The Soul Collectors

32

Darby saw him coming her way. Saw him take big, wide steps and turn his head in the direction of her bike, then look back at her.

He knows I'm hiding here in the dumpster, she thought.

The man broke into a jog. Why is he coming in here alone? Why didn't he bring along the other freaks?

He unzipped his sweatshirt. He reached inside and took out a handgun.

She measured the distance. Too far away to get off a clean shot. Too many trees in the way. She'd have to wait until he got closer. A few more steps and he'd be standing near the clearing. If he didn't stand down, she'd have to put him down with a shot to the thigh, maybe go for the upper-right section of his chest, away from his heart.

She looked down the MK's target sight as a bright, narrow beam of light appeared and started to move near the edge of the crater — a tactical light mounted underneath the barrel of a 9mm.

Glass shattered in the distance.

Darby didn't move or react, her gaze cutting to the direction of the sound. It had come from somewhere to her left. What was there? The other house. The one where the sniper had set up that night, the one that had been damaged by the explosion.

The man had heard it too. He stopped and was staring in the same direction. Staring and maybe wondering if the wind blowing through the big blast holes in the house had knocked something off a wall or table. Wondering, maybe, if she had brought someone with her. If he had been set up.

He shut off his tactical light. Turned back to the waiting van, took a step forward, then stopped again and glanced over his shoulder, looking back at her. Stared like he was about to come back.

No. He had decided to go back to the van. She watched him running through the woods, then across the street, and he entered the van's side door, which slammed shut behind him. The cool night air filled with the sound of tyres squealing, the rubber biting against the road as the van sped away, the sound growing dimmer until it died.

Darby lay there, heart drumming hard against her aching ribs, and she breathed in soot and ashes and the stench of charred wood. Thinking: What in God's name did I just see?

Ghouls, she thought. Bogeymen. Creatures that lived underneath the ground and came out only at night. Monsters that had come to capture her. At the last moment the wind had saved her. The wind blowing through the trees right now, shaking the branches and leaves, had knocked something fragile off a wall or worktop in the neighbouring house and it had shattered against the floor and scared off the lead bogeyman.

Had they really left? Or had they parked somewhere to wait? To watch the computer tracking her listening devices to see where she was going to go next? Maybe try and make another run at her?

Darby checked her watch. A few minutes past midnight. The Witching Hour. How appropriate.

She decided to wait for a bit to see if they'd come back. She used the time to plan.

She couldn't go back to her condo. It was bugged, for one, and it was possible these people she'd just seen had at least one person watching her building, waiting for her to return. The FBI too. The men she'd seen parked at the end of her street — she felt pretty sure they were feds. She needed a place to stay. That left her with only one option: a hotel.

Problem: hotels asked for IDs and a credit card. She didn't want that information in their computer systems. Someone with access to the right database could track her credit card. She needed to find a place that would allow her to register under an alias.

Her thoughts ran to Coop. He had a friend who was a manager for a Boston timeshare in McKinley Square called the Custom House. Sean Something. Grew up in Charlestown with Coop at a time when the small town was full of Irish gangsters and shady cops. They had all watched out for each other and she felt sure this guy Sean would watch out for her if she asked, bend the rules and allow her to register under an alias.

She also needed someone who could help her delve deeper into the significance of the Latin phrase tattooed on these creatures' necks. Harvard had a Divinity School. Latin and religious scholars. She made a mental note and checked the time. Quarter to one. Daylight would come in another four hours.

Darby turned her attention back to the woods, back to listening and watching.

Another hour had passed, and she had heard and seen nothing.

She decided to get moving.

Standing, pieces of wood and other bits of debris banged and clattered softly as they fell back into the dumpster. She pulled off the comforter and sheets, brushed off her jacket and, tactical belt in hand, hopped off and jogged back to her bike. She hung the belt across the seat and then went to the back to root around inside the small trunk.

She didn't have an evidence bag back there, but she did have a makeshift First-Aid kit with a small Band-Aid box. She took it with her on her way back to the crater.

Turning on her flashlight, she slowly ran the beam across the debris.

There. A smear of fresh blood on one of the walls. The ghoulish thing had cut its head and left blood.

Carefully she made her way down. She collected the blood sample using a piece of gauze and tucked it inside the box.

Climbing back out with her prize, Darby reminded herself to remove the Velcro-mounted tracking device they'd stuck on her bike before she drove away.