The Death Collectors

by J. A. Kerley

  “No,” I said. “It’s fine. Let Mr Forrier stay.”

  The guard nodded and closed the door. Forrier continued to stare at me. I got the impression he stared at a lot of things.

  Jeremy said, “Trey, this is my brother, Carson, who I saved from Hell.”

  I held out my hand and said, “Pleased to meet you, Mr Forrier.” He didn’t seem to notice.

  “Trey keeps to himself a bit, Carson. Don’t you, Trey? You keep your own counsel?”

  Forrier’s mouth quivered and bubbled out a string of wet sounds.

  “Is he saying something?” I asked Jeremy.

  “He’s saying you have the face of a man who is kind. Trey’s very attuned to faces, to shapes. His is, well, somewhat unusual. Not greatly, I mean, it’s not like he’s the Elephant Man or something. I think he makes too much of it.”

  Forrier did the strange motion again, like waving a baton for an orchestra. “Did he ever conduct?” I asked, observing the ritual.

  Jeremy grinned. “Some say he conducted several rather artistic little adventures.”

  “What does he say?”

  “That he likes it here. He has no hunger. And on that note, brother, I’m hungering for my little gift.”

  I looked toward the door. “The guard…”

  “Is down the hall. He walked away a minute ago. Gimme, gimme.”

  I reached into my pants and extracted the recharger, a black plug scarcely larger than a matchbox and a couple feet of coiled cord. Jeremy spun away, adjusted his bedding for a second. When he returned the device was gone. He looked down at my belt, where my cellphone was affixed.

  “Let me see yours, Carson. I think it’s nicer than my model. I’d show you mine, but it takes a little time and a lot of grunting.”

  I handed him my phone. He dandled it in his hand, pushed a few buttons, shined it on his shirtfront. He did a commercial-announcer’s voice. “And you call anywhere and everywhere for one low monthly fee. Bet my plan’s better.”

  “How can you use a phone, Jeremy?” I asked. “The charges?”

  “I think it’s illegal, a clone or whatever.” He jiggered his eyebrows, winked. “Probably why it was never reported missing.” He flipped my phone back.

  “You have your end of the deal, Jeremy,” I said.

  He raised his eyebrows, perfect innocence. “There was something more?”

  “A location.”

  Forrier was staring at me. When I looked at him, he turned away. Jeremy walked to the mirror, studied his splayed reflection, fingercombed back his blond hair.

  “Sometimes life doesn’t work out as it’s planned, brother. Sometimes you get what you want. Sometimes you just get hunh, hunh, hunh. It’s my nappy time. Trey, say goodbye to Carson.”

  Jeremy’s games seemed endless, but I resisted the useless urge to protest. There was nothing to do but return to Mobile and hope he had a change of heart. I was a half-hour south when my cellphone chirped.

  Jeremy’s voice was loud. “It works so much better with a full charge, Carson. I could probably call all the way to heaven, say hello to dear Mama. Not that she’d take the call, of course.”

  “Something you want, Jeremy?”

  “You don’t think Trey was going to send his mask into the hands of just anyone, do you, brother? He wanted to see you, make sure you were the type to understand. He likes you, a rare honor.”

  “He wanted to see if I was the type to understand what?”

  “History, brother. You got a pen with you? I’ve got some directions you might enjoy.”

  Ninety minutes later I carried a pick into a brushy field thirty miles north of Mobile. The skeleton of an ancient farm implement rusted away in the weeds. Insects rasped in the tall grass. Per my instructions, I found the concrete foundation of an old house, and walked south, counting steps to a small cairn above an old well. Sweating hard in the sun, I began levering away rocks with the pick.

  Twenty minutes later I brushed dirt from an old leather suitcase. I felt like weeping, but did not know why.

  At home I sat the case on my table and stared at it through the span of two beers before finding the nerve to open it. The lock was corroded and I slit the brittle leather with a linoleum knife. Inside was a succession of sealed plastic bags. The final bag was padded with scraps of red tissue paper. I reached through the paper and freed the mask.

  Larger by half than the normal human face, the nose was a sharp ridge, the cheekbones exaggerated and protruding. The finish was glossy, anthracitic black. White-painted shards of broken glass formed the teeth and bordered a red wound of mouth. The eyeholes were circled in white, giving the mask a look of insane anger. A trick-or-treater wearing the mask would reap baskets of candy, anything to get that kid off the porch.

  The foundation of the mask was, surprisingly, papier-mâché. In the fifth grade my class had built a piñata, and I knew strips of paper had been soaked in a flour-and-water glue and overlaid, building the mask to an approximate one-inch thickness.

  For a split second I considered bringing the mask to my face. But it occurred to me that evil might be less action than essence, a dark and infective poison needing only a deep breath at the wrong time. I pushed the mask into a waiting box, closed it tight, and crept to bed. Sliding beneath the covers I noticed a lamp left burning in the living room. I’m too tired to get up and turn it off, I told myself, knowing it was a lie, that with the mask finally free of the earth, the house needed all the light it could muster.

  Chapter 17

  “Good morning, Walcott Imports and Collectibles.”

  The voice was deep and polished, the syllables individually savored, a man enjoying the sound of his voice. Figuring he’d have some form of caller ID, I’d phoned from a booth on Government Street.

  “Mr Walcott?”

  “Yes. Who’s calling, please?”

  A first-timer would be nervous, and I made my voice hesitate. “My name is…Carrol Ransburg, sir. I’d like to talk to you about getting an appraisal.”

  I selected the first name on the theory that any male choosing a false moniker wouldn’t opt for a name generally associated with women.

  “On an antique?” Walcott said.

  “No. Another kind of item…a more special sort.”

  Utter silence, no TV or radio in the background, no traffic outside. “First, how did you hear of me?” It was more command than question.

  I said, “From…a friend. No, not really a friend, a person I met. He suggested you’d be the one to do this thing. The appraisal.”

  “What’s the name of the person who suggested you contact me?”

  “He wouldn’t want me to say. He’s…very private.”

  Walcott’s defenses slammed into place like a portcullis. “I’m sorry, I only do business on known referrals.”

  “I promised his name would remain unspoken.”

  “Then my response can only be, good day, sir.” The voice grew distant as he moved the phone from his mouth.

  “I’m calling about Forrier,” I yelled. “Trey Forrier.”

  I heard the phone return to his ear. “What did you say?”

  “Trey Forrier. I have something of his. A mask.”

  “Impossible. You’re lying.”

  I gave him a precise recounting of its look and construction. There was a long pause. When he spoke I heard a pitch-rise of concealed excitement.

  “How did you come up with this…item?”

  “I was on the team that evaluated Forrier’s state of mind after he was captured. I’m…was, a psychologist.” I didn’t know if Walcott knew anything about psychology, but I could babble the jargon if necessary. The character I’d selected was Fallen Psychologist; I’d seen a couple of them.

  “Go on…”

  “I worked as a clinical hypnotician, a forensic hypnotist. On a project basis.”

  “Trey Forrier never said anything noteworthy under hypnosis.”

  “I never reported he said anything. There’s a
difference.”

  “You’ve had this piece for years. Why do you want me to see it now?”

  I added shame to my voice. “I…know it might be worth some money. I could use money, Mr Walcott. Times haven’t been good, I lost my license to practice. A problem with…substances.”

  A long pause. Walcott said, “I don’t know what such a piece would bring, Mr Ransburg. The market’s been depressed. We all suffer from a weak economy. There’s been a glut on the market recently.”

  Just like that he turned from suspicion to camel merchant. I backpedaled, hoping it would set the hook. “You’re probably right, Mr Walcott. Maybe this isn’t the time. I’m sorry for disturbing -”

  The command returned to his voice. “Bring it by tonight. At nine. Be precise. You’re in the Mobile area? Here’s my address…”

  Giles Walcott’s home seemed normal for the upscale neighborhood: pricey landscaping, lush carpet of lawn, a ludicrous but expensive fountain featuring a leaping dolphin squirting water through its blowhole. I noted a camera tucked in a tree and one above the door, hidden in a cast bronze eagle with spreading wings.

  Deadbolts withdrew electronically. The door opened to a large and chandeliered foyer. Beyond sat high-ticket antique furniture in rooms with twelve-foot ceilings. It seemed more museum than home.

  “This way, Mr Ransburg,” a deep voice rumbled. “Down the hallway, turn right.”

  Suspecting surveillance, I paused as if fighting panic, tucked the box with the mask to my chest, and walked to a dimly lit room. A deep indigo carpet cushioned my footfalls as I entered. A man appearing to be in his early sixties stood behind a massive desk. He looked less born than extruded, head and neck almost the same circumference, broken only by a flat length of nose and a half-cup of chin. Thinning black hair stretched across his scalp in shining strands. His shoulders sloped to a tubular body in a dark suit, adding to the sense of extrusion.

  “You’re Mr Walcott?” I said, not extending my hand. He nodded, not offering his, and looked at me curiously.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked.

  “You remind me of someone, but I don’t know who.”

  I shrugged and looked away. On his desk lay a ceramic representation of the male genitalia, crude and outsized. I couldn’t help staring. Walcott raised an eyebrow.

  “Do you know what that is, Mr Ransburg?”

  “I have a passing familiarity.”

  “I mean do you know who created it. No? It’s a Vaughn Ray Bodie original. He created them while he was…working. Primitive but very expressive, don’t you think? It’s dated behind the testicles. May fourteenth, 1959. His fourth…event occurred on May sixteenth. It’s the only Bodie phallus not currently in a private collection.”

  Vaughn Ray Bodie was a serial rapist and murderer finally dragged down in the early sixties. I suppressed a shudder and forced interest into my eyes.

  “It’s quite rare, I’d imagine, Mr Walcott.”

  “Six victims, six phalli. I’m reserving it for auction. I expect it to generate something in the low six figures. Another item I’m auctioning is a tee-shirt worn by Vincent Canario when he was journeying with Terrance Swann.”

  “Journeying” was Walcott’s euphemism for Canario’s abduction and violent cross-country run with the terrified fourteen-year-old Swann. Neither survived.

  “What would such an item bring?” I asked.

  “I’m anticipating something in the eleven to fourteen thousand dollar range. He wore several shirts on his way, so its value is diminished.”

  “A pity he packed to travel,” I noted.

  Walcott nodded mournfully. “The mask - let me see the mask.”

  I set the box on his desk and removed the mask. Walcott held it beneath a lamp and magnifier combination, switched on the light. He inspected the mask from every angle, checking various measurements with a small ruler. Twice he stopped looking at the mask, studied me, then returned to his labors.

  “The paint appears to be oil-based, not overly unharmed by time. The eyeholes are the correct width. The glass teeth are carefully fitted into bored sockets. There’s a craftsman at work here, Mr Ransburg. Some people do things right. Look here -” Walcott used his thumbnail to flick at a loose end of the composition material. “It’s a combination of cloth and paper instead of paper alone; rather like money. One of the reasons it’s in such fine shape. And one of the reasons I know it’s not a forgery.”

  “There are forgers in this business, Mr Walcott?”

  “There are forgers in every pursuit where money can be made through forgery.” He smiled as he dropped the ruler back in the drawer. “I’m in favor of them, myself.”

  It took me a second to catch on. “Because it makes you more valuable; you provide authentication, right?”

  “Within the boundaries of my experience and knowledge, yes.” His tone implied that he found few boundaries to his expertise.

  “Then you’d know what the mask is worth.”

  I caught him staring at me again. This time something seemed to click and he frowned. “Excuse me, Mr Ransburg,” he said, and left the room.

  My inclination was to rifle drawers and search closets, but wary of unseen surveillance, I remained in front of the desk and let my eyes roam the shadowed room. I discerned no other attendants of death.

  Walcott returned, a large envelope in his hand. He picked up the mask, sighed, then returned it to the box. “Is it really yours, sir, the mask? Or is it perhaps the property of a police department somewhere?”

  My heart paused. “I don’t understand, Mr Walcott.”

  “I think it’s simple. You’re not who you say you are.”

  I forced myself to breathe normally, look nonchalant. “Who am I, then?”

  A smirk danced at the edge of his mouth. He tapped the envelope. “Not long ago I came across a piece of information I thought might somehow be useful - a couple of fellows who wander at the edge of my business.”

  Walcott slipped a scrap of newsprint from the envelope and held it up to me. It was the photo from the awards ceremony.

  “It appears you’ve a double at the Mobile Police Department, Mr Ransburg. A brother, perhaps?”

  That damned picture. I said, “I am here as a researcher, nothing more.”

  He narrowed a dark eye. “I’ve done nothing wrong. You must leave. You unsettle me.”

  “I unsettle you? A guy who keeps a plaster dick made by a serial killer on his desk?”

  “It’s ceramic. And I do not collect such items, I broker them. I’m but a humble dealer in limited commodities, that’s all. Much like rare stamps. Or coins, perhaps.”

  “Coins don’t take part in murders.”

  He smirked. “If you believe no one has died over gold doubloons, you hold a naïveté perhaps beyond cure.”

  I produced my badge wallet and set the black leather square on his desk. “If I open that, there will be a badge in the room. It will drastically alter the complexion of our conversation, Mr Walcott.”

  “I doubt it, since I’ve done nothing wrong. Do I need to phone my attorney and have him explain that to you?”

  “Your lawyer has no reason to be here, Mr Walcott, unless he’s interested in research. I simply need a historical perspective on certain items. Surely that’s not too much to ask.”

  “What is this historical perspective?”

  “I want to know about the Hexcamp collection.”

  He walked to the window, looked out into the dark woods behind the house, and stared into the trees. When he turned to me, his eyes were oddly disengaged, as though focused an inch above my pupils.

  “There is no such thing, sir. It’s a myth, a gorgon.”

  “For something that doesn’t exist, it gets a lot of attention.”

  He returned to his position behind the desk, putting four feet of gleaming wood between us. “In philately, there is a stamp called the Scarlet Angelus. Some say it exists, some say it never did. But that doesn’t prevent people fro
m seeking it.” He paused. “In every form of collection, there must be a ghost piece, an entity to make the spine tingle. To give people something to whisper about.”

  “Who whispers about Hexcamp’s collection?”

  He smiled, his teeth tiny wet chisels behind his lips. “The collecting community as a whole.”

  “What does this community say about it?”

  “The community’s opinion doesn’t matter; the collection is a pocketful of dreams…until pronounced otherwise by someone in a position to know.”

  “Like yourself?”

  “In this matter, even I lack the proper qualifications.”

  “My research must continue, then. I need the name of a major collector, Mr Walcott. Local, if possible.”

  He rotated his tubular head. “If I were to tell you, my record of confidentiality would be broken. I’d be out of business.”

  “Give me several names to use as reference; I won’t mention yours. No one would know who sent me.”

  He tapped the crystal of his watch. “I’m sorry, sir. Our time together is up.”

  “This is important, Mr Walcott. I need to know -”

  “My patience is wearing thin, sir. I’m afraid if you’re not out of my home in ten seconds, I’ll phone my lawyer.”

  He put his hand atop his phone and studied me calmly. I had no leverage over Giles Walcott. I expected he recorded all sales, kept accountant-quality figures, everything necessary to remain above reproach with governmental entities.

  But with the public?

  In spending so much time with killers who giggled when caught, pimps proud of beating their women, dope-boys driving mink-upholstered Beamers, I sometimes lost sight of people’s sensitivity to public opinion. Walcott’s prissily attended yard, crafted suit, attention to financial detail, all bespoke a man who wouldn’t wish his neighbors to know he sold relics from abattoirs.

  I reached to the desk and picked up the ceramic phallus. He frowned. “Careful with that, it’s quite -”

  I flipped it in the air, caught it.

  “I think you should call your lawyer,” I said. “I’ll phone the Spanish Fort constabulary. Let’s have a coming-out party for Walcott Collectibles.”