The Collector (18 page)

Chapter Thirty-seven

Awakening

My mom and the douchebag walk to the host stand located just outside the entrance. Words are exchanged, and my mother points to an outside table. Douchebag nods. He must not know her well enough, or he would have already predicted that. It could be minus fifty degrees and raining intestines, and my mother would still insist they sit outside.

So we can people watch.

No, Mom, so people can watch
you
.

The twosome sit at a round table with a red checkered tablecloth and a shameful centerpiece of baby’s breath—the scum of the flower world. Douchebag reaches across the table and takes my mom’s hand. He strokes his thumb over her knuckles, and she leans her head to the side and smiles. It’s a nice smile, and I almost buy it as blissful. But something’s off. It doesn’t consume her face like the smiles she reserved for my father. It hits me: she likes this guy…but not the way she did Dad.

The realization makes the muscles in my chest relax for the first time since I got to Chicago.

Mom has a boyfriend, which I detest.

But she doesn’t love him.

I stay near the street and watch Mother and Douchebag share bruschetta and spaghetti. I can’t help wondering when Mom started eating carbs, because last I remember, she put them right up there with pleather and rapists.

When the bill comes, Douchebag pays, and Mom acts all thankful—like she wouldn’t have dumped his ass if he hadn’t. The guy stands and helps her from her seat, and I’m able to get a good look at him. He’s every bit as tall as me but quite a bit thinner. His eyes are set a touch too far apart, and his dark hair is buzzed to the scalp. Everything about him screams military—from the rigid way he moves to the crispness of his suit. I’m guessing he was a commander or sergeant or one of those other words that means you’re the screamer versus the screamee.

Together, they walk across the street and move toward me. I back away and let them pass, then follow close behind. It looks like they’re headed back to my mom’s apartment. For what, I have no cl—

Oh, no. No.

He’s going back to her apartment in the middle of the day.

He’s going to try and…and…

My stomach heaves. Hello, darkness, my old friend.

Like waiting to see a car crash, I continue tailing them, matching their pace step for step. Douchebag and Mom stop outside her brownstone, and I say a silent prayer to a God long forgotten.

Don’t let him come in, Mom. Don’t you do it.

By some miracle, the guy kisses her and turns to go. Judging by his quick pace and stiff, something-up-his-ass suit, he’s probably headed back to work. I laugh with relief and watch my mom walk back upstairs. At the door, she stops and turns. She watches him walking away with a dazed smile hanging on her mouth. But then something changes. Her eyes fall to her feet like she’s thinking. And the smile vanishes. It’s doesn’t just disappear, it crumbles—like she’s not sure how it got there in the first place.

In that instant, I know she misses us.

I can see it in the lines on her face, the ones even Botox can’t erase. I can see it in the way her shoulders slump and her back hunches. She pulls her arms around her waist in a squeeze—then she unwraps herself, unlocks the door, and goes inside.

Everything I wanted to see, I saw. My mother is here, right where I need her to be. She misses us, but she’s trying to move on. And even though the dude she was with looks like a real hard-ass, he might be what she needs to move forward—someone who’s persistent and responsible.

Not sure what I’m doing anymore, I move away from my mother’s house. My house. The one I grew up in. I know I can’t stay long, but somehow I can’t bring myself to leave Chicago just yet. My decision still isn’t made. And my blood temperature rises several degrees when I think about what I’m choosing between: seeing my mother every day and protecting Charlie. I can’t do both.

If I’m considering going against orders—and I’m not saying I am—then I’ll spend eternity running from collectors. And if I get caught…

A shiver swims down my spine as I think of hell and its many torture devices. There’s one thing all collectors fear most, and that’s the ninth circle of hell. It’s reserved for treachery, and it’s the ring closest to Boss Man—a vast area of pain and suffering utilizing the terrors of ice.

I once decided being buried or encapsulated in ice for eons wouldn’t be bad in comparison to some of the other crap down there. Then Max jokingly challenged me to fill two bowls full of ice, stick one hand in each, and hold onto the cubes for as long as I could.

I tried so hard to prove I could take it, but my hands yanked themselves out after sixty seconds like they had a mind of their own. Max laughed his ass off and called me a pussy.

That pain has haunted me ever since.

Remembering it now, I can’t comprehend how this is even a choice. On one hand, I have collecting Charlie’s soul, being promoted to Soul Director, and spending my days on earth seeing my mother—and even Charlie—every day of their lives. On the other, I go against orders, get tracked by collectors, eventually succumb, and while the rest of the world enjoys peace and tranquility, I become a human icicle.

I’ve never met anyone like Charlie before. As hard as it is to admit, I care for her. But I don’t think I can risk losing my mom and suffering eternal pain for Charlie’s soul. Still, the fact that I’m even considering it blows me away. That Charlie girl, she did a number on me.

Running my hands through my hair, I decide to take a walk. I’ll round the block and hit up the Magnificent Mile for some
real
shopping—forget Peachville Mall. Though I know I’m stalling the inevitable—making a decision—it’s all I can do to stay sane. So I walk a few street lengths, and when I’m sure no one’s looking, I shake off my shadow.

Soon I’m greeted by glass windows and stick-thin mannequins and crème-de-la-crème labels. Ah, Michigan Avenue, where anyone who’s anybody comes to shop. I strut down the sidewalk, hands stuffed in my pockets. Even though it’s Thursday afternoon, there are people everywhere shuffling in and out of the stores, hailing cabs…elbowing one another for breathing room. I inhale and catch a scent of expensive perfume. Its owner could be any one of these high-class broads passing by with their Dolce handbags and Jimmy Choo heels.

Up ahead, I spot an Armani store and decide it’s time for some personal indulgences. Nothing like spending cash to get your mind off life-or-death situations. Gliding inside, I’m bombarded by the crisp, clean odor of optimism. A tall girl with white-blond hair and big brown eyes
clicks
over, smiling like a stoner.

“Business or pleasure?” she teases.

“Pleasure. Always.”

She nods, her smile hitching higher. “What can I help you find?”

I glance around. “You know, I’m just going to browse. I’ll call you when I see something I like.”

She opens her arms wide, as if to imply the store is mine, and walks away.

A few minutes later, I’m in the dressing room, pulling on a gray sports coat. It looks damn good over this Smurf-blue tee. I turn from side to side, trying to forget what’s in my head and concentrate on what’s in the mirror. I’m doing a pretty good job when I think I hear a girl crying.

Cocking my head, I listen. Yep, definitely crying. I put my own clothes back on and leave the dressing room. Four Armani associates are standing near the back, hovering near a curtained entrance. I move quickly to where they stand, curiosity getting the better of me. As I get closer, I notice the curtain is a makeshift doorway into what I’m guessing is their break room. The associates are huddled around, peeking inside, watching Crying Girl pace with a phone pressed to her ear.

“What’s going on?” I ask a guy in his early twenties.

His face pulls away from the girl and relaxes with false confidence. “Oh, nothing. I’m so sorry. How were your clothes? Did you find something you liked?”

I peer over the guy’s shoulder at the girl, who’s now hyperventilating. Another female associate rushes to her side and pulls her into a hug. “It’s okay,” she tells the girl. “I’m sure he’s fine.”

Crying Girl rips away and stares up at something in the corner.

A blast shatters the room, and the girl sobs louder. The associates push inside the room, and I follow them, wondering what the hell is going on.

All eyes in the room come to rest on the TV suspended in the corner. It’s a news broadcast. Something’s happened in London. I read the scrolling bar across the bottom. A terrorist attack. The channel plays the bombing in a loop, and we watch as the same people run across the screen, fear contorting their faces. It’s the last few seconds that kill me, the ones where I spot a child standing alone, reaching for a mother that isn’t there.

Crying Girl pushes buttons on her phone and paces the room, trying to get through to someone. She glances up, seeing me for the first time. I freeze.

The guy who spoke to me moments ago remembers I’m there and grabs my elbow. “Sir, I apologize, but I’ll have to ask you to step outside. I can help you with anything you need.”

I pull away, desperate to help the girl. To take her pain and make it my own, though I’ve never met her. “It’s okay,” I tell him. “I was just leaving.”

He walks me to the front without speaking, but when I touch the glass door, he says, “I’m sorry about that.” He swallows. “Her brother is in London.”

“It’s fine,” I say. “Not the first time I’ve seen one of those on TV.”

“Yeah, it happens.” He shakes his head. “But it’s weird knowing someone who knows someone, you know?”

I don’t, but I nod anyway. Then I turn and walk out the door.

I watch cars racing down the street in a daze. It’s crazy how everyone is going on with their lives when across the world, people have died. But maybe it’s not that crazy, because before now, I was always able to ignore tragedies.

Glancing up at the sky, I think about what just happened. Seeing that girl terrified rocked something inside of me. I wonder how it would be if fewer people had to cry like that anymore. If Charlie saved them all. Back there, I couldn’t take away that girl’s pain, but I could prevent it from happening to someone else.

I could be the trigger to start the change.

In my life, I’ve done awful, selfish things. Things I can never take back. But I could change who I am now, couldn’t I? Charlie said she saw the good in me. I wonder if she’s right. If it’s really there.

The sun is already past high noon, on its downward arc—and it hits me. It’s Thursday, which means I only have three more days after today to either collect Charlie’s soul or prepare to run. Looking back at the street, I spot a white SUV and admire the chrome rims. I’m eyeing them closer when suddenly, I get a tingling sensation.

He’s here.

The collector.

I start to turn around when I feel a pair of hands slam into my back. Before I can think, I’m flying into the street, the white SUV barreling toward me.

For one terrible moment, I know it’s going to hit me.

I’m going to be pancaked, and the pain is going to knock my ass out for weeks. My brain screams at me to move, to do something, but my muscles lock in protest.

Then I think of Charlie. The way she smiles and laughs without reservation. The life in her eyes when she looks at me. The beautiful, pure light of her soul. And her mouth.

Her mouth.

The person driving the SUV lays on the horn, and the car screeches, brakes kicking in—but not quick enough. I jump up from the asphalt and, without thinking, race into the middle of the road. The SUV zooms past, but now a bus sails toward me from the opposite direction. I bite down and run. I run so hard, I’m sure my heart will explode.

As the bus
whooshes
behind me, I leap onto the sidewalk. People are yelling and asking if I’m okay. I brush them off and immediately search for the collector who shoved me into the street. There’s no one there but concerned faces.

I know I can’t die unless my cuff is removed, but it still takes my body time to recover from trauma. And pain—that still very much exists in my world.

This damn collector followed me to Chicago, and he’s either trying to put me out of commission for a while or sending a strongly worded message.

I can still sense him—can feel his cuff. I face what I know is his direction. “You want a piece of me?” I yell, beating my chest. “Come on, I’m right here. Show yourself.”

People near me move back, assuming I’m crazy.

I jab my finger across the street. “Didn’t think so. The only way you can take me on is through cheap shots. That right?”

He doesn’t remove his shadow, and I’m not surprised. I wait a few more minutes, and people start to move away and on with their lives. They almost saw me flattened before their eyes, but turns out I’m okay, so the luster’s gone.

After a few seconds, the sense that he’s near fades. The chump must have moved away. Nearby, I spot a Starbucks and race inside. I push past a line of people waiting to get their caffeine fixes and head toward the bathroom. I’m not sure what I’m doing, but I need a place to think. Inside the single-person bathroom, I lock the door and pace within the two-foot area.

At first, I thought the collector following me was assuring the assignment got completed. Now I think there’s more to it. He’s not tracking me, he’s trying to damage me. But why?

I stop pacing. Does he know what I’m contemplating?

Crap. I never should have come here.

Another thought strikes me. If this collector is doing this to
me
, what does he plan to do to Charlie?

My assignment.

My girl.

Collectors aren’t allowed to hurt humans, but they’re not allowed to hurt each other, either, and that’s not stopping him. This guy is a loose cannon, and he needs to be stopped. I consider heading downstairs now, reporting him to Boss Man and exterminating this pest. But I can’t, because once I’m there, Boss Man may ask me to stay and send someone else in my place. It’s not likely, but it could happen. And I’m not sure I want to do that, not sure I’m ready to stand by for a hundred years and let people hurt one another.