Dead Harvest

11

Night had settled over the city by the time I made my way to the park. I was relieved for the anonymity the darkness afforded, but I didn't relish the prospect of tracking Kate and Anders down in it. At just a single city block, Chelsea Park wasn't a ton of ground to cover, but when you've got an angry horde of demons on your tail, you don't feel too compelled to stray from the cold comfort of the sodium-vapor lights and into the shadows beyond — missing girl or no.

Twice I wandered the perimeter of the grounds — up Ninth to Twenty-eighth, then over to Tenth and back down to Twenty-seventh — but Kate was nowhere to be seen. I hopped the low metal fence-rail and cut across the grounds. At this late hour, the park was devoid of patrons, with the exception of the derelicts who took refuge beneath her trees and sought comfort on her benches. As I wandered the footpaths beneath the canopy of leaves, I shivered. Sheltered as it was from the stone and brick and glass of the city, which seemed to radiate the sun's heat for hours into the night, it was colder here — achingly so. I shoved my hands into my pockets and pressed on, hoping against hope that I would turn the corner and find them there, waiting.

Eventually, my head caught on to what my gut had known all along: Kate and Anders were gone. The thought of Kate wandering the city with just a mental case with a bowie knife to protect her made my stomach lurch. I mean, Anders was a good kid, but what the hell was he gonna do if they came across another Collector, sent to do what I wouldn't? And if she were taken, what then? Apocalypse?

All of which meant there was no plan B: I had to find them first.

"Hey, pal, you got a smoke?"

He was huddled under a tree at the edge of a basketball court. With his matted gray beard and his ratty, timeworn clothes, he nearly disappeared into the gloom.

I patted my pockets reflexively, but of course I didn't have any. Whatever Flynn here had in his pockets when I snatched him had been confiscated before I ever came to.

"Sorry," I replied. "I wish I did."

"How 'bout a little cash, then?"

The second voice was lower, raspier, and dripped with Bond-villain menace. All of which was secondary to the fact that it was coming from about six inches behind me.

I said, "Listen, friend, you don't wanna to do this — I've got nothing you could possibly want, and believe me when I tell you I'm more trouble than I'm worth."

"I think we'll be the judge of that, friend." Something cold and hard jabbed into the small of my back as if to punctuate his point. By the look of his cohort, I doubted it was a gun; more likely than not, I was being held up with an empty bottle of Night Train.

This day just kept getting better and better.

Guy One found his feet and clambered over to me, a look of demented glee pasted on his face. Guy Two had a death grip on my shoulder and continued to jab the not-gun into my back like if he pretended hard enough, maybe this time it'd go bang-bang for real. "Check his pockets," he called over my shoulder. His breath reeked of garbage and decay. His buddy didn't smell much better.

Guy One's fingers found my pants pocket and dipped inside. I saw my chance and took it. I slammed my head into his nose and he went down screaming. Blood spattered across the concrete. I grabbed Guy Two's wrist and twisted, hard. Something snapped, and he folded like a cot. My knee connected hard with his throat as he went down. He crumpled into a writhing, wheezing mess, his precious bottle shattering on the ground beside him. I stood at ready between them, my feet straddling the three-point line of the ball court, but they were all out of fight. Damn shame, I thought — I was just getting warmed up.

"Now, boys, I hope you don't mind if I ask you a few questions."

"Fuck you," said Guy One. Of course, with his nose a twisted wreck, it sounded more like fug-OOH. Still, you had to give him points for trying.

"I'm looking for a girl. Sixteenish, pretty. She would've been traveling with a guy about her age. Either of you gentlemen see her?"

"Ead shid ad eye."

"Sorry," I said, "didn't catch that one. Wanna give it another try?"

"Ead shid ad eye. Eadshidadeye!"

"Ah — eat shit and die. Charming. But I'm done playing."

I hunched over him and plunged my hand into his chest. He shrieked like a frightened child. Then I wrapped my fingers around his soul, and his shrieks died down to a whimper.

"Now," I said, bathed in the black light of his soul, "I'm going to ask you again. Did you see her?"

His eyes were wide with terror. Guy One said nothing. Then I gave his soul a tug and he started singing, his voice thick and nasal, his broken nose mangling his consonants.

"Y-yeah, I s-s-saw her. They l-left a coupla hours ago, when the cops came through to shake us out."

"Any idea where they went?"

"N-n-no!" The Ns like Ds.

I released him. He crumpled to the ground, crying like a newborn. "W-w-wha…what did you do to me?"

"Gave you a taste of what your eternity's gonna look like if you're not careful. You're gonna get the hell out of here and get yourself clean, you hear me? Stay off the drink, get yourself a job, and if ever you end up running this racket again, I'll be back for you. We clear?"

Guy One nodded, his face full of fear and awe. I was full of shit, of course, but what's the harm of a little white lie every now and again in the service of a good deed?

I snagged a handful of crumpled bills from the man's pocket — his take of the night's spoils, no doubt — and left him shaking on the pavement as I headed back toward Tenth. My head was reeling from the glimpse into his withered soul, and what little information he'd given me was ringing in my head. So Kate and Anders had made it this far, and they fled before the cops had seen them. That meant I still had a shot. But if I was gonna find them, I was going to need some help.

And so I set out to find me a payphone, oblivious to the eyes that tracked me through the darkness, watching.

I found a bank of payphones on the corner of Ninth and Twenty-sixth. One of them was missing entirely, and the second's handset was nowhere to be seen. I snatched the third off of its cradle and pressed it to my ear. It was dead. I muttered a silent prayer, to which side I wasn't sure, and punched in the number Merihem had given me. For a second, nothing happened. Then, somewhere in the city, the other phone began to ring — an odd, queasy, reluctant sort of ring. Still, I coulda done a jig.

After three rings, Merihem answered.

"I was beginning to think I wasn't going to hear from you, Sam." The voice was breathy and feminine, but there was no mistaking Merihem's tone. If I had to guess, I'd say he camped one of his girls out by a random payphone somewhere in the city in anticipation of this call. Locked up as I'd been, I wondered how long I'd left her standing there. I decided that I didn't really care.

"We need to talk," I said.

"I'm not sure that's such a good idea."

"Yeah, well, I ran out of good ideas a few days back, so it'll have to do. If you'd like, I can come to you."

"No!" Merihem's voice quavered for a moment — panic? fear? — but then he caught himself, and his composure returned. "That won't be necessary."

"Where, then?"

"The corner of Eleventh and Sixth. One hour. Don't be late."

"I'll be there," I replied, but there wasn't any use. I was speaking into a dead receiver. Merihem was gone.

Chris F. Holm

Dead Harvest