The Debt Collector (Season 1)

by Susan Kaye Quinn

  A gag starts in my throat, and the compulsion to rip aside the curtain and stop him before he can step closer to her is stronger than I expect. But I hold my position and carefully control my breathing, mouth open, to leave no sound that will give me away.

  The reflection of the debt collector moves from the foot of the bed and quickly takes the two strides to the head. His hand is on her forehead, and I physically flinch with my need to stop him. I have no idea how fast he’ll pull. There’s no reason to go slow, and I don’t know how much life she has left. I wait one second more, just to make sure I have his attempt at murder on record, and then I move.

  I rip aside the curtain and lunge toward the bed. I aim for his hand on her head, partly to break that connection as quickly as possible and partly because I need solid skin contact. He’s fast; his hand slips away. Sophie falls limp, and she looks like death, but I can’t stop to check. I reach across her and grab at the collector’s coat. I just catch the edge of it and yank him back toward the bed, but now I’m awkwardly sprawled across the girl and the bunched blankets. The collector is still startled by my sudden appearance, but he quickly recovers and attacks.

  His hand latches onto my wrist, but I’m ready for him. I pull life energy through the contact point at a scorching pace. It feels like his hand is a pair of red-hot tongs locked on my skin. I bite down hard to stifle the scream. He fights the pull of life energy I’m draining from him, but his eyes are wide in horror at a battle he surely didn’t expect. In spite of springing out of the shadows, I’m dressed in scrubs and look like a well-meaning intern, not a collector.

  His knees buckle, but his grasp is still firm on my wrist, and he drags me across the bed. I have to go over the side and tumble to the floor with him or risk losing contact. I expect my fall to be cushioned by his body, but he rolls fast to the side. The floor hits me hard, and my grip on him is lost. The space between the bed and wall is crowded, but he has the advantage now. I curse and struggle up to lunge for him, but he smacks my arm away and follows it with a fist to my face. My head whips to the side, pain lashing across my jaw. I kick blindly at him and hear a grunt as I connect with something. I turn back and sail a fist to follow up the kick, landing another lucky hit, straight to his face. It knocks him back against the wall. I take that split second to lunge for his throat. His hands find my face, but I tighten my grasp, pulling life energy and choking him at the same time. His eyes bulge. I can feel him fighting my life energy pull—through my hands and his—and we’re close to evenly matched.

  But I have my hands on his throat.

  The more I pull and choke, the more he weakens. The more his eyes bulge.

  I’m going to win.

  I know it. He knows it.

  He stops gripping my face to claw at my hands around his neck.

  I can kill him. He deserves to die. Who knows how many children he’s murdered—he deserves something much worse than being choked to death on a hospital floor. If I don’t drain him of his life energy first.

  Something inside me hesitates. I slow the pull, but keep my hands at his neck. His lips turn blue, and his clawing at my hands slows. He deserves to die, I tell myself. There’s no question in my mind about this. And for him, I hope the other side is the cold, dark place that Valac tasted. This child-killer deserves that, too.

  The problem is he’ll take everything he knows with him.

  I push past the contact point on his throat into his well of life-energy. He has a lot, but it’s draining fast as I choke the life out of him.

  I wait. I keep draining. I wait some more.

  When his life energy level starts to rocket down, and his eyes roll up in his head, I release him, shoving him against the wall hard. He slumps, choking in air, his hands weakly holding his throat, as if he can force the air in that way.

  I stand up and tower over him. He’s half-dead and propped against the wall.

  “I could kill you.” My voice is harsh with the fight and the pain still throbbing in my jaw and my wrist. “I will kill you, if you don’t tell me what I want to know.” I want some answers, something I can take to Flitstrom besides just the recording. As I think of it, I swipe my palm and hold it up to him. Whatever he says is going on the record. This is probably an “illegal” interrogation, and Flitstrom won’t like it, but I really couldn’t care less.

  Whether I’ll kill him when I’m done is still up for debate.

  He stares up from the floor, and I finally get a good look at him. He’s older, maybe thirty, and his debt collector attire has seen years of use, just like his hands, which are scarred with a multitude of brands. They make me think about the girl, Sophie, and I spare her a glance. Her face is gray and more haggard than any ten-year-old’s should be, but her small chest moves. She still has life in her.

  I swing back to the collector. His blue eyes are fixed on me, but he hasn’t moved. He rubs his throat, but doesn’t say anything.

  Then again, I haven’t asked him any questions. “What’s your name?”

  “John Hancock.” His voice is raspy, probably from me choking the life out of him.

  “Your collector name.” Asshole.

  “Did you want to invite me to tea?” Now I can hear it: a British accent. It’s faint, but it’s there.

  “Are you sure you want to make this difficult?” I ask. “Because I would really enjoy draining the life out of you.”

  He peers at me, his blue eyes narrowing. “Who are you?”

  I step closer to him, just out of reach, and hunker down. “You really don’t understand how this works, do you? Let me explain: answer my question or I’m going to finish what I started.” I’m within striking distance. All I would have to do is land a hand on him now, and drain the little he has left. He knows this—I can tell by the way his back presses into the wall just to gain that extra inch of space.

  “Well, I’m glad you cleared that up,” he says, his face grim. “My collector name is Moloch, if you must know.”

  “Who do you work for?”

  One corner of his mouth quirks up. “The Department of Life and Health, Agency of Collection. Just like you, I imagine, although…” He gives a look to my scrubs. “It would appear you’re doing a bit of freelance work as well.”

  “Who do you work for in the Agency?”

  He lifts one eyebrow. “Candy Kane Thornton. But then, if you’re here, you must know that already.”

  I do. But now I have it on record.

  “Who else within the Agency is involved?”

  He narrows his eyes. It’s obvious I’m fishing. “I’m not sure.” He shrugs. “I take my orders from Candy and do my work.”

  “Transferring out kids.” I don’t even try to hide the venom in my voice.

  He glances at Sophie on the bed. “These ones aren’t going to recover. You know that as well as I do. Might as well have their life energy go to some useful purpose.”

  I curl up a fist. I may need to beat him for a while. Just because. Then I remember what Flitstrom said. The payouts have to go somewhere.

  “What useful purpose?”

  “I doubt you really want to know the answer to that question.”

  “Should I convince you of my sincerity?” I lean forward a little and ready my palm. He doesn’t say anything, so I reach for him.

  His hands fly up to protect his face. “Wait! All right.”

  I wait. “Where do the payouts go?”

  His gaze lingers on the flaming burn across my wrist which matches the stripes across my palm. “We are called Gehenna,” he says quietly. “And you, my friend, might be just the kind of collector who would find a place among us.”

  Anger tightens my throat. “Gehenna,” I repeat. “Sounds like a fancy name for asshole child-killers. Thanks, but I think I’ll stick with killing collectors like you.” But my mind is spinning. So this isn’t just an Agency thing. This Moloch character is a collector for Candy, but he’s also part of some crazy group that’s putting a hit on these kids. I
still don’t get what they’re using the payouts for, though.

  “Are you quite certain about that?” His gaze is steady on me now. “You might find our purpose more similar to yours than you think.”

  I highly doubt that. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”

  Moloch heaves a sigh. “Aren’t you tired of the Candy Kane Thornton’s of the world pushing around debt collectors like yourself? You have the power of life and death in your hands, and yet a bureaucrat holds the reins of power? Don’t you think that is out of the natural order of things?”

  “I don’t think there’s any natural order to things.” And I’m not interested in a philosophical discussion. “Just tell me who you make the payouts to. Is it to this group, Gehenna? You said it’s a group of collectors. Are you simply hoarding up the life energy for yourselves?” I give him a disgusted look, thinking he might be on the plan Valac talked about—living forever. But why would a rogue group of collectors need to go through the Agency to steal life energy? I frown as I try to puzzle through it. Maybe they need someone to cover their tracks.

  He gives a sort of laugh, but it’s choked, coming out of his still-rough throat. “No, we put that life energy to much better use. Forget all that Agency propaganda about making the world a better place by feeding life energy hits to the high potentials of the world. Do you want to really make a difference in our world?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Now I’m genuinely confused.

  “I can see it in you—you’re the kind of person who wants to change things. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be here in a wrong-headed attempt to interfere with my work.”

  I’m thinking Moloch is the one with something wrong in his head.

  “But if you want to change things—truly change the world—you have to go the source. The power. The people who have the ability to make change happen.” His voice has turned far too confident, and it raises the small hairs on the back of my neck. I get the distinct feeling that I’m being lured into something—or at least that Moloch is trying to manipulate me.

  “And who would that be?” I feel like I should be more demanding, but this “interrogation” is slipping away from me.

  Glints from the low overhead light panels show in his blue eyes. “The Governor. A key congressman or senator on an important piece of legislation. And for particularly important measures, even higher.”

  “You’re selling life energy to politicians?” I flash back to the congressman buying hits from the mob and taking it in the sleaziest possible way from Ophelia. “So Gehenna is a mob family.”

  “No,” he says. “We are a family, of sorts, now that you mention it, but we’re not mafioso. Not as you think of them, at least. We don’t exchange life for anything as simple as money.” He has that oily look to him again. “We ask for something far more important.”

  “Power,” I guess, and it’s starting to come together in my head. A group of rogue debt collectors, corrupting the Agency to pull life energy from places no one will suspect, or even be able to track, and then using it to manipulate politicians to do their bidding. But to what end? That part still doesn’t make any sense to me.

  Moloch watches me process it. “Do you recall a piece of legislation that recently passed, tightening regulations on assessors?”

  I don’t follow politics, just what I see on the news. And even then I don’t pay attention. I shake my head slightly.

  “Those regulations were supposed to make it more difficult for people be transferred out. In fact, they contained several loopholes that will allow for even more people to join the transfer rolls. Several key congressmen were persuaded of the importance of this legislation, and to overlook the loopholes, by some discreet donations of life energy to themselves or members of their families.”

  “Why do you care what legislation passes?”

  “Gehenna cares a great deal about laws that impact debt collectors,” he says. “Or the general pool of life energy. But we have more than small-time legislation in mind. That was just one of our more visible achievements.”

  Shit. Gehenna is some kind of crazy, world-domination group. Made up of rogue debt collectors. Ones that apparently have access to government records and high-ranking politicians. My stomach turns sour. There’s no part of this that’s any good at all.

  “So… what’s your grand plan?” I ask.

  He nods slowly, like he thinks he has me on the hook. “Why don’t you join us and find out?”

  And there it is: the sell. Moloch wants to sign me up for his collector cult, or at least convince me to lower my guard, so he can find a way to kill me before I kill him. Although, for a man whose life I hold in my hands, he seems strangely unconcerned.

  “Not interested in the cult, thanks.” I tap my palm recorder off. I have the evidence I need: a record of a debt collector trying to transfer out a kid, as well as his testimony that Candy is involved. Hopefully it will be enough for Flitstrom to get the DA to open an investigation and find out who else in the Agency is dirty with this. I don’t know if any of Moloch’s talk of Gehenna is true, but Flitstrom’s not going to do anything about it without evidence. And this Moloch character could be batshit crazy for all I know.

  But if he’s not… if Gehenna is real…

  I suddenly realize there’s no way I can let Moloch go.

  If I do, he’ll tell whoever he works for that their operation is blown. I could kill him, but his buddies will figure it out just the same. Maybe not before I get the evidence to Flitstrom, but still… the idea of killing him makes me unexpectedly queasy. Part of me wants nothing to do with taking another life again. Any life.

  I’d rather see Moloch live and suffer for what he’s done.

  But if Gehenna is real…Moloch said the Governor is on the take. And maybe even higher. That’s a lot of powerful people who could make this whole thing disappear. Or intimidate a lowly bean counter like Flitstrom or the Los Angeles DA out of prosecuting. Then Gehenna would simply shift their operations, and debt collectors like Moloch would just keep killing children.

  I don’t want to kill Moloch, and I can’t let him go… maybe I can subdue him and drag his ass back to Flitstrom. Maybe Moloch can be my evidence. The DA can force him to testify, offer him immunity or something.

  My silence is too long, and when I raise my gaze to where Moloch sits, propped against the wall, I think he figures it out.

  He moves, fast. I expect him to lunge at me, but instead he pushes backward, away from me, digging his boots into the floor and sliding along the wall. I think he’s trying to escape, and I scramble for his throat, but before I can get there, he shoves his collecting palm into his mouth and bits down so hard he draws blood.

  Horrified, I stall out and pull my hand back. His eyes roll up into his head, and his mouth foams around where it’s clamped down on his hand. I watch, mouth agape, as he convulses on the floor. His hand flops free of his mouth and smacks repeatedly on the polished tiles, sending spatters of blood and foam all over. Finally, he stops, his body frozen in a cramped position. His wide-open eyes stare at the ceiling, but only the whites show.

  I slowly stand up, unable to tear my gaze from his contorted body.

  Holy shit.

  Moloch just… killed himself. Apparently, he would rather die than be caught. I’m not sure what he thought I was going to do, but instead of letting me take him, he… did this. I’m suddenly a lot more convinced his Gehenna shadow organization is real. Or maybe Moloch was genuinely, severe-mental-illness crazy.

  I rub my hand across my face while my mind races. I can’t leave the body here. That much I know. Beyond that… I look at my scrubs and back at Moloch’s standard debt collector attire.

  I have an idea.

  I take time to pay back the life Moloch stole from Sophie, plus some extra that I stole from him. She wakes briefly, pink shining in her cheeks, but fortunately, she doesn’t have time to ask about the body lying on her hospital room floor before fatigue captures
her again.

  Or why a debt collector is feeding her a hit instead of collecting her debt.

  Moloch’s trenchcoat and boots don’t really fit—they’re a size too small—but when you’re wearing the costume of the Grim Reaper, people tend not to stop you to ask what you’re doing. Or why you’re pushing a wheelchair with an unconscious intern out of the pediatric ward.

  I leave Moloch’s body in an alley outside the hospital.

  When someone finds him dressed in hospital scrubs, their first thought shouldn’t be “debt collector suicide.” And the false ID I left with him should throw the police off for a while. By the time they do a DNA check, and it gets back to Candy that her dirty-work collector is dead, I should have the evidence in Flitstrom’s hands.

  I can’t bring it to his office at the Department, for obvious reasons, and a meeting at the café is too public for this business. I told Flitstrom I would call him from a safe location as soon as I had what we needed. The metro ride is short to the run-down neighborhood of Madam A’s safehouse, and soon I’m punching in the code and sliding open the door.

  I’m surprised to see Elena there, waiting for me. Or at least I hope she’s waiting for me.

  “Hey,” I say, stepping the rest of the way in and closing the door. “Is everything all right? I didn’t expect…”

  She steps toward me and reaches up to give me a hug. It’s fast, over so quick that I hardly have my arms around her before she steps back again, blinking and looking embarrassed. “I just… I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  I grin. “You were worried about me.”

  A small blush creeps on her cheeks. “Only because you were being stupid by not taking a weapon.”

  My grin fades a little. “I didn’t need it.” I don’t want to tell her that a man is dead anyway.

  “Were you able to stop him in time?” she asks, eyeing the burn mark across my wrist.

  She frowns as I slip my hand into my trenchcoat pocket, hiding the mark.

  “Yeah,” I say, then I remember I’m wearing the dead man’s clothes. Even if I wasn’t the one who killed him directly, it still feels dirty. I shuck off the trenchcoat and toss it to the side. Madam A’s safehouse is bare of furniture, except for the musty mattress in the corner, so the coat just lies in a heap on the floor. “And I got the evidence. I need to call Flitstrom and tell him, so he can come get it.”