Dead Harvest

by Chris F. Holm

  We strolled down the street a ways, Johnnie strutting along like he owned the whole damn town, me limping just a couple steps behind. He fetched a cigarette from behind his ear and struck a match; I tapped a fresh one from my pack and lit it as well. "So, Sammy," he said, smiling, "any luck on the job front?"

  "That's kind of why I'm here."

  "Yeah? You reconsider my proposition?"

  "I'm coming around."

  "That girl of yours – how's she feelin'?"

  There was no point lying – the answer was written all over my face. "Not good. Something's gotta give, and quick. You said you know a guy could use a little help?"

  "That's right," Johnnie said. "He's gonna hafta meet you first, of course. A nice, upstanding fella like you is just the kind a guy he's lookin' for, though, so you don't got nothin' to worry about. Your old lady's gonna be just fine – you wait and see."

  "Set up the meeting – I'll be there. Just tell me where and when."

  For a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of black fire dancing in his eyes, but it was gone just as quickly as it appeared. "All right, Sammy," he said, extending his hand to me. It hung in the air between us for a moment, and then I took it. His grip was cold and hard as stone. Johnnie shook my hand like we'd just concluded some high-powered business meeting, no trace of humor or irony in his eyes. "Looks like you got yourself a deal."

  It turns out when was 3pm Tuesday. Where was Mulgheney's, a tacky little gin joint on the Upper East Side, just a block north of Midtown. Mulgheney's was the kind of place that sprung up three to a block across the whole city in the years after Repeal, all chrome and neon and drunken good cheer. Problem was, at Mulgheney's, the chrome was just a touch too gaudy, and the neon lights a hair too bright, their harsh glare revealing that what appeared to be drunken good cheer was a perhaps a little desperate, painted-on. The cumulative effect was a place too classy for the guys who worked the loading docks across the street, and too coarse for the moneyed set that populated the surrounding blocks. All of which sounded just about right for a cohort of Johnnie's.

  The place was quiet when I arrived: a couple old-timers, nursing drinks at the end of the bar. A working girl, dividing her time between sipping her gin and tonic and nibbling on the ear of her john, whose suit – a little loose on his frame, but well-made, and only slightly out of style – suggested banker, and whose glassy eyes read well past drunk. And in a booth in the back, a large, red-faced man in a dusty brown suit and a fedora to match sat flirting with the barmaid, a buxom brunette in a skirt so high and a neckline so low they damn near met in the middle. A shock of red tie hung around the man's neck, and the woman fingered it playfully as she laughed at whatever it was he'd just said. But then he spotted me standing in the doorway, blinking in the sudden gloom of the bar after the brilliant glare of the afternoon sun, and he waved me over, his massive chins bobbing up and down. I shuffled toward him, clenching my jaw against the pain in my knee and willing the limp out of my gait.

  "Sam?" he asked, once I reached his booth. "Sam Thornton?"

  "That's me."

  "Good to meet you," he said. "Name's Dumas. Walter Dumas."

  He extended a hand. I shook it. Up close, I saw his bloodshot eyes, the gin blossoms that spread across his massive cheeks. It was pretty clear the guy was a few drinks to the good. He told me to have a seat, asked what I was having. I slid into the booth and said I wasn't thirsty. Dumas just shook his head and laughed.

  "Nonsense! Dinah, bring the boy a shot o' whiskey and a beer, and what the hell, the same for me as well!"

  "You got it, sugar," she said. She tapped Dumas playfully on the nose, leaning in as she did so he could better ogle the vast expanse of cleavage that pressed upward from her blouse in brazen defiance of gravity and decency both. Up close, her perfume was dizzying, and the apples of her cheeks were pricked with red, from rouge or drink I didn't know. She flashed me a wink as she turned to fetch our drinks, and then retreated to the bar, Dumas eyeing her all the while.

  "Fine piece a tail on that one," he said. "Got a husband, of course, but then that's no concern o' mine."

  I said nothing. Dumas just smiled.

  "So, Japs or Krauts?" he said.

  "Excuse me?" I said.

  "The limp – Japs or Krauts?"

  "Actually, neither. I've never served, though not for lack of trying. I enlisted back in '42, but they bounced me on account of my wife's condition."

  "Yeah, Johnnie mentioned she's a lunger." At that last, I flinched and cast my eyes around the bar to see if anyone had heard. Once tuberculosis moved to the lungs, it was both deadly and highly infectious – if word got out about Elizabeth, they'd surely lock her away in some horrid sanitarium where she'd slowly waste away to nothing. I refused to let that happen. Lucky for me, not a soul in the place was paying us any mind.

  Dumas said, "You seem healthy enough, though."

  "Docs say I'm doing fine." Of course, that was only half of what the doctors said. The whole of it was I'm doing fine for now. That living with Elizabeth, it was just a matter of time. The first few times, it didn't bother me – I mean, docs'll tell you all kinds of shit about eating your vegetables and laying off the drink, and that doesn't mean you listen to the letter. But you hear it enough, and eventually, it gets to you. I'd be lying if I said I didn't break out in a cold sweat every time I stifled a cough, wondering – is this the time my hand comes back flecked with blood? I'd be lying if I said I wasn't terrified. But I needed this job, and saying all that wasn't gonna help me none. Besides, the way Dumas was looking at me, I got the sense he already knew it.

  Our drinks arrived, and Dumas clanked his shot glass against mine, sloshing whiskey across the table, before tossing it back and chasing it with a swig of beer. I followed suit. My stomach roiled when the whiskey hit. Dumas held up his shot glass, signaled for two more.

  "So if it wasn't in the war, where'd you get the gimpy leg?"

  "Bad bit of business back in San Francisco. Back then, I worked the night shift at a foundry – at least, until we struck, that is. The owner of the place didn't take kindly to the idea, hired some boys to break it up. Some of us got a little more broke up than others."

  "Ah, so you're a union man," Dumas declared, beaming. "No wonder Johnnie sent you my way!"

  "I don't follow," I said.

  "Don't tell me Johnnie didn't tell you! You're among friends, brother! I run the International Longshoremen's Union, Local 1566. Christ, that Johnnie's quite a card, setting up a meeting like this and not telling you what it's all about – you musta thought we were the Cosa Nostra or some shit!"

  The barmaid brought our next round, her ruby lips parting in a smile as she leaned in close to set down my whiskey, the warmth of her breasts pressing against my arm. My face was flushed with embarrassment, though I wasn't sure why, and my head was fuzzy from the whiskey, from the barmaid's scent, from this weird-ass meeting. I tossed back the shot, and set fire to a cigarette. Neither helped to quell my unease.

  "So that's what this is all about?" I asked. "A union job?"

  His massive head bobbed up and down from behind his bottle of beer. "The union's always on the lookout for guys we can trust – guys who ain't afraid of a little hard work. Johnnie says you're good people, and his eccentricities aside, he ain't never steered me wrong yet. So whaddya say – you in?"

  "I don't even know what the job is yet."

  Dumas shrugged. "A little of this, a little of that. Errands, and the like. Nothin' you can't handle, I'm sure."

  Another shot appeared in front of me. I downed it without a second thought.

  "Johnnie said you knew a guy could help my wife."

  "That's right. I know a group o' docs at Bellevue say they're running some kind of trial. A miracle drug, to hear them tell it. They think that it's a cure."

  "And they're willing to treat Elizabeth?"

  Dumas nodded. "Ever since we got into this goddamn war, most of the medical equipment and supplies in th
is country have been diverted to the front, which means that stateside they're in short supply. Now, I'm all for supporting our boys overseas, but the way I figure it, we gotta keep the home fires burning too. Now, nothing comes into or out of the harbor that my guys don't have a hand in – we just make sure some of it stays here, and finds its way into some suitably appreciative hands. Workin' the docks ain't easy – we see our share of cuts and scrapes and broken bones. But you keep the sawbones happy, and they're more than willing to return the favor. We'll get that little missus of yours into that trial just as easy as you please, and soon she'll be right as rain."

  "You can seriously do that?"

  "You have my word."

  "Then just tell me what I have to do."

  "Nothin' yet, 'cept to go home and tell your wife the good news. The work you'll be doin', it ain't steady, but it pays well when it pays, so don't you worry about that. We'll call you when we need you."

  "I look forward to hearing from you."

  "Excellent. Now if you'll excuse me," Dumas said, nodding toward the bar, "I've got me a barmaid to attend to."

  Eleven hours.

  Eleven hours they'd left me here, sitting alone in this holding cell without so much as a word. In fact, these past two hours I hadn't even warranted a glance from the officer standing watch. Not that I was surprised – it had been written all over their faces as they led me back here: I was a crooked cop. A traitor. I guess they figured they could leave me to stew awhile, see if maybe it loosened my tongue a bit.

  Well, if they wanted me to stew, they sure as hell got what they wanted.

  I sat there in that dank fucking cell, my meeting with Merihem playing over and over in my mind. Any demon coulda taken this chick out for a spin, he'd said, 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. 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 an eternity. So assuming I was right, why set up the girl? And who the hell had that kind of power?

  More importantly, if someone was going to all this trouble, what was going to happen once word spread that I'd failed to collect her?

  I had more questions than answers, but there was one thing I did know – I had to get out of this cell, and fast. Whoever or whatever was after Kate, they'd come too far now not to give chase, and I meant to be there when they found her. The problem was, this skin-suit wasn't apt to play nice – he'd roll on me the minute I let him up off the mat, and my little plan to save the world would be over before it had even begun. Of course, there was one other option, but it didn't exactly fill me with warm fuzzies.

  But on the balance, what's one innocent life, when weighed against the Apocalypse?

  Truth to tell, I'd known for hours that there wasn't any other way, but it took a while to find the nerve. Just the thought of it set my hands shaking, and filled my stomach with angry, crawling things. I mean – yeah, I take lives every day, but only those that are mine to take. This, though, this was something else entirely.

  This was murder.

  Still, it wasn't like I was taking his soul. Just extinguishing his mortal flame. He'd be better off without it, really. He'd be free to, I don't know, frolic through the fields of heaven or whatever. That's what I told myself, at least.

  From the screaming in my head, I'd say neither of us much believed it.

  The bed frame creaked in protest as I tipped it on its end and wedged it against the wall beside the toilet. They'd taken my belt and laces, of course, but my uniform shirt looked strong enough, and the sleeves were more than long enough to do the job. I stripped to my undershirt and knotted one sleeve of my button-down around the top of the bed frame. Then I climbed atop the toilet and tied the other sleeve around my neck.

  Death, as a Collector, is a strange experience. For one, it hurts like hell. I mean, I suppose dying is never all that pleasant, but we Collectors seem to get a little extra in that regard. Whether it's a header off a bridge or a handful of pills, the agony is always the same. Kind of a stupidity bonus, I suppose. Still, we all try it a time or two before we catch on. The first time you take a soul, the experience is a little rough – most rookie Collectors think death the better option. And every once and a while, you see something that you just can't shake, and you get to thinking maybe this time it won't be so bad – maybe this time, they'll just let me fade to black.

  Believe me, they never do.

  Then there's the simple inconvenience of it all. See, a Collector's not like a demon – we can't exist outside a vessel. And when a vessel dies, any invading soul is expelled. So when we die, we get automatically reseeded somewhere else. If there's a rhyme or reason to where we end up, I sure as hell can't figure it. It could be around the block; it could be around the world. Both of which, I was forced to admit, would be better than my present accommodations.

  Still I hesitated, whether from guilt or some nagging sense of self-preservation, I knew not which. I caught a glimpse of my vessel's reflection in the polished steel mirror bolted to the wall beside me: though his hair had silvered at the temples, and his face was welllined, he couldn't be more than forty – a baby, by my reckoning. His eyes, a piercing blue, seemed to beseech me not to do this. I wondered if I even could.

  Then I pictured Kate, so small and frightened and alone, and my hesitation evaporated.

  I stepped off of the toilet.

  I stepped off of the toilet, and nothing happened.

  At first, I thought I'd just miscalculated – that I'd left too much slack in the shirt, and wound up just standing here, tied to the bed frame like an idiot. Then I looked down. My feet scrambled for purchase a good six inches off the floor. Just the sight of them swinging there made me break out in a cold sweat. And yet somehow, I was still breathing.

  Whatever the hell was going on, I was sure of one thing: this was not my fucking day. I couldn't even manage to kill myself properly.

  "You'll forgive my interference, I trust, but I found your chosen method of egress a touch… drastic."

  The voice came from somewhere to my right, its honeyed tones resonating off the cold masonry of the cell walls. Hanging there as I was, I couldn't see who the voice was coming from. I opened my mouth to reply. All that came out was a hoarse squeak.

  "So sorry," continued the voice. "Where are my manners?" The sleeve around my neck abruptly slackened, and I tumbled to the floor.

  He was a tall, slender man, and he was standing in the far corner of my cell. Though I was looking right at him, he remained fuzzy and indistinct, like something half-glimpsed out of the corner of my eye. His hair was neither light nor dark; his eyes were neither brown nor green nor blue. In fact, I could scarcely be certain he was a he at all: he was more the impression of a man, a collection of vague, impassive features, imbued with an odd internal light and clad in a suit of charcoal gray. Black gloves of supple leather graced his hands. He extended one by way of assistance, and I took it, climbing to my feet.

  "What are you doing here?" I asked. His eyes seemed lit from within, his every movement suffused with preternatural grace. It was all I could do not to look away.

  "Why, Collector, I would have thought that you'd be grateful – after all, I just spared you no small measure of suffering, did I not?"

  "But you – you're a seraph, aren't you? An angel of the highest order. It seems odd you'd deign to meddle in the affairs of Man – or stoop to rescuing a lowly Collector from hanging himself."

  The angel smiled. "It seems you know your angelic hierarchy. But tell me, Collector, how well do you know yourself? Your given name, for example, is from the Hebrew for 'heard by God'. Perhaps it is by God's grace that I've come to rescue you. Then again, perhaps I simply wish to save this vessel of yours from prematurely shuffling off this mortal coil. After all, this man is a warrior for good
– he deserves better than to be discarded once his usefulness to you is at an end."

  "So which is it? Did you come here to spare me or to save him?"

  "It is a fallacy of your human perspective that it must be one or the other. Can it not be both? Or, failing that, can it not just be?"

  "You're telling me mine is not to wonder why."

  "I'm telling you to have faith in the will of God," the angel amended.

  "Faith is belief in the absence of proof. As far as proof goes, I've seen my share. The way I figure it, that means faith for me is no longer an option."

  "I speak not of faith that God exists, but of faith that grace lies not beyond your reach."