Dead Harvest

by Chris F. Holm

  Home back then was a tenement in the New Brighton neighborhood of Staten Island, about twenty minutes' walk from the ferry terminal. The place was ramshackle and overcrowded, and the racket from the munitions factory across the street was as constant as it was maddening. Still, as I hobbled up the stairs, I was greeted by the heavenly aroma of garlic and onion, so I couldn't much complain.

  Inside, Elizabeth was standing by the stove, her back to me. A Benny Goodman number drifted across the room from the radio in the corner, and she tapped her foot in time. When I closed the door, she started, and then smiled. I crossed the room and gave her a kiss.

  "Sam," she said, blushing, "you know the doctors said you shouldn't do that!"

  "To hell with them. You're my wife – I'll kiss you if I damn well please."

  "How'd it go today?"

  I shrugged off my suit jacket and yanked the tie from my collar, tossing both across a chair. "Same old story. They said I'm more than qualified, that my references are sound, but there's just no way a gimp like me is gonna keep up with the demands of the job."

  "They actually said that to you?"

  "No, of course not – they said a man in my condition."

  "Ah," she said, as if confirming something she had already known.

  "What do you mean, ah?" I snapped. "Just because the words they use are flowerier doesn't make 'em any likelier to hire me, now does it?"

  Tears shone in Elizabeth's eyes. She blinked them back and looked away.

  "Liz, I'm sorry," I said. "I'm just frustrated, is all. I'll find something eventually, and then we'll get you better – you just wait and see."

  I put a hand on her shoulder. She shrugged me off and returned to the stove.

  "Whatever you're making smells fantastic," I said. Though her back was still to me, I could see her posture relax.

  "It's braciola" she replied. It was my favorite, and she knew it. I felt like an ass for snapping at her – God knows it was the last thing she needed right now.

  "How're you feeling today?" I asked.

  She flashed me a smile over her shoulder. "Well," she said. "I think the tincture Annie got for me is working."

  "Liz, that's great! You'll beat this yet, you wait and see."

  She dropped her gaze and said nothing for a moment, then: "Oh, I forgot to tell you – Johnnie Morhaim stopped by to see you. Third time this week, I think."

  "Yeah, I'll bet he did. He comes around again, you just let him knock, OK? I don't like the thought of the two of you here alone together."

  "Honestly, Sam, he's always been perfectly polite to me. Don't you think you're overreacting a little?" I shot her a look that made it clear that I thought no such thing.

  The timer on the stovetop buzzed. Elizabeth took the pan off of the heat and transferred its contents to a serving plate. "Go wash up," she said. "Dinner's ready."

  I kissed her neck and headed down the hall to the bathroom. The water ran rusty from the tap, and I waited for it to run clear before splashing my face and washing my hands. I heard the familiar patter of water against tile, and cursed softly to myself – the fittings must be loose again, I thought. And as I ducked my head beneath the vanity to reach the pipes beneath, something in the trash can caught my eye.

  It was one of Elizabeth's handkerchiefs, crumpled and discarded; I could just make out the delicate stitching of her initials peeking out over the rim of the can. Despite the heat, my skin went cold, and my heart thudded in my chest. I fished it from the trash, certain of what I'd find.

  The ivory surface of the kerchief was flecked with blood. Elizabeth's blood.

  Whatever lies she told me, we were running out of time.

  The wind ripped across the harbor as I leaned against the deck rail of the ferry, savoring the bite of the chill salt air against my face. Behind me, an unfamiliar Manhattan skyline receded in the distance. So much had changed since I'd last been back, but as the lowslung buildings of the Staten Island waterfront swung into view, a shiver of remembrance traced its way along my spine. I guess the past is never quite as far behind us as it seems.

  The sun dipped below the horizon as I wandered away from the terminal, blanketing the streets of the island in shadow. I pulled Friedlander's pea coat tight around me, my hands thrust deep into its pockets.

  The old tenement was just as I remembered it. The first floor now housed an adult bookstore, its storefront windows papered over from within and its sign declaring XXX VIDEOS BOUGHT AND SOLD, but otherwise the years had failed to leave their mark. The same couldn't be said of the rest of the street. Most of the storefronts sat vacant. The old munitions factory was bricked up and abandoned. On a stoop two doors down, a bedraggled old man slouched unconscious and mouth agape, a bottle of Mad Dog dangling precariously from his hand.

  "Hey, sweet thing, you lookin' for a little company?"

  I turned around. Behind me stood a working girl, shivering in a hot pink tube-top, a fake leather miniskirt, and a rack to match. Track marks traced the veins of her forearms.

  "Maybe," I told her. "But I'm not from around here. You got somewhere we could go?"

  She looked me up and down. "For you, sailor, I'd lay down right here."

  "I was thinking someplace a little more private."

  "I know a spot a couple blocks from here, long as you don't mind the hike."

  I didn't. She led me by the hand to a decrepit row house, nibbling on my ear all the while. I pretended not to notice. Inside, the place was a mess. The paint on the walls was discolored and flaking. The floor was littered with newspaper, empty bottles, and God knows what else. A smattering of stained and filthy mattresses were scattered throughout the front room. A few of them were occupied: junkies, mostly, sprawled amidst their needles, lighters, and scorched bits of tinfoil.

  My date dragged me toward the stairwell. I followed. At the foot of the stairs, a man was slouched against the wall. His sleeve was rolled up, and his arm was tied off with a length of rubber tubing. A hypodermic needle jutted from his arm. His eyes fluttered as we stepped over him, but he didn't stir.

  "Nice place," I said as we reached the landing.

  "I think the time for talking's passed," she replied, pushing me up against the wall. She kissed me, then. Her breath reeked of latex and menthol cigarettes. Involuntarily, I pulled back.

  "Whatsa matter, sport, you rather get right to it?" Her hand found the zipper of my jeans. I pushed it away. Her face read hurt and angry, but the emotion never registered in her blank addict's stare. Then her eyes filled with black fire, and her hurt expression disappeared. That's when I knew I'd found my mark.

  Quick as death, her hand found my throat. Her grip was like iron, crushing my windpipe as she lifted me off the ground. My teeth rattled as my head connected with the wall. She held me there, pinned, as my feet tried in vain to reach the floor.

  "This body isn't yours," she said. Her voice was suddenly raspy and hoarse, nothing like the treacly croon she employed out on the street.

  "I could say the same of you," I squeaked.

  "She gives it freely."

  "I'm sure she does." My feet kicked against the wall. My vision went a little gray around the edges. I hoped to hell we got to the point before I passed out.

  "Who are you?"

  "An old friend."

  "Most of my old friends would rather see me dead."

  "Can't imagine why," I replied. My face had passed red and was headed toward purple. Spots swam before my eyes.

  "Why are you here?" the creature speaking through her asked.

  "Because I need your help."

  She released her grip. I crumpled to the floor, gasping. By the time I'd regained my wits, the other had gone, and the girl was glaring at me with glassy-eyed disdain.

  "The boss'd like to see you," she said.

  "Yeah, I thought he might." I rose unsteadily to my feet, a hand on the wall for support. Without another word, she headed back down the stairs and out of sight. I stumbled after.
/>   She led me through the front room to a grimy kitchen, its broken, gaping window doing little to alleviate the stench of rot that emanated from the open refrigerator. In the kitchen was a door. The girl opened it, revealing a set of rickety stairs that led down to the basement. She descended. I followed.

  The basement was close, fetid. The only illumination was from a series of bare light bulbs dangling from the ceiling at irregular intervals. Many were out, and all were so covered in grime they did little to dispel the murk. At the edges of my vision, half-seen figures writhed and moaned and wailed, in pleasure or pain I wasn't sure. There were people strewn everywhere, some shooting up, some grinding against each other in varying states of undress. One man, withered by drugs or disease or both, rocked back and forth, his knees tight to his chest. He'd scratched his forearms raw, and he clawed at them still, nails furrowing flesh. As I passed, I heard him muttering "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry," again and again, to no one.

  My escort led me through this sea of human detritus to the far corner of the basement. The light was warmer here, brighter – the result of dozens of candles, casting tiny halos of light from every surface. A lush Oriental rug occupied the space, and the walls were lined with shelves, cobbled together from scrap wood and cinder blocks and adorned with thousands upon thousands of books. Also on the shelf was an ancient record player, which crackled with the sounds of some old jazz standard – Billie Holiday, I'd guess. And at the center of it all was a man, clad in a pale blue suit and a hat to match, his diamond tie tack catching the candlelight and casting tiny rainbows across his black silk tie. He was draped casually over a high-backed leather chair, a glint in his eye and a smile on his cold, handsome face.

  "Sam Thornton, as I live and breathe," he said. "Well, live, anyway. I didn't expect I'd be seeing you again."

  "Merihem," I replied.

  "You know, Sam, there was a time you called me Johnnie."

  "There was a time I didn't know any better."

  Merihem gave the girl beside me a nod, and she disappeared into the darkness. "That was some stunt you pulled, walking in here like that. I could've killed you. Woulda been a shame, really – that body suits you."

  "I'm surprised you recognize me."

  Merihem laughed. "I didn't, at first. Your meat-suit fooled her eyes just fine, but my own eyes are another matter."

  "And you," I said, taking him in. "You haven't changed a bit."

  "I'd like to think I've mellowed," he said, a grin playing on his face. "But that's not exactly what you meant, is it? My kind are too dignified to trawl among the monkeys; the body you see is a projection, nothing more. I gather you didn't drop by to catch up on old times – why don't you tell me just what the hell you're doing here?"

  "It's about a girl."

  "Isn't it always?"

  "I suppose it is," I said, "but this one I was sent to collect."

  "Ah, a little on-the-job romance! So what – you figured you could stash her in a black market body and buy you two some time? Maybe jet off to Cabo for a week or two before you do the deed? You've got stones, my friend, I'll give you that – but believe me, it's more trouble than it's worth. Your handlers will see through you just as surely as I did, and they won't find the situation half as amusing, I assure you. My suggestion is you finish the job and move on. Afterward, bring her body by if you like – I'll pop one of my girls in there, and you can have yourself a go."

  "Much as I appreciate the offer, I think I'm gonna have to pass. See, I tried to collect this girl, only it didn't take. Her soul – it knocked me back. So I panicked and I snatched her."

  Merihem guffawed. "This the chick that offed her family? Man, I've been reading about you – you walked her ass right out of the goddamn hospital! You know, that sketch doesn't do you justice."

  "Thanks. But here's the thing – I'm pretty sure she didn't do it."

  He shook his head. "Not possible. If they sent you, she did it – end of story."

  "Yeah, only I've got reason to believe someone else was driving."

  He squinted at me. "OK, the Sam I knew, he wasn't stupid, which means you probably know how nuts that sounds. I mean, any demon coulda taken this chick out for a spin, but she'd be lit up like a Christmas tree for anyone who knew to look. No way she gets marked for collection. No, a con of that magnitude would take some serious clout – not to mention one hell of a death wish."

  "Death wish? Death wish how?"

  "You think either side wants a war?" Merihem spat, and any hint of Staten Island disappeared from his voice, an affectation easily discarded. "When last it happened, one-third our number fell – and all because a son of fire refused to kneel before a son of clay. You couldn't begin to understand the world of shit that would rain down upon us all if one of our kind was caught damning an innocent soul to rot in hell for all eternity. You're not the only one who's duty-bound, Collector. We all have our roles to play. We do them, and do them well, because the alternative is unthinkable."

  "For you, perhaps. Maybe not for everyone."

  "OK. Say you're right – which you're not – and your girl's been set up. That means whoever's responsible acted against the explicit wishes of the Maker and the Adversary both – and is powerful enough to have done so undetected. If that's the case, what the hell do you expect that you are going to do to stop them?"

  "I don't know. But I have to try."

  "You're pissing in the wind, Sam. If you came here for my counsel, I say keep your head down and do your fucking job."

  "I didn't come here for your counsel – I came here for your help."

  "Did you now?" He smiled. "I'm surprised at you, Sam – I would've thought you'd learned better than to seek favors from my kind. The price is often steeper than you think."

  "The way I figure it, you owe me one."

  He laughed then, a big, roaring laugh that rebounded like a chorus off the concrete walls of the basement. "I owe you one! Ha! That's why I've always liked you – there aren't many who'd dare march in here and speak to me that way."

  "Yeah, well, it's not like I've got anything left to lose."

  "We all have something to lose, Sam. Most of us just can't see it till it's gone."

  Merihem fetched from his pocket a small leather case, from which he selected a cigar. He clipped the end with a brass-plated guillotine and struck a light with a matching lighter, rolling the tip back and forth within the flame for a moment before placing the cigar in his mouth and taking a long, slow drag.

  "I'll help you," he said finally, loosing a heady cloud of smoke that hung thick around him like a shroud. "I'll ask around, see if there's anything to this theory of yours. Just keep your nose clean for a couple of days while I do my thing, OK? Try not to do anything stupid."

  "Thanks, Merihem. I appreciate it."

  "You understand I still think your theory's full of shit. But better I do the asking than you – the folks who hold your leash don't take kindly to sedition."

  "I'm sure that's true."

  "If I find nothing, you'll take the girl?"

  "I'll consider it."

  "You'll consider it."

  "That's right."

  Merihem sighed. "No matter," he said. "By you or someone else, she'll be taken soon enough. Is there someplace I can reach you?"

  I smiled. "You don't really think I'd tell you where we're staying, do you?"

  He returned the smile. "No, but one does have to try." He recited a number. "Can you remember that?"

  I repeated it back to him. He nodded his assent. "Call me there in two days' time. And Sam?"

  "Yes?"

  "In the interim, try not to get yourself killed, would you?"

  8.

  Charcoal-smudged clouds scudded westward across the Manhattan skyline as the first faint rays of sunlight peeked over the eastern horizon. The city was quiet as I left the ferry terminal and strolled west toward Battery Park. I'd walked the streets of Staten Island all night, trying to process what Merihem had told me
. But no matter how I looked at it, it just didn't make sense.

  I mean, I was sure of what I'd seen. Something had been inside Kate's head. Something powerful. Something vicious. Something certainly capable of the horrors I'd seen in the morgue. Not to mention, if I was wrong and Kate was to blame, then why torture the mother? Why wait for an audience to arrive before slitting her throat?

  No, whatever killed Kate's family had been putting on a show. It wanted no doubt in anyone's mind that Kate had done the deed. Why? That, at least was simple. It wanted to ensure I'd finish the job – no fuss, no mess, no questions. It wanted her taken, and that's the part I couldn't square. I mean, in a war between heaven and hell, who wins?