The Collector (19 page)

Because the next time I witness someone hurt, I’ll know I could have stopped it.

What if Charlie was the next person hurt by this hate? I imagine that. Imagine knowing it’s my fault she’s afraid, the way her face would twist in terror.

And suddenly, my decision breaks over my head and shatters into a million pieces. It tears into my chest and rips out my beating heart. Charlie has to help protect people from this pain. And I have to protect her.

My mind races when I realize what I’m thinking.

Boss Man has counted me as his right hand, has always trusted me.

And now I will betray him.

Chapter Thirty-eight

Photos

Though the decision is fresh in my mind, it feels final. I’ve never been one to half-ass, and I’m not going to start now.

With my chest tightening, I try and determine my next steps.

Charlie could bring peace for a hundred years. I know damn well Boss Man doesn’t want that to happen. He’s greedy for souls, and her life would definitely put a damper on new inventory. Still, he wouldn’t send a collector to hurt her physically. There’s no way he could hurt a human without pissing off Big Guy and chancing war. But with these amplified stakes, I feel a twinge of doubt at what Boss Man will permit.

For now, I have to start with the soul contract. Charlie’s already signed it, and though there’s no way to take that back, I have to stop her before she asks for anything else. Maybe if she stalls, it’ll buy us some time. Maybe we could push pause on the whole beauty requests thing indefinitely.

Though somehow, I doubt it.

I’ve got to return to Peachville. I have to figure out why Boss Man wants Charlie’s soul. We may both know what she’s capable of, but it doesn’t explain why he wants her collected
now
. What could that accomplish if she’ll just go on living? I also have to figure out how I’m going to protect her without sealing my own fate.

But before I do any of that, I have to say good-bye to my mother.

Brushing off my jeans, I walk the few blocks back to her house. It’s been awhile since I left, and I wonder if she’s still inside. A few doors from her place, I glance around and pull on my shadow. Then I cross the street and find the same bench I sat on earlier. An hour goes by, and I fidget like a crack fiend. Too much crap is flying through my head right now, but I have to see my mother one more time before I leave Chicago. Just…one more time.

After another twenty minutes, I decide I’m going to take a chance. After all, who’s to say she’ll even come out again today? I get up from the bench and walk toward the brownstone. I know she can’t see me, but something about being this close to home makes my brain buzz.

I creep up the stairs and glance through the window, but I don’t see her anywhere. She’s definitely not downstairs. Glancing back down, I wonder if there’s any way…

Jogging down the steps, I eye the corner brick on the last step. Back in the day, I spent my nights partying wicked late. Eventually, Dad took away my key so I couldn’t sneak in after curfew. After that, I literally had to knock every time I got home and be let in by my parents. Naturally, this was unacceptable to my lifestyle. So I made a copy of my mother’s key and hid it under the loose brick. I’m pretty sure Mom knew I’d swiped another key, but since Dad was mostly gone, and Mom was never a fan of waking up to let my ass in, she turned a blind eye.

I jiggle the brick. At first, I think she’s had it repaired. But then it eases out, and beneath it, I see a silver key winking in the sunlight.
Score!

Grabbing the key, I race up the stairs, take one last look through the window, and slide the key into the slot. The lock
clicks
, and I open the door and step inside, holding my breath as if that matters. I reach behind me and gently close the door.

A pang of longing forms in my chest like a fist. Looking around, it’s like nothing has changed. I walk through the foyer and into our sitting room. The floor is covered in white French tile, and the walls are painted robin’s-egg blue. A silver chandelier hangs from the ceiling, and the white couch and slip chairs make the room feel serene. Along the walls, English paintings are hung in ornate silver frames, and over the fireplace, I know I’ll see—

My eyes freeze on the mantle.

I see my face everywhere, just as I did growing up. Me playing soccer when I was eleven, my arm around another kid. My mother and me having breakfast at a hotel in Aspen. Me as a baby, wrapped in a red blanket. There are at least a dozen pictures of me doing different things with different people. But something is missing, or rather,
someone
.

My father’s pictures used to be up there, too. I particularly remember their wedding photo front and center. I run my hand over the cool wood where my father’s blue-gray eyes used to stare back at me. Glancing around, afraid my mother will suddenly appear, I move toward the kitchen. It’s a steel-and-granite paradise, but over the kitchen sink, I notice more photos of my father are missing. He’s gone. It’s like my mother erased him.

I know in an instant why she’s done it. She’s hanging on to my memory. My death is something she’ll never forget, and she doesn’t want to. But my father…his face stands in the way of her moving on with her life. How can she be a wife again if he’s everywhere? I imagine she has a box hidden somewhere in her room filled with his photos. Maybe she takes it out every weekend, sifts through them, and just cries. I hang on to this thought, because I couldn’t bear it if this wasn’t the truth.

A flight of wooden stairs rise between the kitchen and sitting room. I move toward them. There’s something upstairs I have to see. It’s not my bedroom or even my childhood playroom. It’s my mother’s room. I need to see her jewelry and perfumes and clothing. Maybe there’s a photo of her stashed somewhere I can take with me. It’ll have to do in the years ahead.

I approach the foot of the stairs, grab the railing—and look up.

My mother stares back at me.

Every muscle in my body, every bone, tightens. She stares at me like she can actually see me, but I know that’s impossible. I take a small, silent step back, and she follows the movement with her eyes.

I have to get out of here. Now. I continue to back away, trying to make my way to the door. With every step I take, my mother takes a step down the stairs. It’s like…she senses me.

I hear a sudden thumping sound and realize she’s running down the stairs. My hands flail out, looking for something, though I have no idea what. At the bottom of the stairs, she stops and glances around, searching.

Searching for me.

Her chest rises and falls rapidly, and pain crosses her face. Her eyes sweep across the room, stopping on nothing in particular. Then they fall to the floor. She pulls in a long breath and runs her fingers through her hair, which is now down around her shoulders. When she lifts her head again, there are tears in her eyes.

Slowly, she moves across the room and reaches toward the mantle. Her hand closes around the photo of me and her at the hotel. She grips it so hard her knuckles whiten, and I fight the urge to sob. I want to throw my arms around her—hug my mom and be hugged back. I want to go upstairs to my room and spend the rest of my life caring for her and being a son again.

I won’t show myself, even if I were allowed to.

I can’t.

She’s already been through so much. I have to love her enough to say good-bye.

My mother stands for a moment, clutching the photo to her chest. Then she turns and shuffles up the stairs like someone twice her age. I relax, and a breath rushes from my lungs. I take one last look around the house and move toward the door.

With my hand on the knob, I stop. I don’t want to leave. Not without doing something first. I dig into my pocket and retrieve my lucky coin. Pulling my hand out, I open my palm and stare at the blurry printing. I’ve kept this coin for two years. Having it with me, it felt like my father hadn’t left. Not completely, anyway. But I know with the risks I’m facing that I could lose everything. I always want to know where my father is. Even if I’m trapped in eternal pain, I want to know where a small piece of him lies. And with the disappearance of his photos from my mother’s mantle, I want even more for it to be here, with her.

I walk quickly to the mantle, keeping an eye on the staircase. Then I slide the penny behind one of my photos, so that it lies against the backing, hidden.

There. Now I’m sure my father will always be here with my mother, right where he should be. I’m suddenly blindsided by a wash of emotions as I remember my dad. I like to imagine he’d sacrifice himself to make the world better for my mother and me, so I know he’d understand. Maybe he’d even be proud of the choice I’m making.

I cross the room, open the door, and leave unnoticed. Walking down the stairs, I notice how ugly Chicago looks. Leaves breaking off from the trees, dead. Grass robbed of its rich green color. Even the sky seems unremarkable. I squeeze my eyes shut, then put my hands over my ears and…just…push.

I don’t want to see anything. I don’t want to hear anything. But mostly, I don’t want to
think.
Dropping my hands and opening my eyes, I walk down the sidewalk but keep myself hidden from the world. If people don’t see me, then maybe I’m not here…maybe I don’t exist.

I’m somewhere else, some
one
else. But that can’t really happen, can it? I can’t escape myself or the things I’ve done. When most people die, they get to forget who they were. But for me, I’ll always remember what I
was.

I was the center of the universe.

I was king of the world.

I was the son who watched his father die.

I was the one who killed him.

I was the driver of that damn car.

Chapter Thirty-nine

Flying Back to Charlie

I board the plane back to Alabama and breathe a sigh of frustration when the stewardess plops a ten-year-old down next to me. I mean, this is first class. Why a ten-year-old? She’s wearing a blue-jean skirt, a white tank, and enough thin silver bracelets to give me a headache every time she moves. Pulled back in her short brunette hair is a white sweatband.

As soon as the girl sits down, she reaches over me to see out the window. Her eyes are as big as Alaska, and she couldn’t appear more terrified if someone bit the end off a grenade and tossed it in her lap.

When the plane rolls, then races, down the runway, she goes full-on possessed, swinging her head around and speaking in tongues. After a few minutes, she calms down. But when mild turbulence hits halfway through the flight, the tears start a-comin’.

I don’t even notice she’s crying until I lean forward to take my drink from the stewardess. But once I realize the girl’s cheeks are wet and her chest is convulsing, I can’t get it out of my head. Now typically, I’d play dumb. Act like I didn’t know that the kid next to me is having a nervous breakdown. But I can’t. And I know damn well why not. It’s Charlie. That girl got in my brain and dug around. She found the one morsel of good in there, held it up to the light, and said, “See here? See this? Look how sparkly! Let’s make it
grow
.”

Setting my drink down and facing the kid, I ask, “Freaked out?”

At first, she seems surprised I’m speaking to her. But then she swallows and nods.

“Tell you something? I was totally freaked out the first time I flew.”

“Really?” she asks.

No. Not really. I can’t remember being afraid of anything when I was alive.

“Totally,” I answer. “But you know what? These people who fly these planes? They’re, like, flipping geniuses. You’re in safe hands.”

The girl glances toward the cockpit and gives a small smile, but she’s not convinced.

I try to think of something to get her mind off the flight. Her sweatband catches my eye. “Why you wearing a sweatband? Is that what all the kids are doing these days?”

She laughs and touches the headband. “LeBron James wears one. He’s playing tonight so I got to be…you know…”

“Supportive,” I finish for her.

She nods.

“Want to see something cool?” I pull my foot up and turn back the tongue on my red sneaker.

Her eyes bug out. “Is that what I think it is?”

“If you think it’s Dwyane Wade’s autograph, you’d be right.”

“Dude,” she says.

“Dude,” I say back.

“I would, like, never take those off.” The girl sits back in her seat, visibly relaxing.

I put my foot back down. “I don’t.”

She pulls her mouth up to one side like she’s thinking. “What if you’d gotten LeBron’s autograph, too?”

“Pfft. Please,” I say. “I got the only one I wanted.”

Her face gets all excited like she’s got a million arguments on the subject of Miami’s best player. Turns out, I’m right. And as we approach Birmingham, she’s still defending her stance. I hold up a hand to stop her and point out the window. She sees the city and gets a confused look, like she’s not sure what I’m referencing.

“We’re here,” I say.

She glances from the window to me. An enormous smile covers her face, and she throws her little kid arms around my neck. The sensation strikes something inside of me. Something I haven’t felt in a very long time.

Like a warm fuzzy or some shit.

…

When I get to Peachville, it’s late, but I need to see Charlie right away. Even though I’m not sure it can be done, I’ve got to try and stop her from fulfilling any more of the contract. But I’m afraid of where this conversation could go. My biggest fear is that she’ll uncover my secret. That I don’t work for Big Guy. I think about the way she’d look at me if she knew—with fear and betrayal and disgust. My shoulders tighten, and I have to roll them several times to relax.

I wonder whether she’ll be disappointed in not receiving all the beauty wishes she’d expected. But I feel sure I can make her see reason. I’ll just tell her the truth—that seventy-five percent of attraction comes from exuding confidence. I’ll teach her how to enter a room, how the tilt of her chin can make people believe she’s too good for them. I’ll also hold her in front of a mirror and show her the things I see. The elegant slope of her collarbone, the soft, flat plane of her stomach, the way the corner of her eyes crinkle when she laughs. There are a million little reasons why someone could fall for Charlie; I just have to remind her of those things. I just have to say,
You’re beautiful. If you believe it, they’ll believe it.

I pull up to Charlie’s house and walk up to the bright red door. Raising my hand to knock, I hesitate. She was upset when I last saw her. Will she still be tonight?

I drop my hand. That kiss. I couldn’t have taken it. It felt wrong. I’ve never cared about deceiving someone before, but with her—I don’t know. I just couldn’t do it. Maybe one day, if I can find a way to save her soul, then we can…

But even as I consider this, I realize it’ll never happen. Charlie is meant to do big things. And me, on the other hand, I’m just trying to escape my past.

I bite the inside of my cheek, and this time, I manage to knock without stopping myself. Grams opens the door. She seems surprised someone’s here so late, but when she realizes it’s me, her expression changes. Anger flashes behind her eyes.

“Man Child,” she says, cocking a hand on her hip.

“Can I talk to Charlie?”

She smiles, but it’s a non-teeth smile, which isn’t promising. “No, you may not. She came home from school today pretty upset.”

I lean against the frame outside the door, wondering if Grams knows about Vegas. “She stayed at Annabelle’s last night,” I say. “Maybe you shouldn’t let her stay over there anymore.”

“I don’t think that’s the problem.”

She eyes me, so I eye her right back.

“Look, I really need to talk to her,” I announce in my best gentleman voice. “It’s important.”

Grams shakes her head. “That is unfortunate.”

I’ve had enough of Grams right about now. I push past her as she hollers for me to stop, that she’s going to squash me like a bug. But something besides Grams’s empty threats stops me.

Charlie.

She’s standing at the top of the stars, gazing down. She seems worn, like she’s been fighting a battle all night.

“Charlie,” I say, “I have to talk to you.”

“It’s late, Dante. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Charlie…” My voice has a pleading tone, but I don’t care. Seeing her now, I can’t believe I ever imagined not saving her. I can’t believe I never really
saw
her before this. That I didn’t see how beautiful her soul is, how the life she lives is one I’ve always wanted but never had the guts to claim. My heart throbs, and I know it’s over for me. I’m done. Putty in her hands.

She turns and walks back toward her room. Over her shoulder, she says in a shaky voice, “Please. Go home.”

I’m too shocked to move. I knew she was upset, but I didn’t think she’d kick me out. Grams grabs my arm and gives a gentle tug. The anger has drained from her face. Instead, she looks at me with pity. I yank my arm away and glare at her because I don’t need anyone pitying me. Ever.

“I’m fine,” I bark.

“I know you are,” she says.

I march past her and out the door. Behind me, I hear the
click
of the lock sliding into place, and moments later, the front porch light flips off. I stand alone in the dark, looking up at Charlie’s bedroom window. A warm light glows behind her sheer curtains, and my nerves fire. Maybe I should climb up and talk to her. But seconds later, the light snuffs out.

Hanging my head, I walk back to Elizabeth Taylor. Charlie is really upset, and I know now this isn’t just about the kiss. There’s something bigger going on. I think back through all the times she requested beautiful features. I remember how she immediately sought my opinion on her blonder, shinier hair, and how she asked if I knew what color her eyes were before changing those, too. And finally, in Vegas, when she asked if I thought she should ask for more beauty.

In every single instance, I practically begged her to fulfill the contract. And why wouldn’t I? At the time, all I cared about was finishing the job and getting my promotion. But now, all I feel remembering these last few days is shame.

Briefly, I try that putting-yourself-in-their-shoes thing I’ve heard about. I wonder how I’d feel if someone suggested I change my appearance. My face pulls together, and I wince. I’d tell that someone where to shove it. But like a sudden slap, I realize I’d also be hurt.

Starting the engine, I pull away from Charlie’s house and drive toward Wink Hotel. I never checked out, and even thinking about the bed makes me drowsy. Right now, I should turn around, charge up the lattice outside her window, and demand she speak to me. But maybe she’s right. It’s late. And technically, I still have three days to finish this assignment. Knowing how quickly Sunday will be here, my stomach clenches.

Fatigue overtakes anxiety as I park outside Wink Hotel and then let myself into my room. I have no idea what I’m going to do to protect her. I don’t know how I’m going to keep her from finding out who I really am. And I really don’t know how I’m going to do both without being cast into the ninth ring of hell.

These, and other equally lovely thoughts, are the last I remember as I succumb to sleep.

…

I bolt upright in bed and listen. I heard something. In fact, I think I’ve been hearing it for a while and am just now realizing it.

Cocking my head, I listen for whatever woke me. I’m about to accept that I’m imagining things when four quick raps sound outside my door. I glance around the room, attempting to pull myself awake and trying not to panic. It could be anybody. Just because someone’s outside my door doesn’t mean crap’s about to the hit the fan.

I slide off the bed and move toward the door, holding my breath.

“Dante, dude, it’s me. Open up. I know you’re in there.” Max’s words sound muffled through the steel door, but sure as hell I know it’s him.

I swing the door open, and he strolls past me into the room.

“Where have you been?” he says. “I couldn’t sense you anywhere for the last twenty-four hours. I thought you’d gone rogue and busted your cuff off or something. Committed demon suicide.”

I flip on the light, and Max pushes himself up on the dresser to sit.

“I had to take care of some stuff.”

“I bet you did.” Max acts like he’s slapping, then squeezing, someone’s rear.

Running a hand through my hair, I say, “Max, I need to sleep.”

“I bet you do.”

“Cut it out. I’m seriously exhausted.”

Max frowns. “It’s that Charlie girl. She’s got you whipped or something. You’re really pulling out all the stops to bring this one in. Taking her to parties. Flying her around the world.”

I freeze, then shoot a cold look at Max. The memory of the collector watching me pours over me like lava. Heat pricks my skin as I realize this collector…could be anyone. Very slowly, I ask. “How do you know we left Peachville?”

He points at me. “Busted! I knew it.”

Inspecting him closely, I wait to see what else he’ll say.

“Simmer, man.” He raises his hands. “Like I said, I knew you were gone because I couldn’t sense you anymore. You know that unless we’re downstairs, we have to be pretty close to pick up on the cuff. I knew you were in Peachville because that’s where everyone said your assignment was, and when I couldn’t sense you anymore, I knew you’d left. Figured you’d taken a trip with your old lady.”

What he says makes sense, but suddenly, I can’t shake the paranoia. What if it’s him? What if he’s watching me? Most collectors would do anything to get the promotion I’m up for. Can I really trust Max right now?

I nod toward the door. “I think you should go.”

“Dante…” he says, and it sounds exactly the way I said Charlie’s name earlier.

“Max, get out before I make you get out. I’ve got three days to bring Charlie in. And like you said, I don’t want any of those pesky consequences for failing to deliver. I’m sure you understand.”

Hurt twists his face, but I’ve known Max for two years, and I’m certain if he wanted to, he could be an Oscar-winning actor.

Max’s eyes open with disbelief, and his head drops. Then he remembers himself and glances up. “Yeah. Fine. Whatever.”

I cross my arms as Max turns to go and fight the temptation to stop him. He’s been a good friend. No, a great one. And I can’t believe this assignment has made me into someone who can’t trust his best guy.

The door closes behind Max, and I sit down on the bed. For several seconds, I just stare at the brown-and-black damask carpeting, feeling like I just lost the only person who really knows me.

A sharp, high sound startles me, and I jump up, half-hoping that somehow it’s Max. If it’s him, I’m certain I won’t be able to send him away. But as I listen, I can tell it’s coming from farther away, and it doesn’t sound anything like him.

Opening the door, I hear the noise coming from the stairwell. It sounds like a woman screaming. I walk, then run, toward the shriek. Swinging the stairwell door open, I hear that she’s calling for help about two flights down. I jog down the stairs, wondering what I’m doing, why I’m running after a screaming lady.

When I see her just standing there, I reach out and grab her arm.

“Hey, what’s wrong—”

I stop.

Max is slumped over on the ground, holding his head. Blood, dark and thick, is running down the front of his face from beneath his hands. Beside him is a fire extinguisher, blood splattered over one end.