The Soul Collectors

1

When the helicopter began its rapid descent, to the now defunct Pease Air Force Base in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, Darby McCormick shifted her gaze out of her window and saw, courtesy of the bright searchlight blazing from the copter's belly, a big white van parked on the quiet stretch of dark and empty tarmac far below. She spotted a turret on the roof and then, a moment later, could make out the black gun ports along one side. Not a van but an Armoured Personnel Carrier, a brick shithouse of a vehicle meant to withstand both gunfire and explosions. The thing could roll over a landmine without suffering so much as a dent.

Darby rubbed her fingers across her dry lips, thinking. An hour ago she'd been sitting in her living room, finishing off a Heineken and watching the final minutes of the Celtics game (Boston was giving the New York Knicks a well-deserved and highly enjoyable ass-kicking), when the phone rang.

She had hoped it was Coop calling from London. He'd been moved there three months ago, and because of the different time zones — London was five hours ahead of Boston — they were constantly playing phone tag. She had called him earlier in the day to thank him for the gift — an antique hardcover copy of her all-time favourite book, Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice.

The gruff voice on the other end of the line introduced himself as Gary Trent, SWAT senior corporal for the Portsmouth and Durham areas of New Hampshire. He told her she was needed up north immediately and that someone was already on his way to take her to Logan Airport.

Darby told him she didn't store her SWAT gear at home, just her tactical equipment. Don't worry, Trent said. All the arrangements had been made. Then he hung up.

The man's abruptness or his failure to explain why she was needed didn't surprise or shock her, as SWAT never spoke over an unsecured channel. She shut off the TV and went to her bedroom closet to gather the things she needed. Five minutes later, when she heard the buzzer for her condo, she grabbed her duffel bag, locked up and headed down the winding set of stairs to the building's front door.

Her escort, a skinny, puppy-faced Boston patrolman she didn't know, looked like a teenager dressed up as a cop for Halloween. He said his name was Tim and informed her he'd been ordered to bring her to Logan, where a private helicopter would take her directly to New Hampshire. Clearly Timmy had been given the word to step on it. Lights flashing and sirens wailing, the car made it to Logan in record time.

Darby wondered how the Boston brass felt about her being called in to assist in a SWAT operation. Three months ago, Boston PD had suspended her, with pay, from the Criminal Services Unit, the department's specialized group that dealt with violent crime. CSU had been dismantled temporarily — maybe even permanently — in the wake of the murder of Boston Police Commissioner Christina Chadzynski.

Seated inside the helicopter, it came back to her again, that night inside the abandoned auto garage with the two cops who had kidnapped her. One was a federal agent, the other a Belham detective, a man she had known since childhood — Artie Pine, a close friend and confidant of her deceased father — and they had planned on torturing her. Darby killed them both and on her way out of the garage found Christina Chadzynski waiting in an adjoining room, the woman sitting at an old desk holding a shotgun, the police commissioner's hands covered in latex gloves. Darby remembered the momentary flash of surprise on the woman's face at being discovered. You're supposed to be dead, that look said, and then the woman said, I have a way out of this for you… If you play your cards right, you'll come out of this looking like a hero.

Darby didn't have to worry about Chadzynski any more — or Internal Affairs. Darby had told the IA officers that Artie Pine had killed the police commissioner. She had staged the crime scene, and, after hearing the recording of Chadzynski boasting about her skilful corruption methods, IA had cleared her. Now she had a more pressing problem: the Boston Police Department. The brass believed she had committed the one mortal and unforgivable sin: airing the department's dirty laundry in the press. That was the real issue at work here, why the suits were taking so long deliberating her fate. If she was reinstated — her lawyer had an almost unwavering confidence that this would, in fact, happen — the powers that be would find a way to punish her. Probably kick her back to the lab and make her process rape kits or feed old DNA samples into CODIS. Drown her in mind-numbing work given to a first-year forensic tech.

The helicopter made a hard landing on the tarmac. Darby unbuckled her seatbelt, grabbed her heavy duffel bag and opened the cabin door, crouching underneath the steady thump thump thump of the spinning blades. Once she cleared them, she hoisted the bag over her shoulder and ran through the brisk late-September night air, heading for the SWAT officer, dressed head to toe in black assault gear, standing by the APC's rear doors.

Darby climbed inside, quickly found the empty spot on the edge of the right bench mounted against the wall and sat. A SWAT officer banged a gloved fist twice on the wall, the signal to get rolling. The APC lurched forward, and just before its rear doors slammed shut she caught sight of the copter taking back off.

Six SWAT officers, all men, in heavy black assault gear and with black greasepaint on their faces, crammed the benches. Her attention locked on the seventh man — a big white guy standing near a partition behind the driver, looking away from her and his men. He held on to one of the metal handles installed on the ceiling while he talked on a phone connected to an encryption pack. He stared down at the floor listening to the person on the other end of the line, his jaw muscles bunching as he bit down hard on the wad of gum wedged between his front teeth. He appeared to be in his mid-to-late forties, and in the dim interior light she could make out the stubble on his shaved head, the webbing of fine white lines around his narrowed eyes.

Has to be Trent, she thought, tying her hair behind her neck using one of the elastics she always wore around her wrists. She could feel the stares coming from the black-painted faces. They were trying to size her up.

SWAT was still strictly boys-only. It didn't matter if she could shoot the balls off a flea or that she could go head to head with any one of these bozos and have him on his knees sobbing in less than a minute; right now they couldn't see past her tits. They were probably wondering how she'd be in the sack. The Puerto Rican-looking guy sitting to her right — a dead ringer for one of her favourite Red Sox players of all time, Manny Ramirez — held a gas grenade launcher between his knees and had no problem checking her out like she was a piece of meat.

Darby turned to him, grinning, and said, 'Something on your mind, cowboy?'

He licked his lips, and she expected him to say how she looked like Angelina Jolie. More than one person had said they had the same lips and eyes, but Darby didn't see it. She had auburn hair, for one, and green eyes; and, unlike Mrs Brad Pitt, she had a permanent scar on her left cheek, courtesy of being hit by an axe that had fractured her cheekbone. The surgeons ended up removing the bones and installing something called a MediCor implant.

Instead, the Manny Ramirez-looking guy said, 'You the same Darby McCormick who was involved in that shootout at the garage with the Boston police commissioner?'

She nodded, knowing where this conversation was headed.

'That recorded conversation between you and Chadzynski, where she admits to all of her foul deeds?' He whistled. 'That broad was one cold and cunning bitch. She sold her soul and for what? To protect that Irish gangster prick Sullivan — and a serial killer to boot. Damn smart of you using your cell to record that conversation.'

Darby had a captive audience. She saw the grins and nods from the other men seated around her, leaning forward to listen to her every word.

'Lucky you that conversation got leaked to the media,' he said. 'Otherwise, no one would've believed that shit.'

'I'm assuming you have a point here.'

'Got some friends at Boston PD.'

'Congratulations.'

'Word is you released that recording to the press.'

Darby shook her head and chuckled softly. Amazing. The cops she met now didn't care about Chadzynski being exposed for the corrupt and cunning bitch she was; how the woman had, over the course of her career, orchestrated the murders and disappearances of several dozen state cops, federal agents, Boston patrolmen, undercover detectives and eyewitnesses. With a phone call, she had removed from the earth anyone who had tried to expose Frank Sullivan's horrific methods. Thomas 'Big Red' McCormick had been one of her victims. Yet the only thing every cop wanted to know was whether she had been the one who had leaked the Chadzynski tape to the media.

'Wasn't me,' Darby said. Technically, that was true. Coop had been the one who had released it to the press. She had only forwarded him a copy.

Manny Rameriz leaned in closer. She could smell his stale cigarette breath.

'You'll have to forgive me for asking this, but me and the boys here are wondering if you're recording this conversation right now?'

'What do you think?'

'I think I should pat you down just to make sure. Nobody here wants to be on the news. You know how reporters can slice and dice things to make you look bad.'

Darby smiled. 'Touch me and you'll be picking your broken fingers out of your ass.'

Manny seemed to be seriously considering making a move. He opened his mouth, about to speak, when a wail of sirens cut him off. The APC had picked up a police escort — several of them, judging by the multiple sirens.

The big white guy standing at the end shouted into the phone: 'Tell him we're on our way, ETA ten minutes.'

The gruff and raspy voice belonged to the man she had spoken to earlier. Gary Trent slammed the phone back against his cradle, walked down the APC and took a seat across from her.