The Soul Collectors dm-4

by Chris Mooney

  She suspected there were more cameras watching the perimeters. Given what was stored in there, the cameras had to have manual operators. There would be a security room where either rent-a-cops or army guys watched the streets day and night.

  Darby took a right and drove around the corner. This side of the building had nothing but brick. No windows or doors. Security cameras observed the street. One whisked past her and, instead of completing its rotation, turned back to her. She drove to the end of the road, hooked another right and then stopped to look at the back. She saw a big steel door for a parking garage.

  She drove to the next block, turned right again and again saw that the building's last side was exactly like the others, a fortress of brick.

  A white, middle-aged man stood on the main street's corner sidewalk, smiling pleasantly and waving for her to come closer.

  Security, she thought. She pulled up against the kerb and saw that this guy wasn't a hired hand from some rinky-dink security outfit. He made good money, and he had made a significant investment in his clothes: a simple dark suit with a notch lapel; a light blue shirt with a semi-spread collar that flattered his silver hair and complexion; and a dark, solid aubergine-coloured tie with a perfect four-in-hand knot. He looked like a news anchor ready for primetime.

  She killed the engine.

  'Good morning, Miss McCormick.' A soft, Southern accent. Texas, she thought. 'I'm Neal Keats, head of security.'

  He extended his hand.

  She left it hanging there. He withdrew it and said, 'Follow me inside. You can leave your bike here.'

  'This is a tow-zone.'

  'Only if we make the call. Besides, you won't be gone long. This will take only a moment.'

  'What will take a moment?'

  'You're here to get some of your questions answered, correct?'

  'So is Sergeant-Major Glick finally available?'

  'I'm afraid he's still detained, as is Mr Fitzgerald. But we have someone who is willing to talk to you.'

  He smiled. He had invested a lot of money in his teeth. Perfect white caps. She didn't care for his greasy politician's smile or his calm voice and demeanour.

  'Shall we head in?'

  'Yes,' Darby said, matching his smile. 'We shall.'

  Neal Keats, ever the Southern gentleman, held open the front door for her. She opened the second door herself and stepped into a bland-looking lobby with bare white walls and a tan linoleum floor. Dimmed halogen ceiling lights hung over an empty front desk made of light blonde oak and constructed in a podium-like fashion similar to the one in the Boston Police Department's lobby.

  Standing to the right of the hall were two white men dressed in black suits. Big guys with thick necks and wrists and bodies like linebackers'. The sort of men you imagined could run through brick walls. The sort of men you wanted around for protection. Both stood with their hands behind their back, serious 'don't screw with us' expressions etched on their weathered faces. Their buttoned-up suit jackets had been taken out to accommodate their wide chests and broad shoulders. She didn't detect a bulge along their hips. If they were armed, they were wearing shoulder holsters.

  Keats whisked past her. The two men didn't move. She followed Keats, and when she passed the two suits, they fell into step behind her.

  It was a short walk. Keats stopped in front of an open white door and motioned for her to go in first. She did, entering a long, wide room strategically designed to hold the bulky security consoles and other surveillance and monitoring equipment. Banks of security consoles with dozens and dozens of closed-circuit TV screens trained on the building's perimeters and on the halls inside the lab took up the entire front wall. Everywhere she looked she saw glowing screens and flashing lights.

  The crew manning the stations, a collection of men of various ages, all wearing shirt and tie, didn't turn to look at her. The small office to her immediate left — LAN MANAGEMENT, according to the plate hanging on the door — was empty.

  'This way, Miss McCormick.'

  She turned and saw Keats standing off to her right, motioning to another doorway, this one leading into a small, cluttered office with pressboard furniture. He let her go in first, then followed and pointed to a pair of cheap plastic chairs set up in front of a desk. He moved behind it but didn't sit.

  'Please, have a seat.'

  He waited for her to sit. Then he did and picked up the desk phone. A single light blinked on the unit. He pressed a button and the light stopped blinking.

  Keats handed the phone to her.

  34

  Darby took the phone and said, 'With whom am I speaking?'

  'Are you with Mr Keats right now?'

  The voice on the other end of the line belonged to Leland Pratt. Even at this early morning hour, his voice sounded crystal clear. At the moment he was doing a good job of containing his anger, but it was there, waiting to explode.

  'Darby?'

  She didn't answer, too interested in Keats. He sat with his hands folded on his lap, staring at her from across the wide, messy desk. That greasy smile of his had disappeared, but he was obviously enjoying the show he had just arranged. His eyes were dangerously bright, as if he were containing himself, waiting for someone to give him the order to pounce.

  'Yesterday evening, the United States Army came to my home and personally delivered copies of documents that you signed,' Leland said. 'Do you know the documents I'm referring to?'

  'I do. Have you looked through them?'

  'I have. The question is, have you?'

  'Anything missing?'

  'Darby, if you value any sort of career opportunity in law enforcement, I suggest you go with the two men Mr Keats has there with him. They'll escort you back to your home. Shower and dress in your Sunday best, understand? We have an early-morning meeting with Robert Chambers, the interim police commissioner.'

  'What's the occasion?'

  'You know full well what he wants to discuss with you.'

  'The conditions of my re-employment or this business that took place in New Hampshire? Which is it?'

  'I don't think you fully see the implications of your current situation,' he said, straining to remain calm.

  She stood.

  'And I'm through negotiating with you,' Leland said. 'If you choose not to work for me, that is, of course, your decision. But if you want — '

  Darby pulled the phone away from her ear and, with her eyes on Keats, reached across the desk to hang it up. She walked around to the other side of the desk and sat on the edge, close to Keats, her legs touching his thigh.

  She crossed her arms over her chest. 'How long have you been with the Secret Service?'

  'Excuse me?'

  She had to hand it to the guy: he had a great poker face. No look of surprise, he just cocked his head to the side, actually looking confused.

  'The small hole in the left lapel of your suit jacket,' she said. 'You and the two linebackers guarding the doorway so nobody will disturb us? You all have the same small hole in the same spot. That's where you guys wear your SS high-level clearance pin or the other one when you're on protection detail, to let everyone know you're Secret Service.'

  Keats chuckled, shaking his head. 'You have quite an imagination.'

  'I don't think you're protecting me. If you were, you would have been a lot smoother than the two bozos parked at the end of my street. My guess is you're using me, watching me to see if I can draw these guys out.'

  'What guys?'

  'The ones who blew up the Rizzo house with dynamite,' she said. 'The ones I met tonight at the blast site.'

  Keats's poker face didn't change. She let him chew on the silence, hoping he'd take the bait.

  'I'm the head of security here, Miss McCormick. Sorry to disappoint you.'

  'Okay, I'll play along. Who arranged the phone call with my former boss?'

  'Sergeant-Major Glick. I'm just following his orders.'

  'So let me talk to him.'

  'He's unavailable.
'

  'When will he be available?'

  'I wouldn't know. Maybe you should call his secretary.'

  'Okay, let's head up to his office. I know it's early, but I don't mind waiting. Now that I'm unemployed, I can wait all day.'

  'Let me ask you a question. What's your stake in all of this? Why not take your old job back?'

  Because I know you're just another lying federal asshole. Because I know you're not looking for Mark Rizzo. Because I made a promise to the kid who had been abducted and turned into some sort of goddamn circus freak.

  Darby didn't answer.

  'Well,' he said, slapping his knees. 'My job here is done. Nice meeting you, Miss McCormick.'

  He started to get up. Darby put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back into his chair.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw one of the linebackers move to the office doorway.

  'Prove me wrong,' she said to Keats.

  'About what?'

  'That you're not Secret Service. Empty out all of your pockets and let me see what you're carrying.'

  Keats stared at her. Hard.

  'Let's check out your wrists,' she said, 'see if we can find a microphone.'

  She reached forward and clutched his left wrist, about to turn it around when Keats grabbed her forearm. The fabric of his suit jacket had moved and she caught the wink of the butt-end of a gun sitting inside a shoulder holster.

  'I've been a gentleman up until now,' he said. 'But you're invading my personal space.'

  'Get used to it.' Darby let go her grip and stood. 'I'll let myself out. I'll be seeing you around, I'm sure.'

  35

  Mark Rizzo had learned, years and years ago, to make peace with the darkness. As a child, he had discovered that all it did was amplify emotions, mainly fear. And pain. His father had been a man of little patience and a quick temper. Anything from a spilled glass of milk to a bad report card could set him off.

  His father preferred the belt. Liked the ritual of it. He would stand — slowly, always slowly — and once on his feet he'd unbuckle it and then just as slowly pull the thick leather through the loops of his paint-stained jeans. Once it was free, he'd wrap an end around his big, meaty, callused fist. Usually, but not always, he'd just sit back in his seat and wait, sometimes an hour, sometimes a couple of days. Mark remembered when he'd been caught throwing a rock at a pigeon sitting on the garage roof for no reason other than he had hated the sight of it. The rock had broken a window and his father had waited a whole month to dish out the punishment, and that time he had worked the buckle into the mix.

  And his father would always do it in the dark, always. The thing about the dark was that he couldn't see the strap. Mark would be torn from sleep by the end of the belt, and he'd hold up his hands, and the strap would keep coming until his father left, panting. Lying in the darkness of his bedroom, the pain always seemed greater, more intense. No matter how strong one's will, the mind couldn't grasp or manage pain. Anticipating the pain from the belt or buckle was far, far worse than actually receiving it.

  Like now. The people who had him hadn't hurt him yet, but they would. They would. Because he knew they hurt people in this place.

  Naked and trapped alone in this pitch black and dank-smelling darkness, sometimes awake, sometimes half asleep, they made him wait here locked inside this tiny prison cell where you couldn't stand. He sat or lay curled on his side, listening to the sounds drifting through the metal bars. Murmured voices praying to God. Pleading cries for mercy and forgiveness. He wanted to tell them to shut up. To stop. God didn't exist in this place — wherever this place was.

  The screams were the worst part. Some were loud enough to wake God Himself from his slumber, and during those times he caught himself shaking the ancient cold iron bars locking this stone box, hoping they'd break. They wouldn't, of course, and he'd push himself across the cool, smooth floor looking for a place to hide, only to realize he was trapped, no place to run or hide. Nothing to do but sit here and use the time to try to steel his mind to whatever was coming. Because they were going to punish him. Drag it out for days, maybe even weeks.

  He had seen it done to others with his own eyes.

  Through the crying and whimpering, the soft but earnest praying, he heard the creak of hinges as a heavy door swung open.

  Heard the clink clink clink of the keys.

  Heard the soft scrape of footsteps, which suddenly stopped.

  Now another pair of footsteps, urgent, running. They stopped and a voice said, 'I bring you news about the heretic.'

  'Tell me, my child.'

  That voice, Mark thought. Oh dear God no.

  The first voice said, 'The heretic's family is guarded by six, possibly eight men. Five are inside the home; the other three are scattered between two cars to watch the roads.'

  'And the heretic, has he returned?'

  'No. He moves and hides.'

  'I want only the girl. Take the girl and kill the rest.'

  'Yes, Archon.'

  The footsteps grew louder, heading his way.

  Mark Rizzo didn't sit up. He turned on his side until the soles of his feet found the bars. If they came for him, he could fight with his feet.

  The footsteps stopped. They were standing somewhere just beyond the bars, breathing.

  A soft but muffled voice spoke:

  'The time has come to pray for forgiveness, Thomas.'

  'Stop calling me that.'

  'Before we hear your confession, we have a question for you about the woman you invited inside your home.'

  'I didn't invite her. Charlie did. Charlie called her.'

  'Tell us why.'

  'Ask Charlie. He was the one who called her.'

  'What did you hide in your basement?'

  'Hide?' he repeated, genuinely confused. 'I didn't hide anything.'

  'The woman went back to your home tonight. To retrieve something from your basement. We had people watching her.'

  He knew this to be true. They had people on the surface, people who would watch and do things. People who obeyed.

  Mark — and that was his name, Mark. Thomas died a long time ago — Mark said, 'I don't know what you're talking about.'

  'The punishment will be far, far greater if you lie to us.'

  Mark Rizzo clamped his eyes shut, wishing he could transport himself, through sheer force of will, out of this place. He wasn't afraid of dying but what filled him with terror was how long it would take. How The Twelve stretched the torture over days until your heart gave out. And the devices they used, like -

  A key rattled inside the lock.

  Mark raised his foot, ready to kick. Click as the lock sprang free and he heard the weary creak of his door swinging open. A crackling sound and then he saw snakes of white and blue electric light sparking across a dark pole. Behind it, a ghostly white face with a stitched scar stretching from one temple, across the forehead and ending somewhere on the bald head.

  Mark went for the head and missed. The pole hit him once, on the thigh, and the bolt slammed its way deep into his brain and his arms went flying and hit the walls and floor. The electrified pole hit him again and his head bounced against the floor as hands gripped him roughly by the ankles and dragged him out of his cell, his useless, flailing arms bumping against the iron bars. Feebly he tried to grab them and couldn't get his muscles to work and the pole hit him again and the electrical current exploded through his body and they dragged him out of his cell and into the corridor or whatever it was that lay in the darkness.

  He was thrown on to his stomach, his hands yanked behind his back and his wrists shackled. He was dragged to his feet and then he heard a match being struck. He couldn't lift his head to see, but the flame flickered across the stone floor, revealing the iron bars of other cells. He saw a robe made of some thick fabric, like velvet, and, knowing who was standing before him, he started to tremble all over.

  Fingers gripped his hair and yanked back his head.

  T
he Archon, his onetime master, stood before him, his true face hidden behind a white-painted mask of wood carved to look like a devil or vampire. False black hair fashioned into a widow's peak on the top and false black eyes as round as buttons, the wooden nose long and hooked, chin shaved to a fine point and teeth carved into a frozen leer. The man's hands were covered with what looked like white gloves except the nail on the end of each finger had been shaved to a sharp point and painted blood-red. Mark watched as those points traced lines across his stomach and then came to a stop below his neck, near his throat.

  'Your name is Thomas,' said the soft voice behind the mask. 'And you will tell me the truth. I have something that will help you find it.'

  The figure moved away and Mark Rizzo looked down at the end of the long corridor, at the hooded figure lighting sconces on the wall. A single chair sat on the dank, grey-stone floor. A wide chair made of thick, heavy wood, every flat surface covered with thousands of razor-sharp spikes.

  36

  Darby, freshly showered and her third cup of coffee in hand, sat on the edge of her bed in her new residence at the Marriot Custom House. The manager, Coop's friend, Sean, had set her up in a spacious corner suite with a kitchenette and a separate living room that, along with the master bedroom, had a view of the Boston Waterfront. Sean had not only registered her under an alias known only to the two of them, but had given her a heavily discounted rate and told her she could stay as long as she wanted.

  It was coming up on 1:00 p.m. She guzzled the last of her coffee, hoping it would sweep away the remaining cobwebs stubbornly clinging to the inside of her head. She had slept fitfully for the last six hours and wanted her head clear.