulating. People are already figuring out I didn’t murder their families. But it doesn’t matter a rat’s ass if they still think they’re gonna hit the jackpot by parading my head in front of you on a stick.”

He downs his whiskey. Is it too early to be drinking? I pop amphetamines like they’re Tic Tacs, so the fuck do I know? I toss mine back, and wait to see if he bought it.

“All right,” he says. “What do you need from me?”

Chapter 29

Everything burns. Flames crawl along the floorboards, up the walls. They dance along the ceiling, flowing and dripping like a living thing. Outside the window I can see the rest of the city. The fires have spread, the streets are aflame. Cars are engulfed, paint stripped to glowing metal underneath, asphalt bubbling as it boils. Corpses lie on the sidewalks, trapped in cars, charred black, limbs contracted, drawn in from the overwhelming heat.