At a paint-spattered, grooved, and warped wooden table, behind a disappointingly Best Buy-looking set of broadcasting equipment and a cassette deck and a laptop and a lamp and one not-so-Best Buy reel-to-reel, sat a grey-haired black man in a white T-shirt. With a Jolly Roger on it. If he so much as glanced to see who’d boarded his boat, Nadine didn’t spot it.
“We did call out,” the Collector said, moving toward the table. “Didn’t you hear us?”
The man shrugged. “Knew you weren’t the Coast Guard. Probably weren’t a shark. Didn’t see much point in breaking the flow of my show.” He had thin shoulders and even thinner arms, strung with veins that stretched, like strings down guitar necks, to surprisingly muscular wrists. And huge hands. Nadine stared at the hands as they flicked over the knobs of his board, cued up a track on the laptop, set it playing. Grimy, grinding mid-50s blues.
“They call me the Collector,” said the Collector, and stuck out his hand, which struck Nadine as a bad idea.
But the man at the table just looked up. “Do they, now. Well. Always happy to meet a brother.”
“And you?”
“Me? I’m the pirate radio DJ of your dreams. If you have proper dreams. And they have music in them.”
All around the cabin, Nadine realised – all the way up the walls, built into the spaces where storage cabinets and utensil racks and life-vest hangars should have been – were narrow wooden shelves crammed to capacity with cassettes in clear cases. Their sides labelled with identical strips of red tape that caught the flickery light. Glowed, faintly. Black numbers stencilled into them. LA82235. BD112460. Abruptly, Nadine glanced at Spook. Who’d seen them, all right. Was leaning closer. Looking for patterns he recognised. Yet again, that sensation wisped across and through her. As though she herself were mist, and the air was moving through her. Reshaping her.
Not pleasant.
Reaching behind him, Radio-man selected a case without seeming to look, popped out the cassette, and slid it into the deck. Spook – target acquired, sneaking about apparently finished for the evening – had taken up post against the doorframe through which they’d entered. He looked bored. Behind him, the flickering light seemed to catch and flit in the clear plastic cassette cases. The Collector had plunked himself on the table’s edge, gaze flashing everywhere. Up the walls, over the broadcasting equipment, into the eyes of Radio-man.
Whose own eyes had levelled on the Collector’s. Had not, as far as Nadine seen, left his face.
From the speakers mounted into the wall, thick, echoing Fender Rhodes chords sounded. The chords brooding, strange, not quite minor or major, the rhythm steady and slow and relentless as hammer-on-railroad-ties. And then that voice. Wavery as the candlelight, cartoon-deep, swooning. Dracula minus fangs and even hypnotic power. Lovelorn and hopeless, and so much sexier for it, at least if you were an Irish lass, attacked from all sides by pub versions of “The Fields of Athenry”, out for a drive through the empty moonscape of the Burren with the boy from NUI Galway with the green flecks in his eyes.
“Holy shit, Blaine Fury,” she murmured, then stopped. Leaned into the table, listening more closely. Not a song she knew? There were no Blaine Fury songs she didn’t know. And that whistling in the background. Not human whistling. Wind. Wind with snow. And no band at all? Her mouth opened. To breathe, not to speak, and then she spoke, too. “Blaine Fury in Montreaux.”
For the first time since the Collector had introduced himself, Radio-man’s eyes left his face. Moved to Nadine’s. “Very, very good. Not home base for most of my listeners, I have to say . . .”
“1977,” she said. “December? January?” Then her eyes leapt to the open cassette case. The red label. Which made total sense, now. BF122677. She did note, in some corner of her astonished brain, that the case was no longer glowing. But she didn’t process that then. “My god, December 26th? What is that, the week after Mick stole his wife? The day after? Jesus, I heard about this session. Read about it. Him holed up in that castle with that guitar player he wouldn’t even let in the studio, just playing and playing and playing. Songs he’d half-finished, other people’s songs. But . . . I read he didn’t even record it. Not one note.”
“Yes,” said Radio-man. “That’s what you’ve read.” And for the first time, he smiled. Strange smile. No glee in it. Not the kind you’d expect from a collecting man with a literal boat-full of treasures thousands of people might have wept . . . paid . . . bled to get their hands on. There was pride in the smile, all right. But not that sort.
Those specific syllables, she thought. That particular tune, on any given day. Like chasing a butterfly . . .
She stared around the rows and rows of plastic cases, their glow so faint. Like tea-lights. While something tickled, nagged, inside her. “So . . . what you collect . . . what you play . . . are perfect moments? There really is such a thing?”
Even before Radio-man spoke, the Collector started knocking his knuckles on the table. Not in rhythm with the music, but rapping them down, which drew Nadine’s eyes to his face. His eyes narrowed, focused over her shoulder toward the stairwell or maybe nowhere at all. Lips compressed, head half-tilted in a shake.
Because she’d missed something.
Radio-man had pushed back from his broadcasting equipment, folded his veiny arms across his chest. Even sitting, he looked tall as a telephone pole. And as dangerous to touch?
“Don’t know about that,” he said. “No, what I collect are . . . hmm . . . awakenings. I think that’s a word for it.”
“First moments,” said the Collector. And rapped his knuckles on the table hard enough that even Spook, gazing up the stairs at the mist and moonlight, glanced over.
And then Nadine had it. Knew what was bothering her. That tea-light glow and flicker, everywhere. But no tea lights. Or candles, either. Her eyes flicked back to the open Blaine Fury cassette case. Plain plastic. Not glowing. Which meant the glow . . . that low, lovely red light . . .
Radio-man’s attention had snapped back to the Collector. And now, his voice swelled. Not so much in volume, but with a force that could have been joy. It approximated joy, Nadine thought, hand rising to her heart, which was doing its own rapping against her ribs. Also, she seemed to fighting back tears. “For them. For each of them. Yes. The moment they . . .” He gave a little grunt. It could have been throat-clearing, but came out as a giggle. “. . . discover . . . just what they have in them.”
More tabletop-rapping. Hard. Pointless. Not like the Collector at all. With a sigh, he stopped, looked away from the stairs and back to Radio-man. “What you gave them,” he said.
For Nadine, three things happened at the same time. Her mind went wild, thinking about hurricanes in the water, moments like butterflies, those gorgeous voices in that perfect mist, the glow in this room. Also, she started shivering, deep down in her shoulders, and couldn’t get that to stop. And finally, she realised why the Collector was knocking. And why that wasn’t working.
“Well, now,” said Radio-man.
“Leaving only the question of what they offer in trade.”
Unfolding his arms, Radio-man laid those huge palms on the table. Fanned out his fingers, like a poker player who’d been called. And then he really did smile.
“Wow,” said the Collector. For the moment, he was genuinely amazed, head-over-heels for the thousandth time for the moment of discovery. Which always left him vulnerable.
“Normal,” Nadine murmured, moving closer, trying to get his attention. Which was hopeless, just then.
“So, wait. Let me get this straight. There really is a crossroads? I mean, is that what they do? Meet you at the crossroads, go down on their knees?”
“We can do the Crossroads,” Radio-man said. “I can come to your living room. Your rented castle in Montreux.” He glanced at Nadine, halting her advance toward the table, and winked. “Hell, we can meet at 7/11 if that’s most convenient.”
Carefully, slowly, Nadine started edging forward again. Feet u
nsteady beneath her. Heart thudding. But as she did, her eyes leapt back to the tapes. The red glow radiating, faintly, from every single one of them. From the tape itself. From whatever it was this man had taken from all of these people and threaded onto the spools. She found herself studying the initials and dates, realised she knew or could guess them all. Because every person collected on these walls had gone on to become someone collected on walls. Every single one.
“And in return you get . . . their souls?” the Collector asked.
Radio-man snorted. “I don’t exactly get anything. I accept what they offer. I remove what they no longer need. Or can’t have.”
Nadine had reached the Collector’s side. Casually, so casually, she let her arms dangle down the back of his chair. Unlike the Collector’s, her taps barely qualified as sound. She didn’t need them to be sound. She just needed him to register that they were there. Understand what he’d been doing wrong. So he could finish whatever the hell he’d started, and then get them out of here, preferably with as little as possible removed.
“So, their souls. Like I said.” The Collector was still focused entirely on his conversation. Paying no attention to Nadine whatsoever.
Radio-man rested his chin in those tremendous hands and pursed his lips. “I don’t think they’d say that. I think they’d say their souls – whatever those are – are right there.” He gestured at his speakers. The music streaming from them. “Wouldn’t you?”
Partly to cover any noise she might make, but also because a sudden and profound disappointment had welled up, seemingly out of the floor of the cabin, and flooded her, Nadine said, “That can’t be it.”
For the second time, Radio-man lifted his eyes right to her. Nadine had to keep herself from shrinking back. The guy had barely moved. And yet the movement had surprised her, like the slither of a downed power-line. At least he was watching her, now. Not her hands. Not the Collector’s face as he realised what she was doing. She finally felt that happen, in his spine. As shivers shook her again, and her eyes welled. Beautiful Blaine Fury. So alone. The Heathcliff of her stupid, teenage dreams . . .
“What can’t, child?” The “child” not sarcastic, not even nasty. “And why can’t it?”
“Music,” she murmured. Made herself speak louder, because the Collector had lifted his own hands back to the table. Started tapping again. Still not in rhythm with the song on the radio. But in a rhythm of its own, now. Dot-dot-dash. Dot-dot-dot-dash. And even as she continued speaking, Nadine felt Spook look up. Comprehending, at last, that the Collector was communicating with him. Trying to tell him something. “Inspiration. Every great note anyone’s ever played. That . . . it can’t just come from you. I don’t believe it.”
Cocking his veiny arms behind his head, Radio-man barked out a laugh. “Good. Because I never said it. Who said anything about all? I’m just talking about these.” And he gestured around him at the walls.
Dot-dash-dash. Dot-dot-dot . . .
“The ones who want it so badly, it’s like a whistle in their blood. Like teeth in their hearts. Bites them every single time they breathe. The ones who want it like that, and don’t quite have it. Or they have too much of . . . something else . . .” And there it was again. That smile. And this time, Nadine realised what it was, other than pride, that made the smile so unsettling. So wrong.
It was the kindness in it. Where no kindness should, or seemed, to be.
“Those are my charges,” said Radio-man. “Children, almost.” And then he glanced down, abruptly, at the Collector. At the same moment Nadine did. Because he’d realised, just as she had, that the knocking had stopped.
And because he was looking at the Collector, he didn’t see – somehow missed – what Nadine glimpsed, out of the farthest corner of her eye. The lightning snatch of Spook’s fingers. The single cassette disappearing into the pocket of his coat.
“Their souls, you mean,” said the Collector. Fast. To distract.
Leaning across his mixing board, hands splayed, Radioman half-rose. Like a panther coming out of his crouch, and Nadine grabbed at the Collector’s arm to pull him away.
But the man didn’t rise. Just stared. “That word again.”
“You have a better one?”
“I think we should go, now,” Nadine murmured, tugging at the Collector’s sleeve. Nodding over her shoulder toward Spook. “Want to go get the boat ready?”
“Oh,” said Spook. “Sure. See ya.” And without so much as a nod, quick and sudden, he scampered up the steps onto the deck of the sailboat.
And Radio-man just let him go. Seemed to be thinking, still. “It’s not that at all. No. It’s really more . . .” Then he waved one huge hand over his equipment. “Like an extra antenna. Or, not extra. The one you’re mostly born with. That allows us to . . . pick up signals, yes I like this.” He was nodding, grinning. “To hear the people around us. Immerse in lives not our own. A valuable bit of ourselves, I admit, but if what you want, in your very core . . .” He stopped grinning, then. Pinned the Collector, half out of his seat, to his spot, and Nadine, halfway to the stairs, to hers. “. . . in your soul . . . If what you want is to pull down other voices . . . magic . . . out of the air . . . and then broadcast that out of yourself . . . well. That extra antenna can get in the way, don’t you think? Pulling in all those ordinary, aggravating, everyday voices. Connecting you to each bland, dull, daily passing moment . . .”
Then, suddenly, the Collector was up. On the radio, those brooding Fender chords hammered away to nothingness, leaving just the faraway whistle in the Montreux winter wind. And Radio-man glanced down, sat back in his chair, hands flicking over the controls, cueing up another miraculous track. Nadine shot up the stairs. Felt the Collector right behind her. Waited for trailing footsteps. Heard none. Heard none.
“Hurry,” she hissed, and was both relieved and amazed to see the Collector surging past her, for once.
“You hurry,” said the Collector, leaping across the little gap onto the houseboat as Spook worked furiously at the knot he’d made, swung the ropes free. The Collector offered Nadine his hand, and she swatted it away as she jumped across and landed, skidding, beside him.
“You stole from that guy? You don’t steal from anyone, ever, and you think that guy’s an easy first mark?”
“I didn’t steal. Spook did.”
Nadine punched him in the arm as the houseboat shuddered back to life, the engines loud in the preternatural stillness, the motionless water that even their motor didn’t seem to stir.
“That’s what you were telling him to do? Are you crazy? Are you both crazy?”
“Did you get it?” the Collector barked, half-dancing in his excitement. “Spook, you have it?”
“Right here,” he said. “Morse code. Genius.”
“I thought so,” said the Collector, flashed a momentary grin toward Nadine, and snatched the cassette case out of Spook’s hands.
Nadine shook her head, shivered yet again. “What is Robert William Guthrie guy paying you, anyway?”
“It’s not for him,” said the Collector, fumbling with the cassette, clicking it open. “I wouldn’t have done it for him.”
Then the tape was in his hands. The glow faint, so faint. But there. The little throb occasional, and even fainter. Instinctively, the Collector had cupped his palm, and he held the cassette now as though it were a bird-chick. Only after a long moment of staring at that did Nadine look at the Collector’s face and realise he was weeping.
“Normal, what the hell is—”
“He was one of the first who ever came to me, Nadine. One of the very first. And I laughed at him. I remember laughing. He said he was looking for . . . himself . . . that he’d lost a piece to a collector. That if I ever saw it, I would know. And could I please bring it back. God, I don’t even know where he is, or if he’s still alive. But if he is, and I can bring this—”
“Wouldn’t, if I were you,” boomed Radio-man’s voice, and Nadine whirled, thinking he
was right behind her, arms flying up to ward off the blow.
But Radio-man was standing on the deck of his own ship, in the dead water, fully ten feet away already. Giant hands folded behind him. Like wings.
Behind her, Nadine heard Spook gun the engine. But then the Collector said, “Stop.”
“Stop?” Nadine snapped.
The Collector stepped to the rail of the houseboat. And Nadine noticed the mist. The way it seemed to slide down the air like raindrops down a windowpane. So that Radioman and his ship began to blur. Waver.
“Why not?” asked the Collector. “Why shouldn’t I return this to the man you took it from?”
“Well,” said Radio-man. “Just what do you think will happen when you do? When you return all those ordinary, awful, beautiful, ravenous yearnings the rest of us feel so furiously when we’re young . . . but without the lived-in years to temper them? That’s a whole lot of hope and hunger you’re holding, my friend. What you’re not holding is the extra time, or wisdom, or experiences that would satisfy or lessen them. Help you learn to live with them, or let them go. The way the rest of us do. You sure you want to give that back?”
And there it was again. One last time, as the mist poured down on him. Filling the space he occupied. That smile. That terrible kindness radiating through it.
“Is that the kind of gift you give to a friend? Do you think, in the end, he’ll say he preferred yours to mine?”
The Collector might have answered. Seemed to be starting to. But the first slap of open water banged into the hull then, knocked them sidelong, tilted them forward. And when he and Nadine had righted themselves against the rail and looked up again, there was only mist. Maybe the sailboat was still in it. But the music had gone.
Glancing toward the Collector, Nadine saw him slide the cassette into the case and close it. Then he dropped the case into his pocket. He didn’t speak. At the wheel, Spook turned them toward shore. The water seemed to give way around them. Rocking them as they moved, but gently. Plain old sleepy night-time ocean. Seagulls above it. Monsters well down in it.
The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 24 Page 28