The Soul Collectors

13

Positioned in the centre of the man's back, between his shoulder blades and sitting directly on top of his spine, was a black rectangular device the size of a matchbook. The device had grooved edges, and someone had sewn it into the man's skin. No redness or infection.

A small green light blinked steadily.

'What is this?' Darby asked, tapping the device with her finger.

He turned his head to the side and moaned. Soapsuds bubbled from the corners of his mouth. Or was it the poison? If it had entered his system, he'd go into respiratory distress at any moment. She'd have only a few minutes to question him before he died.

She grabbed the tactical knife. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted shadows crowding the window.

She didn't want witnesses, so she stood up, grasping the man under the armpits, feeling his wet, soapy body shivering in the cold as she pulled him to his feet. His legs wobbled, about to tip over. Grabbing his belt and the cuffs wrapped around his wrists, she pushed him past the side of the house and into the backyard. Then she marched him into the pitch-black woods where they'd have privacy.

Their heavy footsteps snapped the dry branches lining the ground. In between coughs she could hear him fighting to breathe.

A moment later she found a suitable tree well away from the home's back windows. She cut through the cuffs and kicked his legs out from underneath him, pushing him into a sitting position. He didn't try to run or fight, just sat there slumped back against the tree. She pulled his arms behind the tree trunk and bound his wrists with a fresh pair of Flexicuffs.

Darby wanted a record of this conversation. She didn't have her digital recorder and didn't want to rely on memory. Her iPhone had a recording application, but it could store only about a minute or so of conversation, and that -

Darby stood, tucking the knife in her belt, and grabbed her iPhone. The colour screen came to life, parting some of the darkness as she moved around the tree dialling her home number. In the distance she heard what sounded like a helicopter engine — probably a news copter wanting to capture all the chaos and carnage.

'Question and answer time,' she said after hearing the beep of her answering machine on the other end of the line. 'Let's start first with that device attached to your back. What is it? What does it do?'

The phone's screen had gone dark. She held it close to the man's mouth. He tried to speak over the moaning but she couldn't make out the words.

She knelt next to him. 'Is it some sort of GPS device?'

A cough and then he moaned a word that, oddly, sounded like 'quiche'.

'GPS,' she said. 'Global Positioning System?'

Again the moan, followed by the slurred quiche-sounding word.

'Do you speak English?'

'Aaaa-ho… na… ah-nah-ho.'

He spoke like a man who'd had his jaw broken.

Darby placed the phone on his lap, grabbed the flashlight from her belt and turned it on, shining the narrow beam in his face.

The man's bright blue eyes were wild, feral-looking. The sides of his egg-white, veiny face were bloody and swollen from the blows, but his jaw appeared to be working fine. He coughed, spitting out blood mixed with the soapsuds or possibly poison, and when he tried to speak, letting out that deep, moaning sound, Darby discovered why she couldn't understand him. His tongue had been cut out.