The Truth Collector (Demon Marked Book 1)

by Corey Pemberton

  She smiled at him, tears covering her face. “Me too. John was a little mad after I died. I spent the next few years pushing him over the edge.”

  “What do you mean?” said Malcolm.

  Charlotte shrugged. “It was easy enough. I started out visiting him in his dreams. Every night I tormented him – until there was nothing left for him except to drink coffee and pray he'd stay awake. Then I got bolder. Calling his name, revealing myself to him in broad daylight, rearranging his things to remind him of me.

  “I watched him disintegrate. I'd be lying if I said I didn't take joy in it. He rejected my love, and I wanted him to feel the pain I felt. They sent him to an institution – that's all they could think to do in those days. I stopped bothering him after I found out he'd killed one of the orderlies, but by then it was too late. There was too much momentum. Six months later he was dead at his own hand. I saw what happened – what I did to that family for my love gone bad – and I haven't been able to forgive myself ever since.”

  Malcolm felt his face, tapped his toes to make sure he hadn't slipped off into one of those other worlds she talked about. “You wanted to protect the girl. To make up for what you did in some small way.”

  “That's right,” she said. “I know I could never undo what was done, but the least I could do was watch over that family. For generations I watched, pushed children out of the way of cars and dumped pills down sewers when one of them became an addict. I was still stuck, but at least I had a purpose.” She looked up and down the strand. “I failed the girl's mother and father —”

  “Why?” Malcolm said. “Why didn't you do something if you care so much?”

  Charlotte's tears flowed freely now. “I picked a bad time to visit an old – to visit John's grave. But I'm not sure there's anything I could have done. Whatever killed them is far more powerful than I am. I failed the mother and father, but I haven't finished with the girl. Not yet.”

  Malcolm tensed. “You were the one crying at the house. You were there with us. When it was already too late.”

  She nodded.

  “Now you want us to find her,” said Paul, leaning back against the loose dirt.

  “Yes. That's my price. For protecting you from the demon.”

  Malcolm stared at her. The longer he looked the more ethereal she became. He blinked and she blended into the water behind her, wispy as the smoke from her cigarettes. But when he blinked again she was solid. “What if we refuse?”

  Charlotte shrugged. “I could make your life a living hell, you know.”

  “I don't think you would.”

  “I swore off interfering with others' affairs after – what happened with John. But I can make an exception for you if that's what it takes to protect Nora.” She turned to Paul. “You seem like the sensible one. Maybe you'll listen to reason. I don't need to make your lives a living hell because you've already done a good job of that all on your own. Am I right?”

  Malcolm leaned forward. “How do you know about that?”

  “He's coming for you,” Charlotte said. “That sheriff. He isn't a goodhearted man, but he's an ambitious one. He'll find you and what happens next? Prison?”

  Paul shook his head. “We have to tell them, Malcolm. That tape's gone and so is Fielder. We don't have any other choice.”

  Charlotte grabbed their hands again. “There's something much bigger going on here. I've seen the demon myself. I haven't come across anything half as powerful. There's a reason why he took Nora – why he wants her. Something is sweeping our stories together. Let me protect you. Pay my price.”

  “How?” said Paul.

  “Go where I can't go. Go to the world where she's lost and bring her home safe. I can take you.”

  “Where?” said Malcolm. “Stop speaking in riddles.”

  “I can see her,” Charlotte said. She closed her eyes. “I can see her right now. She's lost. Something is chipping away at her will to live. Once that will is gone it doesn't matter where she is. There's no coming back.”

  “You want us to go into another world?” said Malcolm.

  She nodded. “There and back again with the girl. I can't trust anyone else. No one else has your same motivation.”

  Paul shook his head slowly, like all the pieces would fall into place if he could just take them out and examine them one at a time. But his face remained a mask of confusion. “Where did Fielder take her?”

  “He didn't. Not the man you spoke to on the strand, but the thing that's wearing his skin like a pair of clothes. Nora is just one piece in whatever game he's playing. There will be others like her – if there aren't already.”

  Malcolm grabbed her by the wrist. It was strange before – how his fingers slipped right through it. But now it only felt delicate. “If you want us to help bring the girl back you need to tell us everything you know. You might not care about not dying anymore, but it's still at the top of my priority list.”

  Charlotte pulled herself closer to him – so close she could have kissed his lips if she just stood on her tiptoes. “I know where the gates are. Little spots strewn across the earth where people can slip between the worlds. You just have to know where to look. Well, me and the people like me – people who died in transition – do. I can get you down to the river where souls travel. The river that divides the different worlds.”

  Malcolm squeezed her wrist to steady himself. “You know where these things – these gates – are, but you can't go down there yourself?”

  Charlotte nodded. “That's right. My lot is to be stuck between. I can find them and take you there, but I can't travel between them on my own.”

  “But you can take people across,” Paul said. “And bring them back.”

  “That's right. Whatever has its hooks in that man, Fielder, must have someone helping him cross back and forth.”

  “Have you ever done this before?” said Paul.

  Charlotte bit her lip. “I never had a good reason to. I didn't want to interfere with forces much more powerful than I am. And what's the point of bringing someone back who's already resting peacefully in the beyond? But this is different...”

  “Because she's still alive,” said Malcolm. “Because you can see her down there.”

  “Yes.” Her fingers crawled over the empty pack of cigarettes. “I've marked the girl. Long ago, when she was still a baby in her crib. Not so different from how that man Fielder was marked. As long as Nora breathes I can see her. Please. Don't let me fail her. She's the last one.”

  Paul shook his head. “Do you have any idea how insane this sounds?”

  The woman shrugged. “I thought there wouldn't be many surprises left after you saw a demon slip into a man's body and use it to fling you into the ocean.”

  “Time,” Malcolm said. “We need some time to think about this.”

  Paul nodded. “I'm with him.”

  Charlotte let out a long sigh “The most precious commodity… until you realize that's all you have left. I'll be around, but don't make the mistake of not deciding. That demon will come back, and when he does…” She reached out, squeezed their hands, and fixed her face so there wasn't a hint of emotion on it.

  Then she disappeared.

  Paul gasped, and Malcolm reached into the empty space where a woman had been. They stood there open-mouthed, eyes darting up and down the strand. Something warm ran through Malcolm's hair and tickled his scalp. Sturdier than the wind, and more comforting too.

  A woman's touch.

  “Whisper my name when you decide,” said a voice. Her voice. “Pay my price. Before it's too late.”

  Malcolm and Paul stood there frozen. They shared doubts and fears without sharing a single word. Some time later they broke free of their stupor. They pointed their legs to the outskirts of the city, like old drinking buddies who'd just come to after the night's last pint, and began to walk.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Paul led them through the labyrinthine streets. They stopped in an alley and pulled a pair
of waiters' uniforms out of the backseat of an abandoned car. They put them on just as the sun peeked out over the river and filled the streets with morning light. The clothes were dark enough to cover the bruises and blood, but they couldn't hide the agony on their wearers' faces.

  Then, just before they left the outskirts for the first traces of civilization, Malcolm let Paul get out in front of him. He limped along on his swollen ankle. Slower than the pain demanded, until the gap between them was wide enough to fit a moving van. They approached an intersection surrounded by shadows and empty apartment windows. Malcolm veered to the edge of the alley. He gritted his teeth, preparing his mangled muscles for action.

  Closer.

  Closer and closer... until the walls gave way and opened up onto an even smaller side street.

  Malcolm glanced ahead and saw Paul's back growing smaller.

  Then he ducked into the side street.

  He kept close to the edge. Shuffled his feet as softly as he could. Tucked his head and moved faster as the shadows around him dwindled.

  "Hey." Paul's voice from the alley. Rapid movement followed it. "Hey." His voice was louder this time, echoing somewhere back in the intersection.

  But Malcolm didn't look back. He swerved around dumpsters and trash piles and a pair of motorcycles that had been stripped for their parts. Deeper into the street he went. His body screamed for him to stop, but Paul's footsteps screamed louder. Other tiny streets popped up in front of him. Plenty of places to hide. Plenty of places to get lost.

  "Malcolm!" Paul said. "Stop."

  Malcolm kept running. He slid across an empty pizza box, almost lost his footing, and somehow steadied himself...

  Until something snapped his neck back.

  He screamed.

  All of his forward momentum was jerked to the side then stopped. Something pressed his back against the wall and held him there, pinning him by the collar.

  "That was cute," a voice said. A woman's voice. "But I can't let you leave your friend."

  Malcolm tried to squirm away, but that grip was bulletproof. He heard her breathing. Smelled her perfume and the faint sheen of sweat beneath it. Then air became vapor, and vapor became woman. Charlotte let go of him and shook her head as she adjusted her dress – just in time for Paul to catch up to them.

  "How many times are we going to tangle in this alley tonight?" she said.

  Paul pushed past her. "What the hell are you doing? Trying to give me the slip? I don't think so. You got me into this. We're going to see it through together."

  Malcolm didn't answer either of them. He just leaned against the wall gasping for air. Paul grabbed him and prodded him back into the alley from where they came. He made sure to keep Malcolm in front this time, a pirate walking a prisoner off the plank. Charlotte disappeared when they reached the bustle of the business district. But she promised to stay close. To make sure the traitor didn't have another chance to escape.

  Into the workday madness they went.

  * * * *

  Every stranger they passed could have been Craig or the thing inside him – ready to finish the job. Malcolm studied every cheek carefully for the mark of the spade. Men and women rushed past them with paranoid eyes. But Malcolm didn't see the hunch-backed wreck of a man with his hair falling out. People gave them wide berths when they approached the central business district, sometimes hustling across the street, always ducking their heads.

  They found Paul's taxi and slid into leather seats already warm from the sun. Malcolm nodded, and Paul started the engine without a word. His eyes lost themselves in the flow of the traffic. Malcolm watched the clock tick off the minutes. He told Paul to slow down. He asked him to drive back to the duplex so they could think this over. But there was no sane man left to hear him.

  He sat in the driver's seat, a white-knuckled grip the only thing anchoring him to the road unfolding before them. He kept his eyes fixed perfectly ahead like another set of headlights – like if he could just drive well enough all of the confusion would vanish. Around drunk drivers and early-morning truckers he led them. Lips tight, hands steady he drove them past sugarcane fields and into Tattersall, the little town where Eric and Miranda had been murdered.

  Where the little girl had vanished.

  Paul didn't stop until the taxi was parked in front of the tiny police station. He got out, pulled forward by his conscience or some other force Malcolm didn't feel in himself. Malcolm hurried to catch him before he made it inside. He slipped an arm around his shoulder and made him promise to let him do all the talking.

  Paul nodded and opened the door.

  Inside, a few uniformed men flipped through newspapers and mingled with the receptionist behind her desk. They looked over when Malcolm and Paul came inside. “We need to speak to whoever's in charge,” Malcolm said.

  Two minutes later they were tucked away in an office with cups of coffee in their hands. A man sat behind a desk across them, apologizing for the mess. Despite the hour, his eyes were devoid of any signs of fatigue. He turned them on Malcolm and Paul and introduced himself as Sheriff Robert Broyles. “You fellas look like you've been through it,” he said. “But it must be something important if it brought you out here so early in the morning.”

  Malcolm nodded. “We've been up all night trying to decide if we should come forward.”

  Broyles leaned forward and pressed his hands together. “I take it you two work together? I mean, you're wearing the same thing and all.”

  “That's right. We were working a case earlier at a restaurant. We're private detectives, you see. That's how we got wrapped up in all of this.”

  Broyles leaned back, put his hands behind his head, and fiddled with the wide-brimmed khaki hat perched there. “I think you fellas need to relax. You know, I've been on the other side of that desk. I know it's stressful. If we could go back in time and ask my teenage self he'd tell you all about it."

  "No kidding?" said Paul.

  Broyles nodded. "No kidding. I did time, fellas. Hard time. All because I happened to have a girlfriend with a dad who had a stick up his ass. He caught us in our skivvies and then – bam." He pounded the desk with his hands. "One year for statutory rape. I don't know why I'm telling you this."

  Malcolm nodded. "Don't worry about it."

  Broyles leaned forward and looked around the room, suddenly aware of his surroundings. "I assume you're here about Eric and Miranda Swanson."

  “That's right. Mister Swanson hired me. Normally I wouldn't disclose why. But it might help you figure out who's at the bottom of this. That's why we decided to come forward.”

  Broyles nodded, looked down at a notepad resting on the desk, and looked up again without bothering to open it. “What can you tell me, mister...”

  “Morris,” said Malcolm. “My name's Malcolm Morris. My associate and I – Paul Knox – were hired to investigate whether Miranda was carrying on an affair. Several days ago Eric and I decided that I'd take a look into things.”

  Broyles's eyes widened. “No kidding? I never pegged Miranda as the cheating type. She always came across as kind of a prude.”

  “You knew her?” said Paul.

  “Yes. Her and Eric and both their families too. That's just how things are around here. Truly devastating.” He turned back to Malcolm. “What did you find out?”

  “Eric was right,” said Malcolm. “Miranda was cheating. But I couldn't get a hold of him when it was time to give him the news.”

  “Fine,” Broyles said. “You think you have something we don't?”

  “She was seeing a man named Craig Fielder. He doesn't live here – he lives and works in Lemhaven – but apparently it was going on for a long time. Maybe he's the one who did it. We thought you should know.”

  Broyles shut his eyes, leaned back in his chair. He kept them closed and let out a long sigh. “It's something to go on at least. Eric always had a quick trigger finger. Honestly I wouldn't be surprised if he came to his own conclusions, confronted her,
and just lost it.”

  Malcolm and Paul looked at each other in silence.

  “You don't talk much,” said Broyles, looking at Paul. “Why?”

  Paul's eyes twitched like they'd been snapped with a rubber band. “I'm worried. Worried about you getting worked up and pinning this on us.”

  Broyles sat up in his chair. “Is that right?” He turned to Malcolm. “Your partner put you up to this? Tell you to give me a little but don't give me too much or else this thing would blow back on you?”

  “No,” Malcolm said.

  “Yes,” Paul said. They spoke at the same time.

  Broyles clapped his hands together. “Now we're talking. Here I have one man with a conscience and another with a brain. What am I supposed to do with a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other?”

  “Listen,” Malcolm said. “Listen to the end of our story if you ever want to catch the person who killed Eric and Miranda.”

  “And took the little girl,” said Paul. “She's still alive.”

  Broyles's eyes dropped beneath the desk. “How do you fellas know all this?”

  Malcolm looked at Paul to give him a silent warning, but the words were already out. “Because we were there,” he said. “After it happened.”

  “After the murder?”

  “That's right. We didn't do it. But we went over there to try to find Eric. He owed Malcolm money.”

  Broyles nodded slowly as a smile worked its way onto his face. It was an uneven smile, like someone had done needlework with no regard for getting the stitching straight. “I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation why you two didn't come in earlier.”

  Paul shrugged. “Not really. I mean, there is an explanation. But I don't know how reasonable it'll sound. You probably won't even believe it.”

  Malcolm covered his face with his hands. Behind them sat a row of jurors with angry faces. Jailers who would throw them into prison yards and watch with twisted smiles while the other prisoners turned them into pulp. Any semblance of a normal life after this – a free life on the margins – died behind Malcolm's palms. He held them there for a long time while Paul talked some more, hanging them with his words.