"Three minutes," I told her as she reached the door. "Not a second more."
She nodded, and shut the door behind her. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. Then I set the knife on the coffee table and collapsed onto the couch. The clock on the cable box read one-fifteen. I kept an eye on the bathroom door and wondered for about the hundredth time just what the hell I'd been thinking taking the girl.
Three minutes passed, and no Kate. I figured I'd give her a break – she'd been in that chair the better part of a day, and before that, she'd been cuffed to a stretcher. Besides, she was still decked out in a hospital gown; it's not like she was wearing a watch.
When four minutes had gone by, I got a little irritated. Then five ticked past, and I was downright pissed. By the time six minutes rolled around, I was banging on the bathroom door.
"C'mon, Kate, you've had your fun. Time to get back in the chair."
No response. I tried the knob. Locked. "I'm not fucking around here, Kate! Open this door or I swear I'll break it down!" Still nothing. I put an ear to the door. I heard the sound of running water, and beneath it, something else. A low, wet gurgle. Like someone choking. Like someone dying.
Shit.
I slammed against the door, and rebounded hard, sprawling across the living room floor. Pain radiated outward from my shoulder in nauseating waves. I regrouped and tried again. I managed to stay up this time, but it still hurt like hell, and the door didn't give an inch. She must have barricaded it somehow. Didn't want me ruining her big exit.
Inside the bathroom, Kate's ragged breathing ceased. I was out of options. The problem was, this body of mine was exhausted, and I didn't know if it had the juice for me to make the jump. Still, I had to try.
I clenched shut my eyes and focused on her,
choking on the other side of the door. Blood trickled from my nose at the sudden strain, and my mouth filled with the taste of pennies. The world went dark as I pulled away. Friedlander crumpled, his head slamming into the floorboards with a sickening thwack. Then, for a moment, there was nothing.
When I opened my eyes, I was staring at the bathroom ceiling. I couldn't breathe. Somewhere inside my head, Kate was shrieking. It's like that with the living – damn near impossible to concentrate with them always carrying on.
I tried to roll over, but Kate's limbs were like lead. Pills, I'd guess. I was such a fucking idiot. After the way Friedlander checked out, I should have thought to check the medicine cabinet. Now I hoped I wasn't too late.
The nausea hit me like a freight train. Kate's entire body clenched. I struggled with her sluggish limbs, and managed to tip us over. Cheek met tile, and my vision swam. Beside me lay a smattering of empty bottles. Prescription, the lot of them. I tried in vain to read the labels, but my eyes wouldn't cooperate. Whatever she'd taken, she hadn't been fucking around.
Acid scorched my throat as Kate's body tried to purge itself of me. I stayed put. A couple dozen pills weren't so lucky. Her stomach heaved again. Pills and sick spilled across the tile.
Control came by degrees as her body relented to my demands. Still, it was blunted by the drugs. I didn't have much time.
On quivering limbs, I forced myself to my hands and knees. Still the sickness came. I glanced toward the bathroom door. I could barely keep my head up. She'd barricaded it, all right. A set of wooden shelves, wedged between the door and tub. I clawed at them with clumsy hands. The shelves were jammed tight, and my grip was weak.
My strength faltered, and again I hit the floor. I grabbed the shelves and yanked.
Nothing.
Kate's lids buckled under the weight of narcotic slumber. The rest of her wasn't far behind. I mustered all my failing strength, pulling the shelves as hard as I could. Then the world went dark, and Kate was gone.
I was back in the Friedlander body, sitting in the recliner and holding a towel full of ice to the knot on my head, when Kate finally came to. She'd been out for nearly a day. I'd left her lying on the couch, her head turned aside in case she wasn't done throwing up. She hadn't been. For a while I thought this headache was for nothing – she'd grown sicker and paler with every passing hour. Around midnight, though, she'd turned a corner. She'd stopped throwing up, and a little color returned to her cheeks.
Now, her eyes fluttered open. Kate looked around a moment, confused. I saw a flicker of remembrance as her gaze met mine.
"What…" she rasped. "What happened?"
"You took some pills," I replied. "You tried to check out. Just lie still a bit – you're going to be OK."
"Pills," Kate repeated, casting her gaze toward the open bathroom door. "Of course."
"How'd you know you'd find them there? The pills, I mean."
"I didn't – I just got lucky. But every bathroom's got a mirror. Figured I'd slit my wrists and just fade to black. I guess I wasn't quite as lucky as I thought." Her face was clouded with suspicion. "What the hell did you do to me?"
"I did what I had to. You could have died, Kate."
"I wish I were dead."
"Yeah, well, I'm glad you're not."
She snorted. "You're glad? You were so scared of me, you tied me to a chair."
"You tied up now?"
Kate lifted her head. The effort caused her to wince. "No," she replied. "But I ought to be. I'm not to be trusted. I killed my family." A single tear slid down her cheek.
"No, Kate," I said. "I don't think you did."
"I don't understand. You said they saw–"
"I don't doubt what they saw. I just don't think it was you that killed them."
"You're not making any sense."
I flashed her a wan smile. "Maybe not," I replied. "Or maybe you and me just have different ideas about what makes sense."
She clenched shut her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. "My head is killing me," Kate said. "If you plan on talking around in circles all day, I'm going to need a couple aspirin."
"I think you've had enough pills for one day."
"Then how about you start talking straight?"
"Believe me, Kate – you're better off not knowing."
She let out a barking, humorless laugh. "Better off? You think I'm better off? My family is dead. I would be too, if I'd had my way. But you went and stopped me – God knows how, but you did. Now I'm holed up in some shitty apartment, a fugitive from justice, and I feel like I'm going out of my head. So to hell with what you think. I need answers, Jonah. I need the truth."
I looked at her a long, appraising moment. Kate looked back, angry and expectant. To hell with it, I thought. "For starters," I said, "my name isn't Jonah."
And then I told her. What I was. Why I came. I expected shock, anger, disbelief. But she just listened, without comment, without interruption. It wasn't till I finished that the questions came.
"So in the hospital, that was you?"
"Yes."
"You'd come to collect my soul."
I repeated, "Yes."
"I thought I'd dreamt it. I remember a sudden pain – pain and fear – and then this, this light…" Her hands found her chest. "But I haven't any mark. Any scar."
"The invasion isn't physical."
"So why didn't you take me?"
"I just… couldn't," I replied. "When I make a collection, there's this moment – this beautiful, terrible moment when my hand closes around the soul, and I see everything. Experience everything. A lifetime of beauty, and of happiness, and of sorrow. I see every kindness. Every slight. Every moment that's led them to my grasp. But the souls of those that I collect are just hollow echoes of their better selves – they're occluded by the darkness within. Yours was different. Pure. Unfettered."
"You make me sound like some kind of saint."
I smiled. "I wouldn't know anything about that. What I do know is evil changes a person, tainting everything until no memory is untouched. Only in your case, there was no stain."
"But how can that be? I mean, my family–"
"Kate, that wasn't your fault."
"But I have these flashes. These memories. Horrible reminders of the things I've done."
"I know."
"Then how could it not be my fault?"
"Tell me," I said, "earlier, when you were in the bathroom, how did you get out?"
"You got me out."
"Yes, but how?"
Kate's brow furrowed as she struggled to remember. "I was groggy. Sleepy. Then all of the sudden, you were in my head. I threw up. You rolled me over, so I wouldn't choke."
"Then what happened?"
"I'd barricaded the door," she replied. "You clawed at it, I think. I don't know – I was so groggy, all I wanted was to sleep."
"Did you want to do those things?"
She shook her head. "All I wanted was to die."
"And yet here you are."
I let the sentence hang in the air for a minute. She was slow getting there, but eventually, realization dawned. "You're saying someone else was in my head? That they killed my family?"
"Not someone," I replied. "Some thing."
"Some thing?"
"Kate, there aren't many folks like me out there, and we're kept on a pretty short leash. We never take what isn't ours to take; we just do our jobs – no argument, no deviation. Not to mention, I read the news coverage – there's no way someone like me could've mustered the kind of strength they're talking about. No, whatever did that wasn't human."
"Which leaves what, exactly?"
"A demon, most likely."
"A demon."
"Yes."
"But that's insane."
"Any more insane than what happened in the bathroom? Demonic possession is far from unprecedented, Kate. Most possessions go unnoticed; the body chosen is simply a conveyance, a means to an end – when the task at hand is done, the possessor leaves, and no one's the wiser. Seems like your guy had other plans."
"How can you be so sure? How can you be sure I didn't just suffer some psychotic break and kill them myself?"
"Because possession is by nature a violent act. You're forcing an unfamiliar body to succumb to your will. When you possess the living, you're also fighting the impulses of their conscious mind. That kind of struggle is sure to leave a sign."
Kate's brow furrowed. "What kind of sign?"
"It's hard to describe. You ever lend out a sweater, and when you get it back, it just doesn't fit right?"
"I guess."
"It's kind of like that." Kate seemed to accept that, which was fine by me. She didn't need to know the rest. That whatever had done this had violated her with such fury I'm surprised she'd even survived. That it had gouged and splintered her mind like nails against a coffin lid. That I'd been so terrified by what I'd seen, when I returned to this body, I hadn't stopped trembling for hours. No, she didn't need to know any of that. Which was fine, because I sure as hell wasn't going to tell her.
Kate said, "So where does that leave us, then? I mean, if I'm innocent, you'll be on your merry way, right? No harm, no foul. And I what – spend the rest of my days in a loony bin? And that's if I seem nuts enough to keep me out of prison. I mean, as far as the rest of the world is concerned, I'm still the one who killed them, right? Forgive me if I sound ungrateful – I'm glad I'm not damned and all, but this still pretty much sucks."
I sighed. "It's not that simple. You're marked for collection, Kate. And once you're marked, you're collected – it's as simple as that."
"Can't you talk to your boss or something – explain there's been some kind of mistake?"
I shook my head. "Lilith's not exactly the understanding type, Kate, and even if she were, she's not the one calling the shots."
"Then who is?"
"The short answer is, I don't know. The longer answer is, I don't know 'cause they don't want me to. Lilith is my handler, and she's the only one I ever deal with – I couldn't go around her if I tried. But she's made it very clear that babysitting me is nothing but a chore to her, something passed down from on high – or on low, I guess you'd say. Besides, I doubt an end run around Lilith would even do us any good. These are the denizens of hell we're talking about, Kate – I've got no reason to believe her bosses would be any more receptive than she would. No, I think the best thing we can do is stay off the radar for a bit, while we figure out what's going on."
"What happens if they find out that you're helping me?"
"I don't know," I replied. "As far as I know, no Collector's ever willfully disobeyed an order before. But what we're talking about is mutiny – insubordination against the authority of hell. I'm pretty sure I don't want to find out."
"Why not just take my soul, then? It's not like I have anything left to live for."
"I can't. Whatever's going on here, your soul's not mine to take. My job is to collect the wicked, the corrupt. The taking of a pure soul is forbidden – the results would be catastrophic."
"Catastrophic how?"
"We're talking some serious End of Days shit here, Kate."
"Oh," she said. Her eyes no longer met mine; she seemed suddenly fascinated with a spot between us on the floor. "OK, then. But if I'm marked for collection and you can't collect me, where does that leave us?"
"I don't know. Being marked isn't something you can easily fake – whoever did this has got clout, to say the least. Which means this wasn't just some demon on a joyride – whoever did this had an agenda. The way I figure it, our best bet is to figure out who's behind this before they get wise to the fact that you're not in the ground and send someone to finish us both off. That is, if we can keep clear of the cops for long enough."
She surprised me with a laugh, full and throaty and beautiful. "That's our best bet?"
"Near as I can tell."
"Well, shit," she said, and despite myself, I smiled.
"Yeah," I replied. "Shit."
7.
"So," Kate asked, "what now?"
I shrugged, chasing a mouthful of pastrami sandwich with a long pull of Brooklyn Lager. It had been a few hours since Kate woke from her little chemical nap – she'd polished off her sandwich in record time, and I was pleased to see some color returning to her cheeks. I'd stuck around until I was pretty sure she wasn't going to make another go of it, but eventually hunger got the best of me. I swapped my scrubs for a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and some battered Chuck Taylors, and hiked down to the bodega on the corner for a pack of smokes and a bite to eat. The cigarettes tasted like shit, but the sandwiches weren't half bad, and after a day of traipsing all over town barefoot, I was happy for the wardrobe upgrade. Friedlander might've lived in a dump, but at least I knew the clothes fit.
"I don't know," I said, finishing my sandwich and tapping a cigarette from the pack. "I've got a contact in the demon-world who might have some idea who's behind this – I thought I'd pay him a visit, see what I can see. Only I'm not exactly relishing the idea."
"Is he – I mean, do you have to go…" she stammered. "Is he in hell?"
I laughed. "Near enough – he's in Staten Island."
"Oh," she replied. "But you've been? To hell, I mean?"
"Have I been? Sweetheart, I'm sitting in it."
"I don't understand."
"Hell isn't some faraway land, Kate. It's right here – in this world, in this room. Heaven, too, as near as I can tell. They're just, I don't know, set at an angle or something, so that they can see your world, but you can't quite see them. Occasionally, the boundaries break down, and the result is either an act of horrible savagery or of astonishing grace. But make no mistake, they're always here."
Kate's brow furrowed as she looked around the room. "I guess I always imagined hell to be all fire and brimstone."
I lit my cigarette and took a long, slow drag. "You ask me, I'd guess heaven and hell look pretty much the same," I replied. "Only in hell, everything is just a little out of reach."
There was a long pause before Kate spoke again. "You don't seem so bad to me," she said.
I laug
hed. "Thanks, I think."
"So how'd you wind up here, doing what you do?"
"That," I replied, "is a story for another time."
• • • •
The summer of 1944 was one of the hottest the city had ever seen. The streets of Manhattan seemed to ripple in the midday sun, and the bitter stink of sweat and garbage clung heavy to anyone who dared to venture outside. Even the breeze off of the harbor offered no relief from the oppressive heat. Every night as I made my way back home, I watched as passengers crowded three deep at the bow of the ferry, eager to feel the wind on their faces. But the air was still and thick with diesel fumes, and all they got for their trouble was a sheen of sweat atop their brows and angry glares from those they jostled.
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