The Wrong Goodbye (2 page)

  Then, suddenly, all was dark and still and quiet. I was lying face-down in two feet of muddy water, its vegetal stink invading my nose, my mouth, my very pores. Arms shaking, I pushed myself upward, gasping as my face cleared the surface of the muck. 

  I was at the edge of a broad, shallow stream, which burbled a delicate melody as it passed along its rocky bed. Behind me, the embankment jutted skyward maybe thirty feet, more cliff-face than hill. From the dense bramble of exposed roots and the relative lack of greenery, I guessed it was the result of a mudslide, and a recent one at that. Not that it mattered much to me either way. I mean, a fall's a fall – and besides, I was way more interested in the fire.

  It couldn't have been more than fifty yards downstream, nestled in a rocky crook on the far bank of the riverbed. The fire itself was lined with river rocks, and a makeshift spit of branches stretched across it, upon which roasted a goodly hunk of meat. Whoever'd chosen the spot knew what they were doing – the canopy was heavy there, providing shelter from the rain, and the stream supplied ample drinking water; the natural depression of the land hid the fire from view of anyone passing by above. Were it not for my fall, I would've walked right on past and never been the wiser. I allowed myself a smile as I pondered my sudden turn of fortune. 

  Though it had been days since I'd last eaten, and the aroma of cooking meat had set my mouth watering, I forced myself to hold my ground, counting to one hundred as I listened for any indication that Varela's men had seen me. I heard nothing but the growling of my stomach, and there was no sentry in sight. Given what I knew of Varela, the lack of perimeter guards was surprising, but maybe he believed the jungle to be protection enough from me. He had no idea how wrong he was.

  I approached the stream at a crouch, suddenly grateful for the deepening twilight and the thin layer of mud that together served to obscure my approach. Water leached into my boots as I crossed to the far bank, mindful all the while for any whisper of movement that might indicate snake. With Varela finally within my grasp, the last thing I needed was to tangle with a deadly coral, or have this meat-suit squeezed to death by an anaconda. I might not be too fond of this job of mine, but I'd still rather be predator than prey.

  Twenty yards out, I knew that something was wrong. There was no idle chatter, no rustle of fabric – no sound at all from Varela's camp, save for a low, persistent buzzing, like a dentist's distant drill. From behind a massive kapok trunk, I hazarded a glance. Several men, their backs to me, were silhouetted by the fire, but all were as still as death. I watched them for a moment, wondering if this was perhaps some kind of trap – a dummy camp set up to lure me in. Then I realized where the buzzing was coming from, and I knew this was no trap.

  I stepped clear of my hiding place and wandered into the camp. The buzzing here was deafening, and up close its source was clear. The entire place was swarming with insects – millions of them – all fighting for their share of the feast laid out before them. The corpses of Varela's men teemed with them – from tiny flies and gnats to massive, iridescent beetles the likes of which I'd never seen, all attracted by the scent of spilled blood and dead flesh, still too faint for my meat-suit's nose to recognize. I counted seven men around the fire. Five of them were riddled with bullet-holes, and abandoned among them was a Kalashnikov assault rifle, its action open, its clip spent. Each of the dead men carried a Kalashnikov of their own, strapped across their backs as if they were at ease when they'd been attacked. 

  By the look of the other two, I'd say those first five got off light.

  The first of them lay face-down a few feet from the fire. His rifle lay beneath him, as if he had been holding it at ready when he was attacked. No doubt this was the sentry I'd been listening for. It looked to me like he'd come running to help his buddies when the shooting started. An admirable reaction, to be sure, but apparently not the smartest play. I rolled him over with the toe of my boot. His neck flopped like a wet noodle, and his head lolled to one side. A crushing blow from a rectangular something-or-other had caved in his nose and made tartare of his face – all meat and teeth and glistening bone. A glance at the abandoned Kalashnikov confirmed the gunstock was to blame; it was caked with blood and bits of flesh. Whether the blow had been enough to snap his neck, or his assailant had done it afterward for good measure, I couldn't say.

  "What the fuck
happened
here?" I asked of no one in particular. For a moment, I thought I might just get an answer – the sentry's ruined lips parted and emitted a faint, rustling whisper. Then a cockroach the size of my fist crawled out of his mouth, antennae twitching in the still night air. I eyed it for a moment, but if it knew what had gone down, it sure as hell wasn't talking.

  The last of the bodies lay spread-eagle on the forest floor. His hands and feet were staked to the ground with knives no doubt scavenged from the belts of his dead companions. His shirt lay open at his sides, exposing his mutilated chest, now crawling with all manner of bugs. Unlike the sentry, his face had been spared, though I suspect that was more for my benefit than for his. His eyes were clouded and glassy, and his features were twisted into a rictus of pain, but still, there was no mistaking that face. 

  Varela.

  I crouched beside him and lay a hand atop his bloodied chest. Insects scampered across the back of my hand and crawled up my sleeve. I ignored them, instead closing my eyes and extending my consciousness – probing, searching. But it was no use. There was nothing left to find. 

  Varela's soul was gone.

  My meat-suit's heart thudded in its chest as the realization hit. Now, I don't know how the whitehats play it, but the souls of the damned don't just up and leave on their own. That means whoever attacked these men wasn't human – as far as I knew, there wasn't a man alive who had the means to steal a soul. That meant Collector.

  Problem is, we Collectors ain't exactly the Three Musketeers. All for one and one for all sounds all well and good, but hell doesn't work that way. Varela's soul was
my
responsibility – no exceptions, no excuses – which meant if
I
wasn't the one to bring him in, then I had failed in my mission. And believe me when I tell you, my employers don't take kindly to failure.

  I took a calming breath, and willed my racing heart to slow. The last thing I needed now was to freak. I forced myself to look over the scene, certain there was something I had missed. 

  Turns out, I was right.

  It's embarrassing, really, because in retrospect, it was so damn obvious. But when I'd first approached the camp, I had no reason to assume Collector. I just figured one of Varela's competitors had beaten me to the punch, in which case Varela's massive chestwound made sense – I mean, he had to die of
something
. But when you take a soul, the body dies. So, then: why the bloodied chest?

  I retreated to the fire, toppling the spit and sending the hunk of now-charred meat into the flames. For the first time, I realized how recently this must've all gone down – the meat, though burned, had yet to cook off the spit, and though the air was hot and thick with moisture, the bodies weren't bloated, and showed no signs of rigor. Whoever'd done this had beaten me by a matter of minutes. Of course, that knowledge didn't help me much – a few minutes was plenty of time for any Collector worth his salt to disappear. I pushed aside all thought of pursuit, instead focusing on my immediate task. I shoved one of the support branches from the spit into the embers until it caught. Then I returned to Varela's body, torch in hand.

  The flame danced in the sudden breeze as I swung the branch at the writhing mass of bugs that blanketed Varela's chest. Reluctantly, they parted, frightened by the fire but unwilling to relinquish their blood meal. As they shifted, I caught a glimpse of something odd – letters, three inches high, carved into the dead man's flesh.

  I lost my patience with the flame and dropped to my knees, scattering the remaining insects with a sweep of my arm. Beneath them was a message, ragged and crusted brown with drying blood:

  

  
SAM –

  
WE NEED TO TALK.
  
YOU KNOW WHERE.
  
– D

  

  That bastard, I thought. I should've known.

  I must've spent a half an hour sitting there, marveling at the presumption, the sheer arrogance that pervaded every grisly slice. Eventually, though, I rose and left the camp behind, plunging once more into the jungle – this time heading south. 

  Toward Bogotá. 

  Toward Danny.

 
 
 

The first time I met Danny Young, I wanted to kill him. I don't mean figuratively, like he was some jackass who rear-ended me at a stoplight when I was late for an appointment. I mean I literally wanted to wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze until his face went purple, his eyes bulged out of their sockets, and that incessantly wagging tongue of his was finally still, so I could sit and sip my drink in peace. Not the kindest of impulses, I'll grant you. But in my defense, I was having one hell of a lousy day.

  It was the fall of '53, and I was in a dingy basement pub in Amsterdam, a few blocks south of De Wallen, where, in the shadow of the Old Church, prostitutes peddled their wares. Ten yards of earth and stone were all that separated the place from the canal beyond, which no doubt contributed to the damp chill that had settled in my weary limbs. Of course, it wasn't the ambience that brought me here so much as their reputation for a heavy hand with the jenever – a local spirit that tastes like gin and turpentine in equal measure. I'd had three of them, maybe four, and still I couldn't stop my hands from shaking. I told myself it was the cold, but I wasn't yet drunk enough to believe it. Not after the job I'd just pulled.

  His name was Arnold Haas. A doll-maker by trade – and from what I'd heard, a damn good one. The way Lily told it, his dolls weren't the type you'd see dragged along the sidewalk by some jam-handed toddler – they were more the fetch-five-figures-atauction sort of deal. Now, you might be wondering why I'd care about a thing like that, but normally, that kind of information is pretty helpful to a Collector. See, there's two kinds of folks who wind up marked for collection: contract kills and freelancers. Contract kills are the ones who went and made themselves a deal with a demon, usually chasing fame or fortune, or maybe love, or lust, or revenge. Most contract kills are decent enough people – they just want a better hand than they've been dealt. Believe me when I tell you, most times, it ain't worth the price. Freelancers, on the other hand, are a nasty lot. They're the ones whose actions are so heinous, hell won't wait around for them to die. Given the quality of Haas's work, I'd assumed he was the former. 

  I was wrong.

  It was dusk when I'd arrived at Haas's house. Amber streetlights shone against a sky of deepening blue, and reflected off the still waters of the canal that ran parallel to Haas's street. The house itself was an elegant brick row house in the Dutch style, with tall, narrow windows and a gabled roof shingled in slate. The porch light was unlit, and the windows, save for one, were dark. I spent the length of a cigarette watching the house from beneath one of the many bare, skeletal elms that crowded the banks of the canal. Occasionally, a shadow would pass across the face of the one lit window – a bedroom, no doubt, as it was situated in the top-left corner of the house, just beneath the steep pitch of the roof, and three stories above the street on which I stood. 

  Good, I thought – that means he's home.

  The lock was nothing to sneeze at: a thick, meanlooking deadbolt I couldn't have picked in a week. But the door was inlaid with several squares of leaded glass, and those weren't so hard to handle. I wrapped a kerchief around my fist and knocked out the pane nearest the knob. In seconds I was inside. 

  I hesitated a moment, just inside the door, waiting for my eyes to adjust. The house, I realized, was cold – bitterly so. The air was thick with the spicy scent of potpourri, and something else as well, earthy and unpleasant. Beyond the entryway was a tidy living room – a floral couch, draped with lace; two highbacked armchairs, camel-colored and accented at the arms and legs with dark-stained wood; a thick mahogany coffee table, gleaming faintly by the light of the streetlights that trickled in through the sheer white curtains. A small iron fireplace sat unlit in one corner of the room, set into a rose-colored wall. But for that three-foot strip of wall, which stretched from mantle to ceiling, the entire room was lined with shelves – heavy, floor-to-ceiling shelves, stained so dark they appeared black in the dim light, and lined with thousands upon thousands of dolls. Some of them were made of simple cloth, with hair of yarn and button eyes, while others stared at me with eyes of glass, set in faces of ghost-white porcelain. All were resplendent in their Sunday best, an oppressive cacophony of bold prints and elaborate brocades, of chiffon and satin and lace. Their blank, implacable gazes unnerved me as I passed, cutting through the living room to the stairs that lay beyond. 

  I left my shoes at the foot of the stairs, and headed upward in my stockinged feet, as quiet as could be. The staircase walls were graced with floating shelves at irregular intervals. Too small to support whole dolls, these shelves were adorned with delicate porcelain hands and feet and eyeless heads – stark white and unfinished. Something about those empty sockets bothered me, though why, I didn't know. I ignored them and pressed on.

  At the second floor, the staircase turned. The unpleasant odor I'd caught wind of downstairs was stronger here, but I was so focused on finding Haas, I didn't pay it any mind. Through the delicate balusters above, I caught a glimpse of a half-closed door, silhouetted by the light of the room beyond. I headed toward it. The landing floorboards creaked in protest beneath my weight, and I winced. But this Haas was a doll-maker, I told myself, not some hardened criminal – what did I care if he heard me coming? So like an idiot, I threw caution to the wind, taking the stairs two at a time, and sprinting toward the open door. When I reached it, I kicked it inward – and then I froze. Haas wasn't there. But what was there was so fucking awful that for a moment, I forgot myself and just stood there, agape and staring.