Dead Harvest (11 page)

  "So sorry," continued the voice. "Where are my manners?" The sleeve around my neck abruptly slackened, and I tumbled to the floor.

  He was a tall, slender man, and he was standing in the far corner of my cell. Though I was looking right at him, he remained fuzzy and indistinct, like something half-glimpsed out of the corner of my eye. His hair was neither light nor dark; his eyes were neither brown nor green nor blue. In fact, I could scarcely be certain he was a
he
at all: he was more the
impression
of a man, a collection of vague, impassive features, imbued with an odd internal light and clad in a suit of charcoal gray. Black gloves of supple leather graced his hands. He extended one by way of assistance, and I took it, climbing to my feet.

  "What are you doing here?" I asked. His eyes seemed lit from within, his every movement suffused with preternatural grace. It was all I could do not to look away.

  "Why, Collector, I would have thought that you'd be grateful – after all, I just spared you no small measure of suffering, did I not?"

  "But you – you're a seraph, aren't you? An angel of the highest order. It seems odd you'd deign to meddle in the affairs of Man – or stoop to rescuing a lowly Collector from hanging himself."

  The angel smiled. "It seems you know your angelic hierarchy. But tell me, Collector, how well do you know yourself? Your given name, for example, is from the Hebrew for 'heard by God'. Perhaps it is by God's grace that I've come to rescue you. Then again, perhaps I simply wish to save this vessel of yours from prematurely shuffling off this mortal coil. After all, this man is a warrior for good – he deserves better than to be discarded once his usefulness to you is at an end."

  "So which is it? Did you come here to spare me or to save him?"

  "It is a fallacy of your human perspective that it must be one or the other. Can it not be both? Or, failing that, can it not just be?"

  "You're telling me mine is not to wonder why."

  "I'm telling you to have faith in the will of God," the angel amended.

  "Faith is belief in the absence of proof. As far as proof goes, I've seen my share. The way I figure it, that means faith for me is no longer an option."

  "I speak not of faith that God exists, but of faith that grace lies not beyond your reach."

  "I made my choice a long time ago. Save your talk of redemption for someone who deserves it."

  His eyes danced with mischievous cheer. "Like, perhaps, the MacNeil girl?"

  "So
that's
what this is about."

  "Again you persist in this fruitless quest for
understanding."

  "Yeah," I said, "I'm funny that way." Then my brain played a little connect-the-dots and I flashed the angel a rueful smile. "The guys in the Crown Vic this morning – they were
your
boys, weren't they?"

  "An unfortunate misunderstanding," the angel replied. "I was laboring under the misapprehension that you were willingly subverting the ancient balance, and I reacted accordingly. Now I understand that your intentions are pure, and that you've simply been misled."

  "So what – you're here to scare me straight?"

  "I'm not here to
scare
anybody, Collector. I'm simply here to remind you that this détente of ours has lasted for millennia, and it has done so because the balance has always been carefully maintained – by those like me, as well as those like you. I would be loathe to see anything disrupt that balance – the results would be catastrophic."

  "And if the girl is innocent?"

  "Not a soul among us is innocent," he replied, "but of course that is not what you mean. You might be surprised to know your concerns have not fallen on deaf ears. I've looked into the matter myself, and I've been assured that she is anything but. To put it plainly, she's been deceiving you."

  "I don't accept that."

  "Whether you accept it or not is immaterial. The girl's collection is inevitable. If you truly care for her, the best thing you could do is collect her yourself. If you fail, they'll send another, and I doubt that Collector will share in your compunctions. You could spare her a world of pain with a simple act of mercy – and in the process, spare this world a war the likes of which it's never seen."

  The angel gestured toward the cell door. It slid open as if of its own accord.

  "So you're just going to let me go?" I asked.

  "Yes."

  "And what about the cops? They're going to wonder where the hell I went."

  "I assure you, they'll remember nothing of this. It's best that way, don't you think?"

  "You have to know I still mean not to take her."

  "I have faith that when the time comes, you'll do what's right."

  What's right – sure. I untied my shirtsleeve from the bed frame and slipped on the shirt. The angel conjured a business card from thin air, extending it to me. "If ever you need assistance," he said, "don't hesitate to give me a call."

  I glanced at the card. It was a white so bright it seemed illuminated from within. On it was no number, no address, just a single embossed word, printed black as moonless night:
So'enel
.

  "Thanks," I said, tucking the card into my pocket. Then I shuffled out of the cell block and through the oddly silent precinct house, fetching back my belt and laces from the abandoned guard's desk along the way. Outside, the sidewalk was flush with foot traffic, folks in business suits headed home from work.

  With a glance back to be sure I wasn't followed, I descended the steps of the precinct house, disappearing into the crowd.

 
 

Night had settled over the city by the time I made my way to the park. I was relieved for the anonymity the darkness afforded, but I didn't relish the prospect of tracking Kate and Anders down in it. At just a single city block, Chelsea Park wasn't a ton of ground to cover, but when you've got an angry horde of demons on your tail, you don't feel too compelled to stray from the cold comfort of the sodium-vapor lights and into the shadows beyond – missing girl or no.

  Twice I wandered the perimeter of the grounds – up Ninth to Twenty-eighth, then over to Tenth and back down to Twenty-seventh – but Kate was nowhere to be seen. I hopped the low metal fence-rail and cut across the grounds. At this late hour, the park was devoid of patrons, with the exception of the derelicts who took refuge beneath her trees and sought comfort on her benches. As I wandered the footpaths beneath the canopy of leaves, I shivered. Sheltered as it was from the stone and brick and glass of the city, which seemed to radiate the sun's heat for hours into the night, it was colder here – achingly so. I shoved my hands into my pockets and pressed on, hoping against hope that I would turn the corner and find them there, waiting.

  Eventually, my head caught on to what my gut had known all along: Kate and Anders were gone. The thought of Kate wandering the city with just a mental case with a bowie knife to protect her made my stomach lurch. I mean, Anders was a good kid, but what the hell was he gonna do if they came across another Collector, sent to do what I wouldn't? And if she
were
taken, what then? Apocalypse?

  All of which meant there was no plan B: I had to find them first.

  "Hey, pal, you got a smoke?"

  He was huddled under a tree at the edge of a basketball court. With his matted gray beard and his ratty, timeworn clothes, he nearly disappeared into the gloom.

  I patted my pockets reflexively, but of course I didn't have any. Whatever Flynn here had in his pockets when I snatched him had been confiscated before I ever came to.

  "Sorry," I replied. "I wish I did."

  "How 'bout a little cash, then?"

  The second voice was lower, raspier, and dripped with Bond-villain menace. All of which was secondary to the fact that it was coming from about six inches behind me.

  I said, "Listen, friend, you don't wanna to do this – I've got nothing you could possibly want, and believe me when I tell you I'm more trouble than I'm worth."

  "I think we'll be the judge of that,
friend
." Something cold and hard jabbed into the small of my back as if to punctuate his point. By the look of his cohort, I doubted it was a gun; more likely than not, I was being held up with an empty bottle of Night Train.

  This day just kept getting better and better.

  Guy One found his feet and clambered over to me, a look of demented glee pasted on his face. Guy Two had a death grip on my shoulder and continued to jab the not-gun into my back like if he pretended hard enough, maybe this time it'd go bang-bang for real. "Check his pockets," he called over my shoulder. His breath reeked of garbage and decay. His buddy didn't smell much better.

  Guy One's fingers found my pants pocket and dipped inside. I saw my chance and took it. I slammed my head into his nose and he went down screaming. Blood spattered across the concrete. I grabbed Guy Two's wrist and twisted, hard. Something snapped, and he folded like a cot. My knee connected hard with his throat as he went down. He crumpled into a writhing, wheezing mess, his precious bottle shattering on the ground beside him. I stood at ready between them, my feet straddling the three-point line of the ball court, but they were all out of fight. Damn shame, I thought – I was just getting warmed up.

  "Now, boys, I hope you don't mind if I ask you a few questions."

  "Fuck you," said Guy One. Of course, with his nose a twisted wreck, it sounded more like
fug-OOH
. Still, you had to give him points for trying.

  "I'm looking for a girl. Sixteenish, pretty. She would've been traveling with a guy about her age. Either of you gentlemen see her?"

  "Ead shid ad eye."

  "Sorry," I said, "didn't catch that one. Wanna give it another try?"

  "Ead shid ad eye.
Eadshidadeye!
"

  "Ah – eat shit and die. Charming. But I'm done playing."

  I hunched over him and plunged my hand into his chest. He shrieked like a frightened child. Then I wrapped my fingers around his soul, and his shrieks died down to a whimper.

  "Now," I said, bathed in the black light of his soul, "I'm going to ask you again.
Did you see her?
"

  His eyes were wide with terror. Guy One said nothing. Then I gave his soul a tug and he started singing, his voice thick and nasal, his broken nose mangling his consonants.

  "Y-yeah, I s-s-saw her. They l-left a coupla hours ago, when the cops came through to shake us out."

  "Any idea where they went?"

  "N-n-no!" The Ns like Ds.

  I released him. He crumpled to the ground, crying like a newborn. "W-w-wha…what did you
do
to me?"

  "Gave you a taste of what your eternity's gonna look like if you're not careful. You're gonna get the hell out of here and get yourself clean, you hear me? Stay off the drink, get yourself a job, and if ever you end up running this racket again, I'll be back for you. We clear?"

  Guy One nodded, his face full of fear and awe. I was full of shit, of course, but what's the harm of a little white lie every now and again in the service of a good deed?

  I snagged a handful of crumpled bills from the man's pocket – his take of the night's spoils, no doubt – and left him shaking on the pavement as I headed back toward Tenth. My head was reeling from the glimpse into his withered soul, and what little information he'd given me was ringing in my head. So Kate and Anders had made it this far, and they fled before the cops had seen them. That meant I still had a shot. But if I was gonna find them, I was going to need some help.

  And so I set out to find me a payphone, oblivious to the eyes that tracked me through the darkness, watching.

 

I found a bank of payphones on the corner of Ninth and Twenty-sixth. One of them was missing entirely, and the second's handset was nowhere to be seen. I snatched the third off of its cradle and pressed it to my ear. It was dead. I muttered a silent prayer, to which side I wasn't sure, and punched in the number Merihem had given me. For a second, nothing happened. Then, somewhere in the city, the other phone began to ring – an odd, queasy,
reluctant
sort of ring. Still, I coulda done a jig.

  After three rings, Merihem answered.

  "I was beginning to think I wasn't going to hear from you, Sam." The voice was breathy and feminine, but there was no mistaking Merihem's tone. If I had to guess, I'd say he camped one of his girls out by a random payphone somewhere in the city in anticipation of this call. Locked up as I'd been, I wondered how long I'd left her standing there. I decided that I didn't really care.

  "We need to talk," I said.

  "I'm not sure that's such a good idea."

  "Yeah, well, I ran out of
good
ideas a few days back, so it'll have to do. If you'd like, I can come to you."

  "
No!
" Merihem's voice quavered for a moment – panic? fear? – but then he caught himself, and his composure returned. "That won't be necessary."

  "Where, then?"

  "The corner of Eleventh and Sixth. One hour. Don't be late."

  "I'll be there," I replied, but there wasn't any use. I was speaking into a dead receiver. Merihem was gone.

 
 

My muscles ached beneath the thin fabric of my uniform shirt, whether from my recent exertion or the chill spring air, I knew not which. I popped into a Duane Reade to buy a lighter and a pack of smokes, and then I struck out south toward my meeting with Merihem.

  Though the night was cold, the streets bustled with people, and the air was redolent with an intoxicating mix of meat and spice and cooking oil from the sidewalk carts I passed, which mingled oddly with the scent of subway exhaust pouring upward from the ventilation grates beneath my feet. For a while, I wandered the streets at random, ducking down side streets, doubling back the way I came, but if anyone was following me, I didn't see them. For a time, I thought I caught a pair of eyes watching me through the crowd, but it was just a young boy begging for change, his face streaked with dirt, his jacket three sizes too big. I tossed him a couple bills from my would-be assailant's stash and kept on walking.