Dead Harvest (7 page)

  "Much as I appreciate the offer, I think I'm gonna have to pass. See, I
tried
to collect this girl, only it didn't take. Her soul – it knocked me back. So I panicked and I snatched her."

  Merihem guffawed. "This the chick that offed her family? Man, I've been reading about you – you walked her ass right out of the goddamn hospital! You know, that sketch doesn't do you justice."

  "Thanks. But here's the thing – I'm pretty sure she didn't do it."

  He shook his head. "Not possible. If they sent you, she did it – end of story."

  "Yeah, only I've got reason to believe someone else was driving."

  He squinted at me. "OK, the Sam I knew, he wasn't stupid, which means you probably know how nuts that sounds. I mean, any demon coulda taken this chick out for a spin, but she'd be lit up like a Christmas tree for anyone who knew to look. No way she gets marked for collection. No, a con of that magnitude would take some serious clout – not to mention one hell of a death wish."

  "Death wish? Death wish how?"

  "You think either side wants a war?" Merihem spat, and any hint of Staten Island disappeared from his voice, an affectation easily discarded. "When last it happened, one-third our number fell – and all because a son of fire refused to kneel before a son of clay. You couldn't
begin
to understand the world of shit that would rain down upon us all if one of our kind was caught damning an innocent soul to rot in hell for all eternity. You're not the only one who's duty-bound, Collector. We all have our roles to play. We do them, and do them well, because the alternative is unthinkable."

  "For you, perhaps. Maybe not for everyone."

  "OK. Say you're right – which you're
not
– and your girl's been set up. That means whoever's responsible acted against the explicit wishes of the Maker and the Adversary both – and is powerful enough to have done so undetected. If that's the case, what the hell do you expect that you are going to do to stop them?"

  "I don't know. But I have to try."

  "You're pissing in the wind, Sam. If you came here for my counsel, I say keep your head down and do your fucking job."

  "I didn't come here for your counsel – I
came
here for your help."

  "Did you now?" He smiled. "I'm surprised at you, Sam – I would've thought you'd learned better than to seek favors from my kind. The price is often steeper than you think."

  "The way I figure it, you owe me one."

  He laughed then, a big, roaring laugh that rebounded like a chorus off the concrete walls of the basement. "I owe you one! Ha! That's why I've always liked you – there aren't many who'd dare march in here and speak to me that way."

  "Yeah, well, it's not like I've got anything left to lose."

  "We
all
have something to lose, Sam. Most of us just can't see it till it's gone."

  Merihem fetched from his pocket a small leather case, from which he selected a cigar. He clipped the end with a brass-plated guillotine and struck a light with a matching lighter, rolling the tip back and forth within the flame for a moment before placing the cigar in his mouth and taking a long, slow drag.

  "I'll help you," he said finally, loosing a heady cloud of smoke that hung thick around him like a shroud. "I'll ask around, see if there's anything to this theory of yours. Just keep your nose clean for a couple of days while I do my thing, OK? Try not to do anything stupid."

  "Thanks, Merihem. I appreciate it."

  "You understand I still think your theory's full of shit. But better I do the asking than you – the folks who hold your leash don't take kindly to sedition."

  "I'm sure that's true."

  "If I find nothing, you'll take the girl?"

  "I'll consider it."

  "You'll
consider
it."

  "That's right."

  Merihem sighed. "No matter," he said. "By you or someone else, she'll be taken soon enough. Is there someplace I can reach you?"

  I smiled. "You don't really think I'd tell you where we're staying, do you?"

  He returned the smile. "No, but one does have to try." He recited a number. "Can you remember that?"

  I repeated it back to him. He nodded his assent. "Call me there in two days' time. And Sam?"

  "Yes?"

  "In the interim, try not to get yourself killed, would you?"

 
 

Charcoal-smudged clouds scudded westward across the Manhattan skyline as the first faint rays of sunlight peeked over the eastern horizon. The city was quiet as I left the ferry terminal and strolled west toward Battery Park. I'd walked the streets of Staten Island all night, trying to process what Merihem had told me. But no matter how I looked at it, it just didn't make sense.

  I mean, I was sure of what I'd seen.
Something
had been inside Kate's head. Something powerful. Something vicious. Something certainly capable of the horrors I'd seen in the morgue. Not to mention, if I was wrong and Kate was to blame, then why torture the mother? Why wait for an audience to arrive before slitting her throat?

  No, whatever killed Kate's family had been putting on a show. It wanted no doubt in anyone's mind that Kate had done the deed. Why? That, at least was simple. It wanted to ensure I'd finish the job – no fuss, no mess, no questions. It
wanted
her taken, and that's the part I couldn't square. I mean, in a war between heaven and hell, who wins?

  As I wandered, lost in thought, across State Street, I tapped out a cigarette, cursing as it slipped from my cold-clumsy hands. I bent to retrieve it. Only then did I hear the roar of the engine. Loud and low and approaching fast. I looked up. An old Crown Vic skittered around the corner off of Pearl, tires squealing. It leveled the yellowy gaze of its headlights on me and bore down hard. Thirty feet. Twenty. Ten. I was running out of time.

  I leapt aside. Not fast enough. My hip exploded in pain as bumper met flesh.

  The impact spun me end over end. I tumbled to the pavement like a rag doll, cracking my head against the centerline. The driver laid on the brakes and the Crown Vic came to a screeching, crooked halt amidst a cloud of thick blue smoke that reeked of melted rubber. I tried to move. It didn't take. My left leg felt like it was full of hot lead. My head didn't feel much better. Then the car clunked into gear, and the reverse lights came on.

  I was beginning to think these guys didn't like me.

  The engine whined as the car swerved backward toward me. Close and coming fast. With all I had, I threw myself aside, or tried. With my leg still not cooperating, I barely moved a couple feet. As I glanced toward the car, I caught a glimpse of my own frightened stare, reflected in the chrome of the bumper. But in an instant it was gone, replaced by a blur of fender as the Crown Vic whizzed past, scant inches from my face. I collapsed backward onto the pavement. My chest heaved with every ragged breath as I stared, spent, at the gray morning sky. Two for two, I thought – not too shabby. I was out of gas, though, and I knew it. If they came at me a third time, I was toast, and this body was heading right back where I found it. I wondered queasily whether the docs would even recognize poor Jonah once that Crown Vic had its way. It wasn't a comforting line of thought.

  But they didn't take another pass. Instead, the engine cut out. Four doors opened, and then slammed shut. Four sets of shoes clattered across the pavement. Three stopped well short of where I lay – they spoke in hushed tones, their words lost to me on the breeze. The fourth approached me, blotting out the morning sky as he hunched over my crumpled form. He was fuzzy, hard to see – as if lit from within. I was pretty sure that wasn't just because of the crack I took to the noggin. My breath caught in my chest. My vision dimmed. I tried in vain to stretch my consciousness, to find myself another vessel, but the effort was too great – all I got for my trouble was a searing pain between my temples and the copper scent of blood prickling in my sinuses. Sirens, faint as hope, echoed in the distance. In that moment, I didn't care I was a fugitive – I just prayed they'd be in time. Whatever these guys wanted with me, it wasn't good, and it's not like I was gonna go down swinging.

  "Is it dead?" called one of the stragglers.

  "No," replied the one above me. "It lives."

  "Come, Ahadiel. We have to go. Perhaps next time, we will finish him."

  And then, sirens drawing closer, they fled.

 

I woke by degrees. The first thing I was aware of was my leg, which throbbed in time with the beating of my heart. Next came the sirens. They were everywhere, reverberating off the walls around me. I opened my eyes. Light flooded in, and my head erupted in whitehot pain. I clenched them shut again and retched. That meant concussion. Explained the fuzziness.

  Again I opened my eyes, slowly this time. My stomach clenched, but I didn't vomit. It was progress. I looked around. I was lying in a broad trash-strewn alley, tucked between a dumpster and a loading dock.

  And I wasn't alone.

  By instinct, I tried to find my feet, but my hip felt heavy and out of joint, and my leg couldn't take the weight. I got to one knee before collapsing to the ground with a scream.

  "Quiet," said the young man who sat beside me, nodding toward the mouth of the alley – toward the source of the sirens. "They'll hear you."

  He was a wiry kid of maybe twenty-three, in a tattered army surplus jacket and dirt-smeared jeans. His pallor was gray, his face gaunt, his black hair was longish and matted. His eyes darted this way and that, looking anywhere it seemed but at mine. His frame and clothes suggested homeless. His furtive gaze suggested crazy. In his hand he held a knife, matte brown with rust and filth.

  Christ, I thought – this day keeps getting better and better.

  "What makes you think I don't want them to hear?"

  "You told me. In my head."

  I eyed him, suspicious. "I did."

  He nodded. "In my head, I heard you calling. Afraid. Trying to escape. So I came to help."

  "Look, about that – I appreciate the help, but I really gotta go."

  "You are not who you are."

  My heart skipped a beat. "Come again?"

  "You are not who you are," he repeated. "Your body – it fits you funny, like borrowed clothes. And the voice you used to call me is not the voice you use now."

  The kid rocked back and forth as he spoke, and still his gaze avoided mine. It was clear he wasn't quite right in the head – but could he really see me?

  I rested my weight against the loading dock and stretched my consciousness toward him – probing, testing. The pain in my head redoubled as I struggled to focus. My body went slack as I pulled away. My vision dimmed.

  I brushed against his mind, and he flinched as if stung. I settled back into the Friedlander body. The kid stared at me with wide-eyed terror.

  "That isn't very nice," he said, shaking his head, his knife held ready between us. "My head is crowded enough already."

  "I'm sorry." My hands were raised palm-out, my tone placating. "It's just that most people, they can't see me. What I am. Their minds won't let them."

  He scowled. "You thought I was crazy."

  "Of course not!"

  "Everyone thinks I'm crazy. I guess maybe I am. But the pills, they dull everything. The tastes, the smells, the sounds. They reduce it all to ash. You ask me, I think crazy seems the saner option."

  "Listen, kid, you got a name?"

  "My mother called me Anders."

  "Nice to meet you, Anders. Mine called me Sam. You think maybe we could do without the knife?"

  He looked down at the knife in his hand as if seeing it for the first time, and then at me. From his jacket Anders produced a makeshift scabbard of duct tape; he slid the blade into the scabbard, and both disappeared into his jacket.

  "Sorry," he said. "I was worried they'd come back. The ones who hurt you."

  "Did you see them?"

  "Yes. They were not like you. They were fuzzy. Hard to see. Like looking at the sun."

  Shit – angels. That's what I was afraid of. What they wanted with me, I had no idea, but it was clear it wasn't good.

  I pushed myself up off the ground and clambered awkwardly to my feet, careful to keep my weight on my good leg. "Anders," I said, "I have to go. I don't think I can walk, so you'll have to help me. You think you can do that?"

  Anders nodded. "Is this about the girl?"

  "What do
you
know about the girl?"

  "Before, in my head, when you were trying to escape – you said she was in danger. That you had to save her. That everything depended on it."

  "I did?"

  "Yes."

  I eyed him appraisingly. "So you in?"

  Anders shrugged. "I guess," he said. "I mean, I'm not busy."

  I laughed.

  Anders added, "You said something else, too, you know."

  "Yeah? What's that?"

  "You said you thought
she
might save
you
."

  I smiled and shook my head. I didn't doubt what the kid said, but I'd been a fool to even think it. After all, I was lost a long time ago.

 
 

"Are you all right?" Anders asked. "You don't look well."

  "I'm fine," I lied. Truth was, my head was fucking killing me.

  "You're slurring. You need to sit down."

  I opened my mouth to argue, and then closed it again. Anders was right. We'd been hobbling along for what seemed like hours, and I was exhausted. My leg was throbbing, my mouth was dry as dust, and my head felt like it was full of angry bees.

  I looked around. The world lurched – my vision was slow to respond. We were heading north on Church, a few blocks south of City Hall. At the corner was a mounted cop, lazily scanning the crowd from atop his steed. I looked away. Beside us was a family of tourists, decked out head to toe in New York gear, and walking hand in hand. Their youngest, a girl of maybe six, caught my eye as they passed. Her eyes flickered with black fire as she spotted me, and her smile faltered, replaced by a look of pure hatred. As soon as it appeared, though, it was gone. She shot me a quizzical glance as though I was to blame, and then she smiled again, turning her attention once more to the sights of the city.