The Wrath of Angels

29

Davis Tate had been forced to secure himself to the heavy radiator in the living room. The intruder had already attached one cuff to the pipe before Tate’s arrival, so now only Tate’s left hand remained free. At least the radiator wasn’t on, which was something, and the mild weather meant that the apartment wasn’t too cold. The fact that Tate could joke about his situation, even to himself, suggested that either he was braver than he thought, which seemed unlikely, or he was going crazy from fear, which was more probable.

The man from the bar sat in a chair beside Tate, flicking his butterfly knife open and closed, each snick of the blade making Tate wince at the further pain that it promised. The cut on his neck had stopped bleeding, but the sight of his shirt stained red made him queasy, and the smell of nicotine at close quarters had become so strong that it felt as though his nose and tongue were burning.

And the intruder terrified him. It wasn’t just the knife in his hand, although that was bad enough. The man conveyed a sense of implacable malice, a desire to inflict hurt that was beyond reason. Tate recalled an evening in a club in El Paso at which he’d been introduced by a mutual friend to some men who claimed to be fans of his show, nondescript figures with sunburned skin and the glassy eyes of dead animals who were either on their way to, or coming back from, the conflict in Afghanistan. As the night wore on, and more alcohol was consumed, Tate worked up enough courage to ask them what it was they did, exactly, and was informed that they specialized in the interrogation of prisoners: they waterboarded, and starved, and froze, and tormented, but they made one thing clear to him: there was a purpose, an end to what they did. They did not torture for the pleasure of it, but to extract information, and once the information was extracted, the torture stopped.

Most of the time.

‘We’re not like the other guys, the bad guys,’ said one, who told Tate that his name was Evan. ‘We have a set goal, which is the acquisition of information. Once we’re certain that this been achieved, our work is done. You want to hear what’s really terrifying? Being tortured by someone who has no interest in what you know, someone for whom torture is an end in itself, so that no matter what you tell him, or who you betray, there’s no hope that the pain will stop, not unless he decides to let you die, and he doesn’t want to do that; not because he’s a sadist, although that’s probably part of it, but out of professional pride, like a juggler trying to keep the balls in the air for as long as he can. It’s a test of skill: the louder and longer you scream, the greater the vindication of his abilities.’

Tate wondered if here, in his own apartment, he was now looking at just such an individual. His suit was wrinkled and stained, the collar of his shirt as yellowed as his fingers, his hair slick with grease. There was no military bearing to this man, no sense of someone who had been trained to do harm.

But this man was also a zealot. Tate had met enough of them in his time to recognize one when he saw him. In his eyes burned a fierce light, the fire of righteousness. Whatever this man did, or was capable of doing, he would not view as immoral, or an offense against God or humanity. He would hurt, or kill, because he believed that he had the right to do so.

Tate’s only hope lay in the man’s use of a single word: perhaps.

Time, perhaps, to die.

Or, perhaps, to live.

‘What do you want?’ asked Tate, for what must have been the third or fourth time. ‘Please, just tell me what you want.’

He felt and heard the sob catch in his throat. He was getting tired of posing the question, just as he had tired of seeking the man’s name. Each time he asked a question the intruder just gave the blade a double flick in reply, as if to say ‘Who I am doesn’t matter, and what I want is to cut.’ This time, though, Tate received an answer.

‘I want to know how much you got for your soul.’

His teeth were yellow, and his tongue was stained the dirty white of sour milk.

‘My soul?’

Snick went the blade. Snick-snick.

‘You do believe that you have a soul, don’t you? You have faith? After all, you speak of it on your radio show. You talk about God a lot, and you speak of Christians as though you know the inner workings of each and every one. You seem very certain about what is right and what is wrong. So what I want to know is, how can a man who has sold his soul speak of his God without gagging on the words? What did they offer you? What did you get in return?’

Tate tried to calm himself, still clinging to the precious perhaps. What answer was this man seeking? What answer would keep Tate alive?

And suddenly the intruder was upon him, even as Tate tried to kick out and keep him at a distance. The knife was back at his throat, and this time the snick was followed by the drawing of more blood from behind his right ear.

‘Don’t calculate. Don’t think. Just answer.’

Tate closed his eyes.

‘I got success. I got syndication. I got money, and influence. I was a nobody, and they made me somebody.’

‘Who? Who made you this somebody?’

‘I don’t know their names.’

‘Not true.’

Snick! Another cut, except this one was lower, slicing through his earlobe. Tate shrieked.

‘I don’t know! I swear to you I don’t know. They just told me that the Backers liked what I did. That’s what they call them: the Backers. I’ve never met them, and I’ve had no contact with them, only with the people who represent them.’

Still he tried to keep back the names. He was scared of this man, scared near to death, but he was more frightened of Darina Flores and the desolation he had experienced as she spoke of all that would follow if he crossed those who were so anxious for him to succeed. But now it was the intruder who was whispering. He held Tate’s face in his hand as he spoke, and breathed a fug of fumes and filth and rotting cells into his face.

‘I am the Collector,’ he said. ‘I send souls back to their creator. Your life, and your soul – wherever it may lie – hang in the balance. A feather will be enough to shift the scales against you, and a lie is the weight of a feather. Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ said Tate. The manner in which this man spoke left no room for misunderstanding.

‘So tell me about Barbara Kelly.’

Tate knew then that there was no point in lying, no point in holding anything back. If the man knew about Kelly, then how much else did he know? Tate didn’t want to risk another cut, maybe a fatal one, by being caught out in a lie, and so he told the Collector everything, from his first meeting with Kelly, through the introduction of Becky Phipps and the destruction of the vocation and life of George Keys, right up to the meeting earlier that day concerning the fall in his ratings. He sniveled and wheedled, and engaged in the kind of shameless self-justification that he believed himself to be duty bound to shoot down when his opponents tried to rely on it.

And as he spoke he felt as if he were engaged in a process of confession, even though confession was for Catholics, and they were barely above Muslims, Jews and atheists on the list of folk for whom he reserved a particular hatred. He was listing his crimes. Taken individually they seemed inconsequential, but when recited as a litany they seemed to assume an unstoppable momentum of guilt; or was he merely reflecting the feelings of the man seated opposite him, for although his interrogator’s expression never varied – rather it seemed to grow gentler and more encouraging as Tate’s lanced conscience spewed out its poison, rewarding him for his honesty with something that might have been mistaken for compassion – there was no escaping the knowledge that Tate’s soul was still being weighed against a feather on the Collector’s scales, and found wanting.

When he was done, Tate sat back against the wall, and hung his head. His earlobe ached, and his mouth tasted of salt and sour things. For a time there was only silence in the dim room. Even the sound of the traffic outside had faded, and Tate had a sense of the boundlessness of the universe, of stars racing away into the vacuum, colonizing the void, and of himself as a fragment of fragile life, a fading spark from a vital flame.

‘What are you going to do?’ he finally asked, when his own insignificance threatened to unman him.

A match flared, and another cigarette was lit. Tate smelled the vileness of the smoke, the odor that had first alerted him to the intruder’s presence, except now the word ‘intruder’ had become inappropriate. Somehow, this man belonged: here, in this room, in this apartment, on this street, in this city, in this world, in this great dark universe of dying light and distant, spiraling galaxies, while Davis Tate was merely a temporary fault in nature, a stain upon the system, like a mayfly born with one wing.

‘Would you like a cigarette?’ asked the Collector.

‘No.’

‘If you’re concerned about ruining your health, or becoming addicted, I wouldn’t worry.’

Tate tried not to think about what that might mean.

‘I asked you what you’re planning to do with me,’ said Tate.

‘I heard you. I’ve been thinking about the question. Barbara Kelly is dead, so her fate is already decided.’

‘Did you kill her?’

‘No, but I would have, given the opportunity.’

‘So who did kill her?’

‘Her own people.’

‘Why?’

‘Because she was turning against them. She was sick, and frightened, and she feared for her soul, so she set out to make recompense for her sins. By betraying their secrets, she believed that she might save herself. But then there is Becky Phipps . . .’

On the table beside the man lay Tate’s cell phone. With the cigarette clamped between his teeth, the Collector flicked through the list of contacts until he found the name that he wanted. A forefinger pressed itself against the screen, and the number was dialed. Tate heard it ringing. The call was answered on the third ring, and Tate knew from the echo that the recipient’s phone was on speaker.

‘Davis,’ said Becky Phipps’s voice. She didn’t sound particularly pleased to be hearing from him, Tate thought. Bitch. You think you have problems. ‘This isn’t a good time. Can I call you back later, or tomorrow?’

The stranger indicated to Tate that he should speak. He swallowed. He didn’t know what he was supposed to say. In the end, he settled for honesty.

‘It’s not such a good time for me either, Becky. Something’s come up.’

‘What now?’

Tate looked at the Collector, who nodded his assent.

‘There’s a man here with me, in my apartment. I think he wants to talk to you.’

The stranger took a long drag on his cigarette before leaning close to the phone.

‘Hello, Ms Phipps,’ he said. ‘I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure, although I’m sure that we will in the near future.’

Phipps took a couple of seconds to reply. When she did, her tone had changed. She was cautious, and her voice trembled slightly. It caused Tate to wonder if she knew the identity of the caller already, despite her next question.

‘Who is this?’ she said.

The man leaned yet closer to the phone, so that his lips were almost touching it. He frowned, and his nostrils twitched.

‘Is there someone there with you, Ms Phipps?’

‘I asked you a question,’ said Phipps, and her voice became even less steady, belying her attempt at bravado. ‘Who are you?’

‘A collector,’ came the reply. ‘The Collector.’

‘A collector of what?’

‘Debts. Regrets. Souls. You’re stalling for time, Ms Phipps. You know who I am, and what I am.’

There was a pause, and Tate knew that the Collector was right: there was someone else with Becky. He could picture her looking to the other for guidance.

‘That was you in the bar, wasn’t it?’ she said. ‘Davis was right to be worried. I thought he was just jittery, but it seems that he was more sensitive than I gave him credit for.’

Tate didn’t like his producer’s use of the past tense in association with his name.

‘He is remarkably sensitive in more ways than one,’ said the Collector. ‘He screamed very loudly when I sliced through his earlobe. Thankfully, these old brownstones have thick walls. Will you scream when I come for you, Ms Phipps? It won’t matter either way, so don’t be too concerned. I always bring earplugs. And I really do believe that there is someone with you. That’s my particular sensitivity. Who is it? One of your ‘‘Backers’’, perhaps? Put him on. Let him speak. It is a “he”, isn’t it? I can almost see the price tag on his suit. Be sure, whoever you are, that I’ll find you too, and your associates. I’ve learned a great deal about you already.’

There was an intake of breath before Phipps started shouting.

‘What did you tell him, Davis? What did you tell him about us? You keep your mouth shut. You keep it shut or I swear, I swear we’ll put you—’

The Collector killed the connection.

‘That was all very amusing,’ he said.

‘You warned her,’ said Tate. ‘She knows you’re coming now. Why would you do that?’

‘Because in her fear she’ll draw out the others, and then I can take them too. And if they choose to remain hidden, well, she’ll give me their names when I find her.’

‘But how will you do that? Won’t she hide from you? Won’t she be protected?’

‘I find your concern for her very touching,’ said the Collector. ‘One would almost think that you liked her, rather than merely being obligated to her. You really should have examined that contract more closely, you know. It made clear your obligations to them, while leaving them with none to you. It is in the nature of their bargains to do so.’

‘I don’t read Latin,’ said Tate glumly.

‘Very remiss of you. It’s the lingua franca of the law. What kind of fool signs a contract written in a language that he can’t read?’

‘They were very persuasive. They said it was a one-off deal. They told me that if I turned it down, there were others who would accept.’

‘There are always others who will accept.’

‘They told me I’d have my own TV show, that I’d get to publish books. I wouldn’t even have to write them, just put my name to them.’

‘And how did that work out?’ the Collector asked, and he seemed almost sympathetic.

‘Not so good,’ admitted Tate. ‘They said I had a face made for radio. You know, like Rush Limbaugh.’

The Collector patted him on the shoulder. The small gesture of humanity increased Tate’s hope that the word ‘perhaps’ had become less a piece of driftwood to which he might cling than a life boat to keep him safe from the cold waters that currently lapped at his chin.

‘Your friend Becky has a bolt-hole in New Jersey. That’s where she’ll run to, and that’s where I’ll find her.’

‘She’s not my friend. She’s my producer.’

‘It’s an interesting distinction. Do you have any friends?’

Tate thought about the question. ‘Not many,’ he admitted.

‘I suppose that it’s difficult to keep them in your line of work.’

‘Why, because I’m so busy?’

‘No, because you’re so unpleasant.’

Tate conceded the point.

‘So,’ said the Collector. ‘What should I do with you now?’

‘You could let me go,’ said Tate. ‘I’ve told you all that I know.’

‘You’ll call the police.’

‘No’, said Tate, ‘I won’t.’

‘How can I be sure?’

‘Because I know that you’ll come back for me if I do.’

The Collector appeared impressed with his reasoning. ‘You may be smarter than I thought,’ he said.

‘I get that a lot,’ said Tate. ‘There’s something more that I can give you, to convince you to let me go.’

‘What would that be?’

‘They’re going to abduct a girl,’ said Tate. ‘Her name is Penny Moss. They’ll blame whatever happens to her on some raghead.’

‘I know. I heard you discussing it.’

‘You were right at the other end of the bar.’

‘I have very keen hearing. Oh, and I placed a cheap transmitting device on top of your booth as I passed.’

Tate sighed. ‘Will they hurt the girl?’

‘There is no girl.’

‘What?’

‘It was a test to see how you’d respond. After what happened with Barbara Kelly, they’re worried. Repentance is contagious. They’ll administer many such tests in the days and weeks to come. I think they probably figured that they were safe with you, though. After all, you never displayed any signs of being principled before. You were hardly likely to start now.

‘The pressing question remains, Mr Tate, what is to be your fate? You’ve been a bad man: you’re a corruptor, a proselytizer for ignorance and intolerance. You thrive on fear, and finding easy enemies for the weak and bitter to hate. You fan the flames, but plead innocence when the ugliness of the consequences becomes apparent. The world is a poorer, more benighted place for your presence in it.’

The Collector stood. From beneath his coat he removed a gun, an old .38 Special, its grips worn, its metal dulled, yet still handsomely lethal. Tate opened his mouth to shout, to scream, but no sound emerged. He tried to worm his way into the corner, covering his face with his arm as though it might shield him from what was to come.

‘You’re panicking, Mr Tate,’ said the Collector. ‘You haven’t let me finish. Hear me out.’

Tate tried to calm himself, but his heart was beating and his ear throbbed with renewed vigor, and he welcomed the pain of it because he could still feel it, because he was still alive. He peered over his forearm at the man who held his life in his grasp.

‘Despite all of your manifest failings,’ the Collector continued, ‘I feel reluctant to pass final judgment upon you. You are almost damned, but there is room for doubt: only a little, a scintilla. You do believe in God, don’t you, Mr Tate? What you talk about to your listeners, hypocritical and untruthful though it may be, has some roots in a blasted version of faith?’

Tate nodded sharply, and consciously or unconsciously, joined his hands as if in prayer.

‘Yes. Yes, I do. I believe in the risen Lord Jesus. I was born again in Christ when I was twenty-six.’

‘Hmmmm.’ The Collector made no effort to disguise his doubt. ‘I’ve listened to your show, and I don’t think your Christ would recognize you for one of His own if He spent an hour in your company. But let’s leave it up to Him, as you’re such a believer.’

The Collector ejected all six bullets from the gun into the palm of his right hand before carefully reloading three of the chambers.

‘Ah Jesus, you got to be kidding,’ said Tate.

‘Taking the Lord’s name in vain?’ said the Collector. ‘Are you sure that’s how you want to start off your greatest test before God?’

‘No,’ said Tate. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I’m sure the deity will put it down to the stressful nature of the situation.’

‘Please,’ said Tate. ‘Not like this. It’s wrong.’

‘Are the odds too generous?’ suggested the Collector. ‘Too ungenerous?’ He looked perturbed. ‘You drive a hard bargain, but if you insist.’

He removed one of the bullets, leaving two rounds in their chambers, and spun the cylinder before pointing the gun at Tate.

‘If your God wills it,’ he said. ‘I say “your” God, because He’s nobody that I recognize.’

The Collector pulled the trigger.

The clicking of the hammer on the empty chamber was so loud that Tate was convinced for a moment he had heard the bullet that was to kill him. His eyes were screwed so tightly closed that he had to concentrate just to force them open again. When he did so, the Collector was looking with a puzzled expression at the gun in his hand.

‘Strange,’ he said.

Tate closed his eyes again, this time as a prelude to a prayer of gratitude.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Jesus Lord, thank you.’

When he finished, the gun was again pointing at his forehead.

‘No,’ he whispered. ‘You said. You promised.’

‘It always pays to be certain,’ said the Collector, as his finger tightened on the trigger. ‘Sometimes, I find that God’s attention wanders.’

This time, Davis Tate heard no sound, not even God’s breath in the exhalation of the bullet.