The Soul Collectors

52

The van came to a stop a few minutes later. Sergey opened the back doors and Darby saw a cracked parking lot; a dumpster and trees that shook in the wind were on its edges. He shut the doors just as quickly to give her some privacy to get dressed.

Coop had stayed behind. He sat hunched forward on the bench with his elbows resting on his knees and rubbing his hands. He stared at his fingers.

She had stripped down into her Hanes bra and boy shorts when he said, 'You ever get tired of it?'

Darby slipped into the pair of black trousers Sergey had laid out for her. 'Tired of what?'

'Rushing in where angels fear to tread.'

She put on a long-sleeved Nomex shirt to keep in her body heat. Tucked it into her trousers and, smiling, said, 'Someone's got to do it.'

Coop didn't return the smile. 'Why you, though?'

She shrugged, tying her hair behind her head. 'Because I'm good at it.'

'At violence.'

'At doing what's right,' she said. 'What's eating at you? You pissed at me for bringing you into this?'

'Par for the course.'

'So what's eating you?'

He didn't answer. She worked a black polypropylene thermal balaclava over her head.

'Charlie,' she said.

Coop looked up at her.

'He wanted to expose these people,' she said. 'You heard what Sergey said about all those missing kids?'

He nodded, like he agreed with the point but not the method.

Darby tossed him her key ring. 'Tell Sergey to go and search my place for the listening devices. And tell him to take my machine and listen to the voicemail where I'm talking to one of these people from the Rizzo house, the one I tied to the tree who later escaped. He'll know what I'm talking about.'

'Sure. Anything else?'

'Yeah, one last thing. The other night, at the blast site, one of these… things cut itself inside the basement. I collected a blood sample. It's in a Band-Aid box in my bike trunk… What's wrong now?'

'I'm worried about you, Darby. At some point, your lucky streak is going to run out, and when it does, I don't want to be there to see what's left.' Darby opened the back doors and Coop's parting words drifted away in the bright, warm sunlight flooding the back parking lot behind a police station.

Virginia Cavanaugh, a thin-boned, grey-haired woman who could have passed as a Catholic school nun — severe-looking and dressed in bland cashmere sweater, blue polyester slacks and black orthopedic shoes with Velcro straps — stood next to her sensible tan-coloured Buick LeSabre, the trunk already popped open. Darby looked at the woman and saw a home with plastic-covered furniture, bed sheets folded in tight hospital corners.

Sergey had already explained to the woman what she needed to do. Cavanaugh didn't ask any questions because there wasn't any need. Her part was simple. All she had to do was drive back to the house, go back to watching the TV or reading or whatever she did to pass her days.

Darby lifted the trunk lid and found that Virginia Cavanaugh had some compassion in her. The woman had placed a pillow and blanket inside her clean and tidy trunk.

Darby climbed inside. Sergey handed over a rucksack containing the equipment and tools she had asked for and then shut the lid. A moment later the car started, and the Cavanaugh woman drove smoothly back to her home.