The Soul Collectors dm-4

by Chris Mooney

She turned and walked, dragging the rolling suitcase behind her, into a master suite almost as big as her condo. Tall ceilings, and two lamps on cherrywood nightstands bracketing a king-sized bed. Coop stood next to the bed, going through the packages of clothes that had been left on top of the thick white velvet comforter.

  Darby parked her suitcase at the foot of the bed and he held up a package of Hanes briefs.

  'Tighty-whities. What am I, ten?'

  'Let's make a rule,' she said, slipping out of her leather jacket. 'No talking about the case.'

  'Fine with me. I could use a break.'

  'You want to crash?'

  He shook his head, picking up a package holding a blue dress shirt. 'I'm too wired to sleep. All I want is a long, hot shower.'

  'You mind if I go first?'

  'Not at all. It'll give me time to raid the mini-bar.'

  The bathroom, made of black and white marble, had a jacuzzi with windows overlooking the public garden. She could see the old lantern lights glowing around the street and in the distance as she undressed.

  Hopping inside the shower, she wished she could stay under the hot water until it ran cold, but she didn't want to waste time. She wanted to spend every available second with Coop. A part of her felt guilty for having these feelings right now, given the day's gruesome events. It seemed wrong, almost abnormal. She was tingling with excitement and anticipation, and Casey was drowning in fear and terror.

  Coop was here, and she was alone with him — alone in one of the world's most luxurious and romantic hotels, and she planned on taking full advantage of it. As life had demonstrated to her time and time again, there was no such thing as planning or waiting for the perfect moment, or mood. You had to watch out for it, and when it came along, you had to seize the opportunity or lose it, and there was no way in hell she was about to miss out on this one.

  Stepping out of the shower, she debated whether or not to blow dry her hair. Conscious of time, she towel-dried it, combed it back and, still damp, pinned it up in a loose chignon using hair grips. She took her time with the eyeliner, eye shadow and lip gloss.

  First she slipped into the special lingerie she had picked out for this moment, along with the dress and shoes. She generally shopped for clothing only out of necessity, and when she did she often chose practical, comfortable items. She never had that girly-girl need to be up on the latest fashions, but she had her own sense of style, and she liked to get all dressed up when the rare occasion demanded it.

  Coop almost exclusively dated girly-girls who, after a hard day of shopping, liked to unwind by hitting the clubs. The brighter ones managed to string words together in full sentences but often tired out after a few minutes of conversation. Darby knew she beat every one of them in the brains department and knew, with the right clothing, she could compete with the best of them. With that goal in mind, over the summer she had purchased two items, which she knew, at least from her limited experience of shopping through the sales racks at Banana Republic and J. Crew, had cost a small fortune: a heather-grey, 1920s-inspired cocktail dress with a scooping neckline and plunging back made of silk-chiffon; and a pair of black Magrit heels adorned with crystal satin bows.

  Darby checked herself in the mirror. The dress was cute — sexy but sophisticated. Sort of a modern Audrey Hepburn, especially with her hair pulled up, although she doubted the style icon would have worn peep-toe platform shoes with four-inch heels.

  They'd look stunning with just the lingerie, she thought.

  Darby smoothed out her dress and eased the bathroom door open.

  Coop was still standing by the bed, sorting through his new clothes — trousers, jeans, socks, packaged dress shirts and tees. He had taken off his shoes and shirt. She looked him over in the soft glow of light coming from the lamp on the nightstand. The white tank top hugged the curves of his broad and well-defined chest.

  He had been hunched over the bed when he glanced up at her. Any doubt she may have had about her plan vanished when she saw his slack-jawed expression.

  Coop straightened, eyes widening. He suddenly seemed self-conscious at the way he was gawking at her. His gaze cut to the nightstand, where he picked up a glass of what appeared to be Scotch.

  'Well,' she said after a moment. 'Aren't you going to say anything?'

  'You look amazing.' He swallowed, then added, 'You always do.'

  'Thank you.'

  He took a slug of Scotch and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Darby walked up to him and placed her hands lightly on his chest. In her heels, she was almost eye level with him. She could smell the alcohol on his breath.

  She ran her fingers up his chest and across his shoulders. Gripped him gently by the back of the neck and pulled him closer and kissed him once, lightly on the lips.

  'It unzips in the back,' she whispered. 'Like this.'

  She heard the hitch in his breath when her dress fell to the floor. His throat flushed when he saw what was lying underneath the dress.

  Coop cradled her face in his hands, and as he kissed her she reached across his back and pulled up his tank top. He raised his hands and she yanked it over his head and tossed it into the air. Her hands went back to his body, palms and fingers sliding across the smooth hardness of his chest. He feels like he's made of marble, she thought, and pressed herself against him.

  They kissed more slowly, more deeply. Coop's warm, strong hands slid down the small of her back. His fingers moved underneath the elastic band of her panties and gently squeezed her buttocks. She let out a soft moan, feeling him growing hard against her, and realized how much this moment matched the fantasy she'd been nursing since the moment he left for London.

  'One question,' she whispered.

  'What?' The word thick in his throat.

  'Shoes on or off?'

  'On,' he said, swallowing. 'Definitely on.'

  She kissed his neck. His breath caught again and she kissed his chest, slowly, and she heard his beating heart and the way his breath was now coming sharper and faster as she slid her hand over the bulge mashing against the smooth fabric of his trousers. She undid his belt buckle. His hands gripped her arms and she unbuttoned his trousers. They dropped to the floor, and his eyes slammed shut and his head arched back when she ran her fingers inside his boxers.

  'Darby… I… I…'

  His words trailed off. His eyes flickered shut and she ran her fingers back up his chest and cupped his jaw.

  'Coop.'

  When he looked at her, his eyes seemed wet, on the verge of tears. Was he crying?

  'I love you,' she said. 'I always have, and I always will.'

  'I know.'

  He was crying.

  'I know you do,' he said. 'But I can't. I'm involved with someone else.'

  63

  Darby was vaguely aware of Coop standing in front of her, eyes bleary, but she wasn't really in the room with him, her mind having separated itself from her body. She'd seen this kind of moment played out in TV shows and romantic comedies endless times — and always in a highly cliched and melodramatic fashion, with the scorned or rejected woman turning on the waterworks while crumbling into the role of a poor, pathetic victim. And every time she saw such a scene, a part of her would want to shout at the screen: Get your shit together, stop blubbering and say or do something.

  Watching such a thing unfold from the comfortable and safe distance of a chair, though, was a whole galaxy away from actually experiencing it.

  Coop wiped at his face, then scooped his trousers off the floor, but instead of putting them on, he sat on the edge of the bed and leaned forward — probably to hide his erection, which was still prominently displayed.

  Well, at least you managed to turn him on, a critical voice chimed in. At least you did something right.

  His elbows propped on his knees and hands dangling between his legs, he took in a long draw of air, his voice shaking when he spoke.

  'I'm sorry, Darby.'

  She opened
her mouth, ready to speak — wanting to speak — but her brain had somehow disengaged itself from her tongue.

  'I planned on telling you,' he said. 'I was just looking for the right moment.'

  She found she could move now. She turned away from Coop and caught her reflection in a mirror mounted above the bureau across the room. She saw herself standing there in a $300 set of lacy thong panties and low-cut bra, and $600 shoes. Clothes she had bought specifically for him. When she saw the wounded, vulnerable look on her scarlet red face staring back at her, she turned away again, cringing, hating herself for it. For this.

  She scooped up her dress from the floor and walked to the bathroom, numb. She shut the door. That sickening process of sinking back inside one's skin had started, and when she saw what was waiting for her — the hurt and anger and everything else mixed with it lying there like the proverbial lump in her stomach — she turned away from that too, by doing what she did best, the only thing that had never failed her: she got busy.

  Dressed in a clean pair of jeans, socks and a black tee, the well-worn boots back on her feet and giving her back some sense of who and what she was, Darby opened the door and walked back into the bedroom.

  Coop was standing now, near the windows. He had put on his trousers, buckling them, she supposed, to prevent her from further temptation. His tank top, though, was still on the floor.

  'I'm sorry, Darb.'

  'You've already apologized,' she said, working her arms through her shoulder holster. 'Saying it two, three or a hundred more times doesn't make it any more effective.'

  She was surprised — surprised and glad — at how calm she sounded.

  'What's the lucky lady's name?'

  Coop didn't answer. She didn't care, busy looking around the room, trying to figure out where she'd left her jacket.

  And then it came to her, the thing that was slightly off about the evening on John Smith's balcony. She looked at Coop standing on the other side of the bed and slightly to the right. When Smith had stood, he hadn't been standing directly in front of her but off to the side. The sniper would have had a clear shot at her but instead had shot Smith. Why had John Smith, a retired police detective, been shot first?

  'Amanda,' Coop said.

  'What?'

  'Her name is Amanda.'

  'That's it? Just a one-word name, like Bono?'

  'Amanda Jones. She owns a PR agency in London.'

  'Congratulations.'

  'Look, I should have told you this before — '

  'I humiliated myself,' she finished for him.

  'You didn't humiliate yourself. You think I didn't want to — '

  'Fuck?'

  'That's not what I would have called it.'

  'I'm proud of your self-restraint. I really am. Normally you deliver bad news to your victims after you're done screwing them.'

  'Nice.'

  'Hey, I'm just repeating what you've told me.'

  'What just… I'm sorry I let it go on for as long as it did,' he said, pronouncing each word as if she were some autistic child who had trouble grasping the nuances of human emotions. 'I let it go on because I do, in fact, care about you. Deeply. You've been a close friend, and I'd be lying through my teeth if I didn't admit that I've always wondered what it would be like if you and I got together — and I don't just mean physically. I mean long term. White picket fences and all that stuff.'

  She didn't want to hear this. She moved to the door.

  Coop sprang from around the bed and blocked her exit.

  'You're one of the most beautiful women I've ever met — and, let's face it — probably the most unique,' he said. 'But, for whatever reason, our timing was off. I left for London and you decided to stay here.'

  'I decided,' she said flatly.

  'Yeah. You could have come over to London at any time to — '

  'I was a little wrapped up here, Coop, with my own problems.'

  'What about all those times we spoke on the phone?'

  'What about them?'

  'Not once did you mention or remotely hint that you wanted to take what we had to a different level.'

  'Neither did you. And, as I recall, you were the one who kissed me. And when we spoke later, right before you boarded your flight, I told you how I felt.'

  'No, you didn't. Your exact words were, "Coop, before you go, I just wanted to say…" and then nothing.'

  'Did you forget the part where you said, "I know. I feel the same way for whatever it's worth." When I said, "It's worth a lot" and you ran to the plane to get away — '

  'Darby, you never came right out and told me how you felt until now.'

  She stared at him, dumbfounded.

  'Why the hell did you wait for so long? If you had — '

  'I can't believe this,' she said, feeling the anger starting to seep through. Careful. 'I can't believe you're trying to pin this on me.'

  'I'm not trying to pin anything on you. Jesus! I didn't say anything because I didn't want to change what we had. I love you too much to — '

  'Enough,' she said, pushing him aside and moving into the living room. 'It's starting to sound like some bad romance novel.'

  'Where are you going?'

  'To work.'

  She found her jacket draped across the back of a chair.

  'You might as well try to book a flight back home,' she said, putting on her jacket. 'There's no reason for you to stick around.'

  'So that's how you want to solve the problem between us? By running away?'

  She zipped up her jacket. 'It's a trick I learned from you.'

  Coop crossed his arms and studied the tops of his feet.

  'You should get back home. Back to Amanda.' She removed all of the cash from her money clip and tossed it on the floor in front of him. 'That should cover part of your plane fare. Let me know the rest and I'll drop a cheque in the mail.'

  His face jumped up, sparks of anger in his eyes.

  'Thanks again for coming, Coop.'

  She had reached the door when he called out to her:

  'I waited, Darby. For you. Don't get pissed at me because you're the one who blew it.'

  She fumbled for the doorknob. When she opened the door, she found Keats standing with his back to the wall so he could watch the hall.

  She shut the door behind her and said, 'I need to go back to the medical examiner's office.'

  'They expecting you?'

  'Not yet,' she said, reaching for her cell phone. She had missed a call — Ronald Ross, the Harvard professor. He had left her a message.

  Keats was looking at the door.

  'Mr Cooper's not joining us,' Darby said, dialling the answering service for the Boston medical examiner's office. 'He's going back home. To London.'

  64

  Settled inside the back of the SUV, Darby played the message from Ronald Ross. The Harvard Divinity professor wanted to discuss the symbol she had faxed him earlier this afternoon. He left three numbers — office, cell and home phone.

  She asked Keats for a pad of paper and a pen. He took his eyes off the road for a moment, then grabbed something from the console and handed it back to her — napkins and a bottle of water.

  'What's this for?'

  'Your mascara,' he said. 'It's smeared all over your face.'

  No wonder the people inside the Four Seasons had given her such strange looks. Jesus. She took them, twisted off the plastic cap and dumped the water on the napkins, spilling some on her lap and not caring, feeling more angry than embarrassed. Angry at herself for letting her guard down like that. For exposing herself and crying like… well, like a girl.

  She wiped at her eyes and cheeks, the napkins coming away black, and caught Keats watching her in the rear-view mirror.

  'You okay?' he asked in that soft and soothing Southern drawl.

  'Never better.'

  'Anything I can do to help?'

  'No.' Unfortunately, she added privately. 'But thank you.'

  'Toss everything on the floor
back there. When you're through cleaning up, I have a leather writing pad you can use. Pen's clipped inside, a real nice one too, so don't go losing it on me.'

  Ronald Ross answered his home phone on the fourth ring. He sounded like he had been asleep.

  'I just got your message,' she said. 'Sorry if I woke you.'

  'I dozed off on the couch. You did me a favour.' A grunt and then he cleared his throat. On the other end of the line she could hear the click of his heels echoing across a floor. 'I made some notes on this symbol you sent me. I assume it's connected to a case you're working on.'

  'You assume correctly. I can't give you specifics.'

  'I understand,' he said. 'What do you know about Gnosticism?'

  Darby thought about it for a moment, looking out of the side window at the surrounding traffic, and again wondered if she was being followed and watched.

  'It's something to do with pre-Christianity, I think.'

  'Okay,' Ross said, like he had expected this. 'Let me start with a simple definition. Gnosticism is derived from the Greek word gnosis, which means "knowledge". The religion dates all the way back to early Jewish and Christian sects, and its doctrine, simply put, is that there are two gods. The first is a lower, imperfect god, called the Demiurge, who created the material world. The second, the Supreme God of Truth or the Supreme Father God, is a transcendent god and does not care about human affairs. The Demiurge believes he is supreme despite his imperfect creations — the world, mankind. The Demiurge employs servants, called Archons, who roam the world, enacting their own will.'

  Darby finished writing in her quick shorthand, then said, 'Which is?'

  'Nothing.'

  'You mean the Archons are nihilists?'

  'No. Archons provide their own order. Their own laws and justice. They are capable of mercy, but by and large they are jealous, wrathful creatures possessed by a singular will and capable of great destruction. The symbol you sent me, it's a bastardized version of a Gnostic baptismal cross developed centuries ago by a medieval group who had roots in Gnosticism. Those twelve spikes? Each one represents an Archon. The circle is a representation of earth.'