The Truth Collector (7 page)

Craig's eyes shot open for a moment, then fell behind translucent lids.

“Ask him again,” Paul said.

“Did you kill Eric and Miranda?” He asked with a desperation that only the prospect of spending the rest of his life in a cage could instill.

Craig's face remained unchanged. His chest heaved, paused while the breath filled his lungs, and on the exhale…

“I killed them. I killed them both.” He stirred a little and then went completely still.

Paul grabbed Malcolm's trembling arm to help steady the tape recorder. They looked at each other, wide-eyed and chests pounding. Paul motioned for Malcolm to go on.

“What happened after that?” Malcolm said.

Craig smiled in his sleep. “Many things.” Words spilled out of him like disclaimers at the end of a radio ad. “There was blood. Lots of blood. If you haven't killed someone you wouldn't understand. I left then. Small town people drive so slow. The radio was on. Jazz. My favorite. Then I went back to Lemhaven. Tried to order Chinese food because I was starving and wanted some wontons. But they kicked me out of their lovely establishment.” He laughed hysterically, but his eyes were still closed. “I guess they didn't like all the blood.”

The tape recorder nearly fell. Paul steadied it with both hands. “What happened then?”

“I went into the dumpster. I didn't want to do it – I was scared. But that's what they told me to do. And when they tell you to do something you
listen
.”

“Who?”

Craig gagged on some of the blood pouring into his mouth. He coughed it up all over his chest and continued like it had never happened. “No names. Not for you. I went in the dumpster because they told me to go there. They sent me far away. Somewhere dark. I think there was water – people screaming too – but things are fuzzy. Then I came back covered in peanut oil and soy sauce and shit. Stripped down to my undershirt and a pair of shorts I found in the dumpster. Took everything to the office to get some decent clothes, stopped by the Black Cat for a J and B on the rocks, and here we are.” He laughed again, louder this time. It threw his head back and grabbed him in an endless seizure. That laugh belonged to a maniac – a man whose mind had been hollowed out and cast aside like an apple core.

“What about the little girl, man?” Paul said. They'd caused loud enough of a scene to attract a few vagrants looking for entertainment on this full-moon night. They gathered around them in a loose circle, keeping their distance.

The corners of Craig's lips curled up into little daggers. “Fuck the girl and fuck you.”

“What about the girl?” Malcolm said.

Craig laughed again, and when Paul started kicking him he laughed even harder. “She's gone,” he said between convulsions.

“Gone?” said Paul. “What do you mean gone?”

“She's gone, dude. AWAL. Absconded, as we lawyers like to say.” He started laughing until tears streamed down his face. He was either laughing so hard he was crying, or laughing and crying at the same time. “She's gone – and she's never coming back.”

Paul reared back to kick him again, but Malcolm put a hand on his leg. “Did you take her?”

Craig's eyes shot open and rolled around in their sockets. “She's gone. She can't come back for a long time.”

Malcolm grabbed what was left of Craig's shirt collar and yanked it so hard his entire upper body sat upright. “Where is she?” he said, shaking at the same time. “Where did you take her you maniac?”

“They have her. They have her they have her they have her they...”

Paul kicked him in the face again and his body went limp. “This is useless.” He turned to the hobos who had gathered around them. “Go on. Get out of here. Show's over.” One by one they slid away into the darkness, sharing bottles and disbelieving looks. Malcolm caught his breath as they walked away. Then he looked down at the shell of a man below them.

“What now?” Paul said.

“Now we call the cops. The tape has everything we need. We can't get rid of our prints, but hopefully this is good enough to clear our names.” Paul reached for his phone and dialed. Then, just before he pressed it to his ear, someone slapped it out of his hand.

“Hey. Cut it out! You said we could call after we talked to him.”

But Malcolm was on the other side of Craig's body. There was only one person within arm's reach. Paul bent over to pick up the phone…

Then something grabbed his ankle.

“Shit,” he said, crumpling to the ground.

Then they were both flying backwards in a pile of rubber and sweat and blood. They landed on top of each other, swearing and struggling to find their footing. Malcolm's cuts from the alley opened up and dripped blood onto the two by fours and food wrappers beneath him. He pulled himself to his feet, looked…

And found Craig Fielder facing him.

His eyes were open again, but someone had stolen his pupils and replaced them with crimson shooter marbles. Malcolm could see them burning, feeding on what was left of the man's sanity. His hair was completely gone now, shaved off by some unseen barber and resting at his feet in little clumps. Blood streamed down his face from all the cuts they'd made. It flowed into his nose, ears, and mouth. But he didn't bother wiping it off. Beneath it, something burned and pulsed just a few shades darker:

A mark.

The same one they'd seen on the corpses when they came back to life: a spade, detailed and pointy and sharp. Malcolm and Paul looked at each other without saying a word. There was only one thing to do. They ran.

They left blood and curses and bewildered hobos behind them. Back to the alleys. Back to the city and civilization… and hopefully a place to get away.

“Is he dead?” Paul said.

“Far from it.”

Malcolm looked back and watched the thing move along the strand. Eyes smoldering, it followed them away from the river, leaving behind a group of terrified hobos in its wake. “Come on,” Malcolm said. “Faster.”

They picked up the pace until nothing remained in their legs or lungs. Yet still that thing gained on them. It wasn't running, but
gliding
over the rough terrain, ratcheting up its pace and turning that terrible mark towards them.

“What do we do?” Paul said, holding his side as he ran.

Malcolm shook his head. Screams trailed behind them – real screams from men who had seen the horrors of war and slept under bridges. He forced his feet to keep moving. But his body was slowing, failing, preparing to die.

“You know too much,” said a voice. It sounded nothing like Fielder, but it came from his vocal cords all the same. That voice was deep enough to make the hairs on Malcolm's neck stand up and stay there. He glanced back and found the thing right behind them… and reaching.

Malcolm ran. At least he tried to run. He only made it a few steps before tripping over an empty wine bottle. He flew through the air and landed shipwrecked on the strand. Shipwrecked hopes in a shipwrecked life. Paul's back was still in front of him, and getting smaller by the second. That was good. Maybe he'd get away. Something – stupidity, probably – drove Malcolm back to his elbows. Blood and cuts and throbbing ankle be damned.

Then that thing grabbed him by the good ankle, lifted him, and turned his world upside down without a trace of effort.

CHAPTER TEN

The trash and needles beach was above him now. Malcolm looked up at it while that thing held him suspended in midair. Blood spilled out of him and something else spilled out of his pocket:

The tape recorder.

Malcolm reached for it, but the thing squeezed his ankle and pulled him away from the ground. Then blood and hair and hanging toenails crashed down on it and twisted, crushing the tape recorder and squeezing all of its guts out.

Malcolm screamed as his trusted companion – his only trusted companion – was reduced to rolling batteries and plastic parts. Some of those parts lodged in the thing's foot, but it didn't bother to take them out or even look at them.

That thing kept moving, driven by madness or a slave driver that Malcolm couldn't see. It grabbed his ankle and held him high. Every time he tried to wiggle away from it the grip just tightened. They ran along the strand now – two bags of flesh and blood drawn together by fate or misfortune or the plain old phenomenon of bad things happening to all people.

Paul ran in front of them. Every few steps he stumbled, got up, and tried his legs again. His eyes widened when he looked back at them over his shoulder. Malcolm tried to scream – to tell him to run faster. But no words came out. The scene unfolded like one of those hunting shows on television. Shows where they stocked the woods with deer and it was only a matter of time before the hunters found one with their high-powered rifles. Except this was a
human
hunt playing out before him. He couldn't close his eyes. He couldn't look away.

Paul fell again and sent dirt shooting up all around him. This one didn't look any harder than the others, but there was a finality in the way he left his limbs splayed out on the ground. He was spent, all of his endurance and will to go on strewn across the beach behind him.

They stalked him. Closer and closer until Malcolm could almost reach out and grab Paul by the waist. Beyond them the strand ended and an alleyway back to civilization began. Just a dozen yards away now. Just out of reach. Paul kept his eyes there, not looking back even when Malcolm yelled his name.

Then the thing reached down and grabbed him. It swung Paul over its shoulder and balanced his weight with Malcolm's like a peasant carrying a pair of water buckets. They looked at each other with their faces battered and bloody. But there was no plan – no shared understanding to save them. The thing carried them straight for the river, trampling over broken bottles and soup can lids.

Chunks of flesh and blood churned where that thing's feet should have been, and a few toes hung off to the side nearly severed. But still that thing went on. Down the bank it took them where mosquitoes swarmed. Down, down, down until water and sludge covered the thing up to its knees. The world tilted again.

Then the thing wound up and threw them.

With a grunt it sent them hurtling into the air. They sailed out above the water like they'd been shot out of a human cannon – higher and higher until the only thing left to do was scream. Malcolm turned back and saw Paul flying next to him, a mass of quivering limbs. Behind him, the strand shrunk into a little pale ribbon next to the river's edge. Skyscrapers blurred past in a kaleidoscope of light.

Malcolm took a deep breath before his face slapped the water's surface.

The last thing he saw was that pair of burning red eyes.

* * * *

His lungs were filling with moss and pine needles and river water. Paul kicked somewhere next to him, splashing water in a reckless arc. All around them the river was quiet. The shore teased them at the edge of their vision. The current pulled them in deeper, straining limbs and lungs where there was nothing left.

“We have to get back to shore,” Paul said. Water filled his mouth and he started coughing, treading water with one hand and pounding the other against his chest.

Malcolm nodded. Somehow he still lived. But his legs were useless, and his arms burned when he paddled. The current resisted every movement. He stripped off his suit jacket and dress pants, and Paul did the same. He kept his shoes on, usin
g them to kick off river rocks and slippery fish that swam by nibbling at his legs. Everything was hungry in this discarded place at the city's edge. Malcolm gritted his teeth and paddled through it
, stopping to bob and rest every few seconds.

Finally, when a layer of clouds covered the moon and thrust them into darkness, Malcolm dragged Paul up onto the riverbank. A few hobos had gathered on the rocks to drink and watch them come in. Now they laughed when Malcolm and Paul pulled their gelatinous legs out of the water in their shoes and underwear.

Malcolm just staggered past them and collapsed on a sandy incline as soon as they were out of earshot. He and Paul lay silent for a long time as their rib cages rose and fell. The warm air baked the river sludge they'd carried with them right into their skin and hair.

“We're screwed, aren't we?” Paul said. He stretched his arms out in front of him and studied all the cuts and scrapes.

Malcolm sighed. “Pretty much. The tape's gone. Craig – that thing – crushed it.”

Paul tried to sit up, then flopped back onto his back with a groan. “What the hell happened back there? That little skinny guy threw us… what, like fifty yards from the shore?”

Malcolm looked over his shoulder and found the strand empty behind them. He inched closer to Craig and lowered his voice. “What about his eyes? And that thing on his face?”

Paul shuddered. “The same one Eric and Miranda had. If he killed them why didn't he just kill us too? He already said we knew too much.”

“Maybe he thought the river would do the job. Or maybe he just wanted us out of the way. Bodies leave trails. Maybe he didn't want any more of those.”

Paul sat up, grimacing. He looked at the mouth of an alleyway across the strand. “Let's get out of here before he comes back to finish the job. Though it's going to be impossible to get back to the cab without causing a giant scene.”

“Yeah,” said Malcolm. “We're getting pretty good at that. Scene causing.”

“I'm not fucking around, man. This is serious.”

“I know. Call it gallows humor. But flashing a bunch of drunk people is going to be the least of our worries after we go to the cops.”

Paul held his arms across his chest and shivered. “We
are
going, aren't we? Straight after this.”

Malcolm shrugged, unable to look Paul in the eye. “Yeah. All right.” He glanced back at the alley behind them. Plenty of twists and turns and dark places. Plenty of places to slip away and disappear – even for a hobbled man like himself.

Then there was movement on the strand. Someone walked along the river's edge, stopping every so often to dip their feet in like it was a vacation destination instead of Lemhaven's dumping ground. Their hips swayed when they started walking again.

A woman.

She didn't carry a pack or push a pilfered shopping cart like the others. Instead, she hooked her fingers on her dress, careful to pull it up at the edges and hold it whenever she stepped over water or sand. It was the worst clothing choice for a hobo Malcolm had ever seen, but she treated it like a precious heirloom.

She broke away from the water and strolled over to them, blending into the twilight sky. Malcolm blinked and she disappeared. But when he blinked again she was back, stopping to pull something out of her dress and hold it to her lips. A spark flew near her cheek, turned into the cherry of a lit match. She pressed it to the end of a long thin cigarette, smoking while she walked.

She took a long drag, looked at the sky, and let it out with a sigh.

Paul grabbed Malcolm's arm. “Should we go?”

Malcolm shook his head. “Just a minute.” He reached down to rub his ankle, preparing it for a hobble to freedom. “She's probably harmless.”

The woman followed her puffs of cigarette smoke up to them and perched on a piece of telephone pole someone had hacked off and turned into a seat. She took another drag, flicked away the ashes, and crossed her legs like a perfect lady.

“What do you want?” Malcolm said. He didn't even look at her when she sat beside them. He kept his eyes fixed on the river.

“I saw what happened. That was rough.” Another drag of her cigarette and her face lit up. The same eyes. The same coy smile and bruise on her head.

Paul jumped up and backed away from her. “No. Hell no.”

“Hell isn't real,” she said. “At least I don't think it is.”

Malcolm looked at her as his fingers crept down to a piece of plywood. “I told you to stop following us.”

The woman laughed. “You said you didn't want to have a good time, but I'm not sure if I believe you. I mean look: you're already halfway there.” She pointed at their bare legs and chests.

“Don't think I won't hit you,” Malcolm said. “I mean it.”

“Fine. But don't think I won't haunt you the rest of your life.”

Malcolm and Paul looked at each other, unable to decipher her words on this senseless strand.

“What do you want?” Paul said. “Really.”

The woman puffed her cigarette and looked out at the river. “Finally. A question I can work with. It's like I said before: to talk. And if that goes well, to make an arrangement.”

“You're like the solicitor from hell,” Malcolm said. “The one who just won't go away. Look. We already told you we don't want any. We've got more pressing issues to deal with.”

“So do I. I'm not really a harlot, you know? I can flirt with the best of them, but I just said those things to get your attention. It usually works on men.”

“Why are you following us?” He knocked the woman's cigarette from her hand and grabbed her wrist. Then, eyes right on her: “Why were you at the park and now you're showing up here? What do you know? Out with it.”

The woman frowned – not from the pain, but almost like she was embarrassed for his upbringing. “That's no way to treat a lady.” She pulled away her wrist. It slipped right through Malcolm's fingers and went straight for another cigarette. After it was lit she continued. “You have a gift. Maybe not a true gift, but a special touch of some kind. Try as hard as you want. It won't work on me.”

Malcolm's eyes narrowed. “How do you know about that?”

She put a hand to his cheek. “It's all over your face. So much truth all around you, and so many lies inside. It must be a terrible way to live. And trust me: I know all about terrible ways to live.”

“We don't trust you,” Paul said. He went and sat right next to the woman so she was pinned between them on the telephone pole. “Why were you at the park? Why the hell are you following us?”

“I'm here because of the little girl. Nora.” She brought the cigarette to her mouth with trembling fingers. “That poor, sweet girl...”

Malcolm grabbed her by the shoulders. “You know about that? You know where she is?”

The woman's face filled with tears. “I – I can see her. But she's so far away. Too far gone for me to bring her back.”

Malcolm and Paul were standing now, and they yelled at her in unison. “Where? Where is she?”

The tremble in the woman's hands spread through her body and left her shaking like a plastic bag flapping in the wind. She looked at Malcolm, then Paul, then Malcolm again. “She's trapped. Not dead like her poor mother and father...” A sob caught in her throat. “But that would have been a mercy compared to what's going to happen to her.”

“Where is she?” Malcolm said.

She ignored him. All of her attention went to the cigarette that had fallen onto the strand to join thousands of others. “It's complicated.”

“Bullshit,” said Malcolm. “Who's to say you don't have her right now? Who's to say
you
weren't the one who killed Eric and Miranda?” He reached for her wrist again. She tried to pull away, but he was faster. But when he went to circle his fingers around it they slammed into the telephone poll. Malcolm reached again and bruised his knuckles on the wood.

He looked down and the woman started laughing. Her wrist still rested on her makeshift seat – right where she'd left it. Slowly Malcolm's fingers traveled around it and squeezed. They came together without meeting skin or any resistance. “Go ahead,” she said. “Try to grab me again.”

Malcolm looked at her and back at Paul, who stood right behind them with his mouth hanging open. Malcolm poked and grabbed. His fingers went right through the woman's flesh. Where the woman's flesh
should
have been. Paul reached for her elbow and watched his hand travel through it. He moved a fist back and forth through the woman's shoulder, slowly at first and then faster until he was punching at thin air as hard as he could.

The woman laughed again and wiped the tears from her face. She held up a hand and they leaped backwards, nearly fell over. “Relax.” She stretched out her hand. “Now touch my hand again.”

They did.

This time their fingers found warm flesh.

“Now you know,” she said, reaching for another cigarette. “You don't know much, but you know enough to understand where I'm coming from.”

Malcolm and Paul looked at each other and shook their heads. The woman was a liar. Or clinically insane. They didn't understand a damn thing.