Ruthless (Debt Collector 8)

by Susan Kaye Quinn

  “I told you, Opa, they’re just being prudent,” Tatiana says with a wheeze. “No sense in wasting life energy when it’s just putting off the inevitable.”

  She adjusts her position in the chair. Her withered arms and legs take too little space in the cushioned confines and don’t seem to have enough muscle to make the movement happen. I’m uncomfortable just watching her. She should be in a hospital bed.

  Dr. Brodsky pats her shoulder. “All of life is simply putting off the inevitable, Tatiana. There is no crime in that.”

  “But there is in what you’re doing now, Opa.”

  “Some crimes are worth committing, are they not, debt collector?”

  “Yes, sir.” I turn to Madam A. “Dr. Brodsky is working on a technology that might, one day, help patients like the ones you keep here. I warned him about kids being transferred out, just in case…” I gesture to Tatiana. “Well, in case it got personal.”

  Madam A’s cool, glittering eyes regard Dr. Brodsky, and he stands up to the scrutiny well, returning it with his mechanical eye dilating and measuring her. Finally, she gives a short nod. “Grace will take Tatiana in back and find her a place to rest. She needs attending.”

  Grace hurries to Tatiana and wheels her toward the back of the entranceway.

  Madam A watches them go, then returns her gaze to Dr. Brodsky. “Perhaps we can discuss this technology of yours. Did you bring it with you?”

  “No. I keep a few small prototypes in my laboratory, which is all that really exists of the concept now, other than what I keep in here.” He taps the side of his head. “But I would be happy to discuss it with you, madam.” I’m afraid he’s coming off more crazy-old-man than brilliant-inventor, but Madam A seems to take him at his word. She beckons him to follow her.

  Before they leave, she gives me a cold look. “I hope you are quite done bringing strays into my house, Lirium. We have reached our quota.”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” I say and hold my smile until she turns her back.

  I stroll toward the apartment building that is my psych officer’s home in a slow, canvasing walk around the block. The apartment complex is more upscale than I expected, sleek white-and-gray granite blocks interspersed with glinting chrome balconies. The neighborhood is respectable as well, filled with the kind of potted palms and lush greenery that only money can maintain.

  Candy must make a tidy sum selling out kids’ lives.

  Elena sits in a coffee shop two blocks away. I insisted that she arrive there on her own, so we wouldn’t be connected, in case things went bad. But in spite of the upscale neighborhood, I’m worried. I swung past the café earlier, and the coffee shop clientele looked less interested in coffee than skeet. Elena and I waited until evening, hoping to gain some cover for my breaking-and-entering activities, but now I suspect the night-life here supports a hidden drug den in the back of the café. I don’t like the idea of Elena there alone, but she has to be in range for the data-dot-thing to work.

  I flip open my palm phone to call her. I already checked in before I arrived, but I want to be sure everything’s still good.

  She answers in one ring. “Hello?”

  “Hey, it’s me.”

  “I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.” Her words are measured, tempered for whoever in the café might be listening in, but there’s worry in her voice.

  “Sorry, I’m just checking on you.”

  “I’m fine.” Impatience.

  Okay, I’m being obvious, but I can’t help it. “Watch out for anyone trying to sell you a hit. You can just tell them you’re not interested. And keep your head down. Don’t make eye contact with anyone, just, you know, look busy. Work on your screen.”

  “It’s not my first time in a café.”

  “It’s the skeet den in back that I’m worried about.”

  “Not my first time there, either.”

  “Wait… what?” I ask.

  There’s a soft laugh on the other end.

  “You’re messing with me, aren’t you?”

  “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” she asks, but I can hear the laugh still playing in her voice.

  “Right. Sorry. I forgot how much of a badass you are. I’m hanging up now.” But I don’t. I wait to see what she says.

  “Good luck. I’ll be waiting.”

  I hang up, not sure if the smile on my face should be there or not. But thoughts of what I’m going to do next wipe the grin from my face.

  Getting into Candy’s apartment won’t be difficult—it would be harder if she lived somewhere lower rent. But the centralized security system in her building apparently has to register with the local law enforcement, fire department, and other public safety offices: all government agencies which share information with the Department of Life and Health. Elena’s ability to get hold of the passcode both makes my job easier and scares the shit out of me. And makes me worry for her again.

  She’s risking a lot to help me.

  I remind myself this isn’t for me. Or her. It’s for the kids who are having their lives stolen by Candy and whoever else is involved. Part of me wants to walk in and drain the life out of her until she tells me everything she knows. We’d get what we need, and it would be immensely satisfying in the process. And I’d give that life back to the kids she stole it from—justice all around.

  But that wouldn’t stop it from happening again.

  If I leave Candy dead in her apartment, whoever she works for is going to start covering their tracks. And if I don’t leave her dead, she’ll call them, and the result will be the same. So, keeping Candy unaware of my true intentions is still the only way to make this work.

  Really unfortunate.

  I arrive at the front door of Candy’s apartment complex and stride up like I’m supposed to be here. I swipe my palm to open the door. There’s a quarter-second beat when nothing happens, and I’m afraid the passcode doesn’t work, then the door tones and slides open. I take the elevator—all mirrored walls and shiny stainless—to the nineteenth floor. I guess blood money is one way to live above the smog.

  I hesitate in front of Candy’s door, one of only three on the floor. I’d like to keep this quiet if at all possible. It won’t help if the neighborhood watch decides to call the police.

  I switch the passcode on my palm to the one for her door and swipe my hand past the sensor. It slides open and I stride in, hoping to find Candy before she finds me. There’s no one in the living room off the entryway, but a light shines from down the hall to the left. I walk slowly to keep my boots silent on the polished wood floor of the hall and manage to steal up to the open door of her bedroom without a sound. She sits in bed, screen in her lap, legs buried in a satiny-white comforter.

  Unfortunately, she sees me at the edge of her door before I can make a move inside. My black trenchcoat and boots give me away even before she looks at my face. I sprint toward the bed, rushing at her, but she’s already rolled to the side and yanked open the drawer of her bedside table. Just as I scramble across the slippery comforter, I see the gun.

  I lunge, going for the bare skin exposed by the hiked-up back of her pajama shirt, but she swings the gun toward me, so I grab for that instead. My hand locks around hers and the gun. I could drain her, but her finger is on the trigger, and the tiny muzzle is uncomfortably close to my ribcage. Plus any gunshots will bring the police.

  I wrench her hand with the gun away from my body. She rakes her dagger-like nails across my face. I growl through the pain and slam her hand against the bedside table. The gun drops and tumbles across the carpet.

  I start to drain her, and her body tenses up. She’s stretched half off the bed, so we both slide to the carpeted floor. I keep a grip on one of her hands, while I bring the other to my face. Life energy pulses through the contact on my cheek, giving me a hit through the raw flesh where she carved lines in my face. The sting eases, and the flush of life energy helps to calm my breathing. I’m tempted to keep drawing her down, drain her completely,
but I’ve got to stick to plan. I pick up her screen off the floor, where it was flung during our brief fight. Elena’s magic dot is adhered to my pinky, so I make sure to press that to the backside of the screen before setting it in front of Candy and letting her go.

  She gasps and recoils from me. While she fights to suck in oxygen and recover, I stand and scoop up her gun. It’s small, and it makes me wonder where her standard-issue weapon from the Agency is stashed. Hopefully, not nearby. Her bedside gun is probably the one she uses for her unofficial dirty business.

  I hunch down to peer at her. “That’s really no way to treat one of your debt collectors, Candy.”

  “Lirium.” She coughs. “I didn’t realize it was you—”

  “I understand,” I cut her off in my most patronizing voice. “You were too busy going for the gun.” I tap my chin with one hand while keeping the gun lazily pointed at her. “Let’s see, where were we? Before our discussion in your office was interrupted… right, you were going to submit that transfer request for me.”

  She stares at the screen I’ve left on the floor, then looks back to me. “The what?”

  “The… trans-fer… re-quest.” I say it slow, like she’s mentally impaired. “You know, the official document that says I never have to see you again. You would like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “I… um…” She frowns, like she can’t believe I broke into her apartment just to get her to submit a form. And it is a fairly flimsy excuse. It makes more sense that I’m here to kill her.

  I stand up, take a step closer, and point the gun at her head. “Do you have a problem with that?” I figure logic doesn’t have much of a chance when you’re looking down the business end of a weapon, even if it is a tiny, snub-nosed one like Candy’s.

  “No!” She cringes, holding a hand out against the gun. “I just… okay! I’ll enter your request, just give me a second.” She picks up the screen and quickly swipes across it.

  I wave the gun at her. “Show me.” I bark the words and she jumps. I don’t want her calling the police or sending some kind of message. She scoots to the side, so I can see what she’s doing. She’s on the official Agency page, tapping in her login. When it brings up the internal screen, I try not to show my relief.

  Now I just need to buy some time for Elena to do her data snatching thing.

  I hunch down again to talk to her, cozy, like we’re friends. “I’m really going to miss you, Candy.” A little crazy talk should help keep her off balance. “We were just getting to know each other.”

  She flinches but doesn’t look at me, just keeps tapping on the screen. The transfer request form fills out in record time.

  “Which…” She falters. “Which division in Florida do you want?”

  “Pick one,” I say. “You know I’m not idiot enough to go there, right? So don’t bother sending any rental-thugs. I’d just like to keep collecting my government check for a while.”

  She taps in more information, her fingers shaking. When it’s complete, she submits it and looks up at me.

  “I did what you asked.” There’s a quiver in her voice. “Now you don’t need to… you can let me go.” She’s looking at me like she thinks I’m crazy, which will work as well as any explanation I can come up with.

  “Good girl.” I switch the gun to my left hand and hold out my right arm. “Now log in my tracker.”

  “I… I don’t have the tracker scanner.” Fear makes the whites of her eyes grow larger.

  Shit. “It’s in your purse, right?”

  She nods, a jerky motion.

  “Where is it?”

  “By the front door.”

  “Well, get up, then. Bring your screen.” I motion her up with the gun and step aside. As soon as she’s past, I slip in tight behind her and grab her neck. She lets out a whimper. I hold her neck with one hand and shove the gun in the small of her back. “Nice and slow.”

  We march down the hall, past the living room, to a small table by the front door that I didn’t notice on the way in. Her purse sits on top of it. I shift in front, keeping the gun trained on her, and dump out the bag. The tracker gleams silver on the glass tabletop.

  I toss it to her. She scrambles to catch it while still clutching her screen. I hold out my arm. She tentatively reaches out, scans the tracker, then enters the information.

  “Excellent,” I say. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

  Even in the dim light coming from her bedroom, I can see that Candy is pale and shaking.

  “If you kill me, Lirium, they’re going to know it was you,” she says, obviously buying completely into the Lirium-is-crazy act. “They’ll see that I entered your information just now. They… they’ll find your prints on my purse!” She jabs the tracker scanner at the purse as if it’s going to be Exhibit A at my trial.

  “I’m not going to kill you, Candy,” I say with wide crazy-eyes, just to see her reaction. She lets out a small peep. I almost laugh, but I’m afraid it would sound more amused than demented. “I got what I came for. And I sincerely hope to never see you again.”

  Unless it’s in jail. I might come visit her in prison, just for a laugh.

  I fling my hand out to make contact with her forehead before she can flinch away. She crumples to the ground under my life energy drain, and I have to scramble to go with her. I hover over her body, her wide fear-frozen eyes staring at me.

  “You’re not going to die,” I say. “But I might take a few years off your life, if you don’t mind.” I don’t have time to do that kind of drain, and I don’t need another burn mark on my hand, so there’s no way I’m taking years from her. But she doesn’t need to know that. I drain down a couple months in no time, pulling it in as fast as I can without injury. To me, at least.

  When I stop, she’s weak from the drain, but still conscious.

  “I’m going to assume you’re smart enough to not call the police,” I say. “Otherwise they’ll be very interested in how you sell out your debt collectors to the mob. But just in case…” I grab her wrist and twist her palm up to show her screen. I slide the gun away from us, and it sails down the polished wood floor toward her bedroom. Then I swipe through and reset her password, locking her out of her own phone. She stares at me like she thinks I’m going to drain her again, which I’m not, but I don’t need her calling for help while I’m on my way out the door. I drag her to the side table, where her emptied purse and the rest of the room is unfortunately bare of anything to tie her up. So I reach for her red silk pajama top. She barely fights me as I rip it up over her head, but once I stuff some of the fabric in her mouth and try to tie it behind her head, she puts up a weak resistance. I stop and glare at her, and that’s enough to put an end to that. I cinch the slippery fabric tight around the back of her head, then triple knot it to the leg of the table. That should occupy her for a little while.

  I leave her tied up in her apartment without a look back.

  Watching Elena work is my new favorite hobby.

  Not that I have any other hobbies, unless you count drinking to excess and using sex workers. Last I checked, those were actually vices, and besides, it’s been a while since I’ve done either. But watching Elena is almost as intoxicating.

  She sits at Madam A’s desk, perched on the edge of an overstuffed leather chair. Her screen lies flat on the giant mahogany desk in front of her, both pieces of furniture looming large and making her thin frame seem almost child-sized by comparison. Her sneakered toes barely touch the floor, and her back is perfectly straight. The casual pants and simple t-shirt she’s wearing suit her—earnest and sweet, in a clean-scrubbed way that would normally be plenty to make my knees weak.

  But that’s not what entrances me.

  A computer-sensing visor wraps around her head, sleek and glittering and sexy in a technology-enhanced way that makes me shiver a bit. She stares straight ahead at whatever she sees inside the visor, presumably holographic projections of the grid she’s manipulating. Since her eyes are covered,
and her attention is rapt on the data, I can watch unfettered. Her slender fingers weave a delicate dance in the air. They alternate between a slow stroking, as she teases something out of the matrix, and fast flicks that are almost angry, as she whips away offending data. Every once in a while she halts the sinuous finger motions to tap something into the screen. Programming? More data manipulation? I have no idea, but I pretend to study my palm screen until she goes back to the dance. Then I watch again, mesmerized by the silent, seductive tempo of her work. And I think dangerous thoughts about how I’d rather have those fingers dancing on my skin than on the air.

  Her fingers freeze, as if stricken, and then push her holovisor up on her head. Her hair bunches behind it, and she turns to me.

  “It’s hard to concentrate when you stare.”

  I cough. “Stare? I wasn’t…”

  She’s not buying it.

  “Have you found anything interesting yet?” I ask, hoping redirection will work.

  Her perfect posture slumps a little. “There’s a lot to work with. I’ve written a few algorithms for pattern matching, but I’m having a hard time pulling signal out of the data.”

  “That sounds… not good.”

  “No, it’s just going to take more time,” she says. “And I’m going to tap some other Department records, see if cross-referencing might bring something out of the noise.”

  “Okay.” I don’t get what she’s doing, but I’m happy to listen. And would be happier if she did the finger dance again.

  She stares at me.

  “Can I help?” I ask, just to be nice. I know I’m useless.

  She drops her gaze to her hands, which, sadly, now rest in her lap. “Maybe you can go check on your mom?”

  I try not to feel the small crush of disappointment in the center of my chest. But it’s there. “I’m bothering you.”

  She looks up, her gaze falling on the mostly-healed scrapes where Candy clawed my face. Elena didn’t ask what happened, and I didn’t tell—it was our silent understanding that I did what I had to in order to get the data we needed. Her gaze drags up to my eyes, and she gives me a small, apologetic smile. “It’s just hard to concentrate. You know, with the staring.”