The Soul Collectors

5

Darby mulled over the cryptic conversation she had just heard between the hostage negotiator and the man calling himself Charlie Rizzo. I need Dr McCormick to see them first, Charlie had said. I need her to bear witness.

Bear witness to what? Killing the family? And what the hell did he mean when he said he couldn't survive the wheel again?

Another police blockade had been set up on the far end of the street. She spotted three cruisers, their flashing blue and whites lighting up every inch of the neighbourhood, a place far different from, and light years beyond, the Rizzos' former Brookline address with its multimillion-dollar McMansions and professionally landscaped lawns and gardens, high-end BMWs and Mercedes parked in two- and three-car garages. A real-estate agent would call these three New Hampshire homes — the only ones here on this long stretch of woodlands — either 'cosy' or 'fixer-uppers'. No garages, just driveways with small, dependable economy cars. Living here in the Granite State gave you plenty of land and privacy. The houses were spaced far apart from each other, and each one looked like it had been dropped in the middle of the woods. No streetlights either.

She caught two remote cameras set up on tripods on the front lawn and driveway of a small colonial with white-chipped paint and dark green shutters — the new home of Mark and Judith Rizzo. The windows, at least the ones she could see, were dark, the shades on the top floors drawn, just as Trent had said. Two cars were parked in the driveway: a white Jeep Cherokee and a maroon Honda Civic. She could make out stickers for the 'University of New Hampshire' on both back windows.

Darby glanced to the ranch house across the street. It took her a moment to spot the sniper. He was lying on the flat roof, staring down his target sight. His partner, the spotter, knelt behind a chimney and stared at the Rizzo home through a thermal-imaging scope.

The APC came to a stop. She stepped off and moved up the leaf-covered walkway.

Please, Charlie had said, we're running out of time.

Darby walked up the front steps and gripped the doorknob. It turned without a problem.

She stepped inside alone, as instructed, but didn't shut the door behind her. The flashing police lights coming from opposite ends of the street were bright and strong enough to part some of the house's interior darkness, and it gave her a chance to take in her surroundings.

Hardwood floors and directly in front of her, a set of stairs carpeted with a dark burgundy runner. To her left, a living room with a sectional couch and a small flat-screen TV. Modest furnishings. The Rizzos' Brookline home had had Ethan Allen furniture in large, spacious rooms. They were probably forced to downsize after blowing that money on private investigators, she thought. They probably moved here so the kids could get in-state tuition fees.

'Shut the door and lock it.'

The screechy, breathless male voice came from somewhere upstairs.

'Hurry. We're running out of time.'

We, she thought, easing the door shut. She locked it, hearing the bolt slam home, and moved to the bottom steps. She couldn't see Charlie up there. Too dark, but she could hear him panting.

'Are they listening?' he asked.

'Who?'

'The police. Did they send you in here with some sort of microphone so they could listen to us?'

She thought about how to reply, recalling Charlie's response to the hostage negotiator: I want to speak to her inside the house. Alone.

Lee whispered over her earpiece: 'Tell him about the mike strapped on your vest. It will be a show of good faith, a way to build trust with him.'

Darby said, 'There's a mike strapped to my vest. It's in the front.'

'Good,' Charlie said. 'Will they be recording our conversation?'

'Yes.'

'Good. Very good.' Sounding excited and, as Lee had said, hopeful. 'Please fold your hands on top of your head. When you reach the top of the steps, turn left. The bedroom is directly at the end of the hall. That's where I want you to go. Keep your hands on the top of your head until I tell you otherwise.'

Darby followed the instructions, clasping her fingers together and folding her hands on top of her head. She climbed the stairs thinking about the excited tone in the man's voice. She wasn't imagining it.

'Tell me about the man you threw out the window.'

'It was a gift,' he said. 'For you.'

'What's his name?'

'He doesn't have one. None of them do.'

Darby was about to ask what he meant by that when it hit her, an intense, sour smell that reminded her of the homeless people she'd sometimes pass on her way to work during the hot summer months in Boston, that putrid stench of body odour mingled with soiled clothing.

She stepped on to the second floor, gagging. She couldn't see Charlie in the nearly pitch-black darkness, but she could hear moaning coming from down a hall. Moaning and muffled voices.

Breathing through her mouth, she started walking, bumping into a wall full of hanging pictures. She knocked over one, hearing glass shatter against the floor. She kept walking, coming to a stop when she made out a door. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness and she could see it was cracked open. No light coming from behind it, just sounds — crying and a dull thump. And that goddamn odour — she could feel it coating the back of her throat.

Keeping her hands on her head, Darby used her foot to slide open the door.