The Truth Collector (Demon Marked Book 1)

by Corey Pemberton

  Malcolm and Paul looked at each other and nodded at Craig slowly.

  “Dead!” A long, terrible sob closed off whatever he was going to say next.

  Then he shook his head. “You're lying – lying to me just like the voices. I don't believe you.” But he kept crying anyway.

  “Were you over there earlier tonight?” said Malcolm.

  Craig looked at him with wide eyes, his tongue hanging from the corner of his mouth. “Earlier. While the sun was still out. But she isn't dead. I don't believe you. Detective scum.” His eyes went back up into the sky like the truth lived somewhere up there – and he was the only one who could see it.

  Paul leaned forward. “Wait. How'd you know Malcolm was a detective?”

  Craig started laughing without ever taking his eyes off the sky. “Come on. Bad suits. Even worse questions. And no handcuffs. Just another day at the office for Craig Fielder.” He sat up again and twitched like a hospital patient injected with the wrong medication, laughing as it went through his veins.

  “Did you kill her?” Malcolm said. He shoved Fielder's head back down and pinned it.

  Craig's eyes circled in the air. “She isn't dead, you idiot. I was just there. We were supposed to spend some time together. But when I showed up that asshole's truck was in the driveway. He shouldn't have been home. He should have been at work.”

  “Okay,” said Malcolm. “So you're saying Eric killed her?”

  “I'm saying he was there. She isn't dead. Here. My phone's in my – I can call her. I'll call her right now.”

  Malcolm slapped him across the face. “She is dead. Someone cut her up pretty bad. I asked you a question: was it you?”

  “Cut… her up?” Craig's face went blank for a moment. It took some time to process in his burned out mind. Either that or he refused to believe it. Then the crying started again. “She's dead. She's really dead?”

  “Yeah,” said Paul. “Sorry.”

  Malcolm grabbed Craig's shoulders and stood right above him, blocking out the moon and stars and night sky. “I think you killed her and her husband. Is that true?”

  Craig's lip trembled. “That's… that isn't...”

  “Don't lie to me,” said Malcolm. He held the rock and prepared to smash it on Craig's face. “You already admitted you were there earlier. And I'll have the truth whether you want to give it or not. Did you kill Miranda and her husband? Last chance.”

  They locked eyes and the bloody rock hovered in the air above them. Somewhere up the strand, the sound of drunken laughter filled the silence. Malcolm gritted his teeth and squeezed the rock until his knuckles turned white.

  “I don't...” said Craig, trying to squirm away from the rock. “I don't remember, okay? That's the God's honest truth.”

  “You don't remember,” Malcolm said.

  “That's right,” Craig said. When he spoke the smell of scotch crept out of his mouth and into the night. “We were supposed to hang out. I parked a few streets over like I usually do and walked over. Then I saw his truck. I didn't know what to do. I got pissed. That's the last thing I remember before everything went blank.”

  Malcolm put down the rock but left it within arm's reach. “That's convenient. Everything's clear… until the part where people start getting killed.”

  Craig's head flopped from side to side and sent chunks of white hair falling to the ground. “That's the truth.”

  “I know it is.”

  “You have to let me go. I need to see her. I love her. Don't you understand?”

  Malcolm nodded and put on a straight face. His liar's face. “You will. Just not yet. You were at the bar earlier. Do you remember that? And what about the bag of bloody clothes?”

  Craig looked up and down the strand for fate or a wayward junkie to save him, but no one came. He bit his lip until it bled. But that fleshy dam couldn't hold back the truth that came bursting over it:

  “Yeah,” he said. “The Black Cat. Sure I remember.”

  Malcolm's fingers closed on the rock again. “What else? What's the first thing you remember after this convenient memory gap?” This was taking too long. They had only a few hours to sew this thing up before the men in blue came knocking.

  “There was a dumpster,” said Craig.

  “What?”

  “A dumpster behind a Chinese place. That's where I woke up.”

  “Were you actually sleeping?”

  Craig laughed and another clump of hair dislodged itself from his scalp. “Who the hell knows? One minute things were blank, and the next I was covered in chicken bones and peanut oil.”

  “What about your clothes?” said Paul. “That sure as hell isn't soy sauce.”

  “It's blood. But I don't know how it got there. It must have happened while I was… in the gap.” His voice trailed off and he looked up at them to prepare for another question.

  But none came.

  They looked at each other without saying a word. Then Craig started squirming again. “Wait. You don't think – you don't think I killed her do you?”

  Malcolm shrugged. “I was hoping you could tell us whether that was true. But I have to admit: the bloody clothes don't look good.”

  “No,” Craig half-screamed, half-spat and started choking on his own saliva. “I'd do anything for Miranda. Anything, you hear? Why would I kill the woman I love?”

  “It makes more sense than killing a stranger,” Paul said. He sat propped on his elbows on Craig's prison of tires. “Funny things happen with emotions – when you have a history with someone.”

  “Fuck you.”

  That's when Malcolm saw his opportunity. Fielder wasn't riled up enough. But that would soon change. “Maybe she told you she couldn't be with you. Maybe you saw her happy with Eric and the kid and you just went nuts. Spurned lovers are a dime a dozen. Is that what you are, Fielder? A cliché?”

  Fielder wasn't around to answer. The animal had replaced him. It spoke in the universal language of grunts and reckless movement. That thing's face was red, boiling, and it lunged for Malcolm's throat. He scrambled for the rock. Paul cried out when a few tires flew off the pile pinning the thing's legs. It sat up, its hand shot out, and wrapped dirty fingers around Malcolm's windpipe.

  Then those fingers squeezed. They squeezed even when Malcolm slammed the rock down onto Craig's face and turned it into pizza sauce. The rock fell from his hand then, too bloody to hold on to. He didn't have enough air in his lungs to use it anyway. He spent the last remaining gasps trying to break away from that stupid strength and keep the world from closing in. A buzzing sound filled his ears as they struggled – two men and a beast. The edges of his vision closed in, and his movements broke up into jump cuts. Flashes of movement. Blackness. His vision narrowed into a tunnel and then a little black line.

  Keep walking that line, a voice said. It will all be over soon.

  Then he was flopping around on the beach coughing. The pressure eased and he could breathe again. His lungs filled with air. He drank it in too fast and coughed some more while Paul's shoe smashed into the side of Craig's face. He kicked him again and again, grimacing. Finally Malcolm crawled over and grabbed his foot.

  “Stop,” he gasped. “We need him alive.”

  Paul's eyes snapped over to him. “I should kick you too for getting me into this.” He lifted his foot off the ground, but pulled back when Fielder went limp.

  “Good job,” Malcolm said, clutching his chest. The air still burned when he breathed in. He pulled himself up onto one of the tires Fielder had kicked aside.

  “Good job?” Paul said. “Why'd you piss him off? He was talking.”

  “He doesn't remember killing them on a conscious level. His subconscious mind isn't so limited.”

  “You can ask him questions when he's like that… and he'll answer?”

  “Maybe. I have to try.” He crawled over to Craig while Paul began to pile on the tires again. Craig's chest rose and fell slowly, oblivious to the mad scramble that had taken place just
a few moments earlier. He crept as close to those sunken eyeballs as he dared, pulled out the tape recorder, and held it close to Craig's lips. “Did you kill Eric and Miranda?” he asked, hardly raising his voice above a whisper.

  Craig's eyes shot open for a moment, then fell behind translucent lids.

  “Ask him again,” Paul said.

  “Did you kill Eric and Miranda?” He asked with a desperation that only the prospect of spending the rest of his life in a cage could instill.

  Craig's face remained unchanged. His chest heaved, paused while the breath filled his lungs, and on the exhale…

  “I killed them. I killed them both.” He stirred a little and then went completely still.

  Paul grabbed Malcolm's trembling arm to help steady the tape recorder. They looked at each other, wide-eyed and chests pounding. Paul motioned for Malcolm to go on.

  “What happened after that?” Malcolm said.

  Craig smiled in his sleep. “Many things.” Words spilled out of him like disclaimers at the end of a radio ad. “There was blood. Lots of blood. If you haven't killed someone you wouldn't understand. I left then. Small town people drive so slow. The radio was on. Jazz. My favorite. Then I went back to Lemhaven. Tried to order Chinese food because I was starving and wanted some wontons. But they kicked me out of their lovely establishment.” He laughed hysterically, but his eyes were still closed. “I guess they didn't like all the blood.”

  The tape recorder nearly fell. Paul steadied it with both hands. “What happened then?”

  “I went into the dumpster. I didn't want to do it – I was scared. But that's what they told me to do. And when they tell you to do something you listen.”

  “Who?”

  Craig gagged on some of the blood pouring into his mouth. He coughed it up all over his chest and continued like it had never happened. “No names. Not for you. I went in the dumpster because they told me to go there. They sent me far away. Somewhere dark. I think there was water – people screaming too – but things are fuzzy. Then I came back covered in peanut oil and soy sauce and shit. Stripped down to my undershirt and a pair of shorts I found in the dumpster. Took everything to the office to get some decent clothes, stopped by the Black Cat for a J and B on the rocks, and here we are.” He laughed again, louder this time. It threw his head back and grabbed him in an endless seizure. That laugh belonged to a maniac – a man whose mind had been hollowed out and cast aside like an apple core.

  “What about the little girl, man?” Paul said. They'd caused loud enough of a scene to attract a few vagrants looking for entertainment on this full-moon night. They gathered around them in a loose circle, keeping their distance.

  The corners of Craig's lips curled up into little daggers. “Fuck the girl and fuck you.”

  “What about the girl?” Malcolm said.

  Craig laughed again, and when Paul started kicking him he laughed even harder. “She's gone,” he said between convulsions.

  “Gone?” said Paul. “What do you mean gone?”

  “She's gone, dude. AWAL. Absconded, as we lawyers like to say.” He started laughing until tears streamed down his face. He was either laughing so hard he was crying, or laughing and crying at the same time. “She's gone – and she's never coming back.”

  Paul reared back to kick him again, but Malcolm put a hand on his leg. “Did you take her?”

  Craig's eyes shot open and rolled around in their sockets. “She's gone. She can't come back for a long time.”

  Malcolm grabbed what was left of Craig's shirt collar and yanked it so hard his entire upper body sat upright. “Where is she?” he said, shaking at the same time. “Where did you take her you maniac?”

  “They have her. They have her they have her they have her they...”

  Paul kicked him in the face again and his body went limp. “This is useless.” He turned to the hobos who had gathered around them. “Go on. Get out of here. Show's over.” One by one they slid away into the darkness, sharing bottles and disbelieving looks. Malcolm caught his breath as they walked away. Then he looked down at the shell of a man below them.

  “What now?” Paul said.

  “Now we call the cops. The tape has everything we need. We can't get rid of our prints, but hopefully this is good enough to clear our names.” Paul reached for his phone and dialed. Then, just before he pressed it to his ear, someone slapped it out of his hand.

  “Hey. Cut it out! You said we could call after we talked to him.”

  But Malcolm was on the other side of Craig's body. There was only one person within arm's reach. Paul bent over to pick up the phone…

  Then something grabbed his ankle.

  “Shit,” he said, crumpling to the ground.

  Then they were both flying backwards in a pile of rubber and sweat and blood. They landed on top of each other, swearing and struggling to find their footing. Malcolm's cuts from the alley opened up and dripped blood onto the two by fours and food wrappers beneath him. He pulled himself to his feet, looked…

  And found Craig Fielder facing him.

  His eyes were open again, but someone had stolen his pupils and replaced them with crimson shooter marbles. Malcolm could see them burning, feeding on what was left of the man's sanity. His hair was completely gone now, shaved off by some unseen barber and resting at his feet in little clumps. Blood streamed down his face from all the cuts they'd made. It flowed into his nose, ears, and mouth. But he didn't bother wiping it off. Beneath it, something burned and pulsed just a few shades darker:

  A mark.

  The same one they'd seen on the corpses when they came back to life: a spade, detailed and pointy and sharp. Malcolm and Paul looked at each other without saying a word. There was only one thing to do. They ran.

  They left blood and curses and bewildered hobos behind them. Back to the alleys. Back to the city and civilization… and hopefully a place to get away.

  “Is he dead?” Paul said.

  “Far from it.”

  Malcolm looked back and watched the thing move along the strand. Eyes smoldering, it followed them away from the river, leaving behind a group of terrified hobos in its wake. “Come on,” Malcolm said. “Faster.”

  They picked up the pace until nothing remained in their legs or lungs. Yet still that thing gained on them. It wasn't running, but gliding over the rough terrain, ratcheting up its pace and turning that terrible mark towards them.

  “What do we do?” Paul said, holding his side as he ran.

  Malcolm shook his head. Screams trailed behind them – real screams from men who had seen the horrors of war and slept under bridges. He forced his feet to keep moving. But his body was slowing, failing, preparing to die.

  “You know too much,” said a voice. It sounded nothing like Fielder, but it came from his vocal cords all the same. That voice was deep enough to make the hairs on Malcolm's neck stand up and stay there. He glanced back and found the thing right behind them… and reaching.

  Malcolm ran. At least he tried to run. He only made it a few steps before tripping over an empty wine bottle. He flew through the air and landed shipwrecked on the strand. Shipwrecked hopes in a shipwrecked life. Paul's back was still in front of him, and getting smaller by the second. That was good. Maybe he'd get away. Something – stupidity, probably – drove Malcolm back to his elbows. Blood and cuts and throbbing ankle be damned.

  Then that thing grabbed him by the good ankle, lifted him, and turned his world upside down without a trace of effort.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The trash and needles beach was above him now. Malcolm looked up at it while that thing held him suspended in midair. Blood spilled out of him and something else spilled out of his pocket:

  The tape recorder.

  Malcolm reached for it, but the thing squeezed his ankle and pulled him away from the ground. Then blood and hair and hanging toenails crashed down on it and twisted, crushing the tape recorder and squeezing all of its guts out.

  Malcolm screamed as
his trusted companion – his only trusted companion – was reduced to rolling batteries and plastic parts. Some of those parts lodged in the thing's foot, but it didn't bother to take them out or even look at them.

  That thing kept moving, driven by madness or a slave driver that Malcolm couldn't see. It grabbed his ankle and held him high. Every time he tried to wiggle away from it the grip just tightened. They ran along the strand now – two bags of flesh and blood drawn together by fate or misfortune or the plain old phenomenon of bad things happening to all people.

  Paul ran in front of them. Every few steps he stumbled, got up, and tried his legs again. His eyes widened when he looked back at them over his shoulder. Malcolm tried to scream – to tell him to run faster. But no words came out. The scene unfolded like one of those hunting shows on television. Shows where they stocked the woods with deer and it was only a matter of time before the hunters found one with their high-powered rifles. Except this was a human hunt playing out before him. He couldn't close his eyes. He couldn't look away.

  Paul fell again and sent dirt shooting up all around him. This one didn't look any harder than the others, but there was a finality in the way he left his limbs splayed out on the ground. He was spent, all of his endurance and will to go on strewn across the beach behind him.

  They stalked him. Closer and closer until Malcolm could almost reach out and grab Paul by the waist. Beyond them the strand ended and an alleyway back to civilization began. Just a dozen yards away now. Just out of reach. Paul kept his eyes there, not looking back even when Malcolm yelled his name.

  Then the thing reached down and grabbed him. It swung Paul over its shoulder and balanced his weight with Malcolm's like a peasant carrying a pair of water buckets. They looked at each other with their faces battered and bloody. But there was no plan – no shared understanding to save them. The thing carried them straight for the river, trampling over broken bottles and soup can lids.

  Chunks of flesh and blood churned where that thing's feet should have been, and a few toes hung off to the side nearly severed. But still that thing went on. Down the bank it took them where mosquitoes swarmed. Down, down, down until water and sludge covered the thing up to its knees. The world tilted again.