The Collectors (Karma Police Book 3)

by Sean Platt

  “That’s gotta be it.”

  “Wait … how do you know he took her? Or that he’s got her in some place without furniture?”

  Stuck for an answer, I give one that he’ll either laugh at or believe. “God told me.”

  He’s quiet.

  “I’m at the hospital. Can you take me to the cabin? Like now?”

  “On the way, but you better tell me more about this God-told-you stuff.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  **

  After I fill Waylon in on the lie that God gave me a vision of Jack holding Ms. Valencia hostage, we ride in relative silence. I’m guessing he doesn’t believe me, as Waylon seems a bit too street smart for God told me. But beyond a raised eyebrow or two, he keeps his skepticism to himself. He likely figures it’s something he’s better off not knowing, which is good because there’s no way I’m telling him the truth: Hey, I’m not Susan, but rather a woman named Ella who just might be a body-jumping assassin.

  After a while, I say, “Do you think you can convince him to let the teacher go?”

  “Don’t you worry, Mrs. Caldwell, I’ll talk some sense into your husband.”

  Susan’s memories gush forth, giving me some background on her relationship with Jack, a story he wrote in his first book, Lost, Now Found.

  Jack wasn’t a believer when they met in college. He wasn’t an atheist, just didn’t give much thought to God. Susan was the one who went to church every Sunday, and whose belief was a source of strength. While Susan never thought she’d date, let alone marry, someone who didn’t share her faith, Jack was nice and extremely charming. He was also strong and self-confident, but lacking the excessive bravado that was a shared trait among most of the men she knew.

  He began his career as a marketer, making a lot of money selling everything from supplements to seminars. It was easy money. Too easy. Jack bought into a lifestyle he couldn’t maintain — expensive cars, fine clothes, a house beyond their means. And, for a while, everything was fine.

  But then his darkness appeared. Jack had a hole inside he was trying to fill, and when money didn’t work, he drank, gambled, and cheated.

  Susan didn’t know what to do. Family and friends urged her to leave him, saying things like: He’s no good. He doesn’t deserve a woman like you. You can do so much better.

  But there’s one thing they didn’t know. Not even Jack knew.

  Susan was pregnant with Chelsea.

  Even when things were terrible, she couldn’t give up on the man she loved, at least not without a fight.

  One night she followed him to a bar, then parked her car and waited for him to stumble out of the bar, drunk with some floozy.

  Susan got out of her car and stormed up to Jack.

  His eyes were wide as she grabbed him, told the floozy to get lost, and dragged him back to her car.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “Wherever the road leads us,” she said, no clue what she was doing, only that she had to do something. She got on the highway and drove, trusting that God would help her figure things out.

  At first, Jack was apologetic, saying he was sorry over and over, promising Susan that he’d never do it again.

  She said nothing. Just kept driving.

  His cries turned to anger, accusations that she didn’t know what it was like for him — the pressure of his job, the soul-sucking nature of his work, and how she didn’t understand him.

  And she drove, feeling God pushing her forward.

  Where am I going?

  You’ll know when you get there, she felt Him say.

  Eventually, Jack fell asleep.

  She drove until sunrise, finding herself on a long stretch of mountain road with nothing in sight but rocks and trees.

  Then she came to a long bridge overlooking a lake far below.

  She glanced to her right and saw orange bleeding into the violet sky, a sight so beautiful she had to stop.

  She shook Jack awake, and they got out of the car.

  Then, the floodgates opened.

  Jack told her about his awful childhood, how his father had been a monster. How no matter how happy he was, Jack always felt like he wasn’t deserving, that something, somehow would come along and destroy everything.

  “You don’t have to follow your father’s footsteps,” she told him. “You aren’t him. You are a kind, loving man.”

  He held her tightly, sobbing.

  It was the first time she’d ever seen him weep, and it made her cry right alongside him.

  She told him she was pregnant.

  He cried again. At first, she thought he was upset, but then realized they were tears of joy.

  Because Jack had found God.

  He promised never to let the darkness back inside.

  As we pull up to the cabin, with Jack’s Panamera outside, I fear that the darkness has returned. And it’s up to me to help drive it out before he does something he’ll regret forever, something that will destroy Ms. Valencia’s life, and the Caldwell family.

  Am I up to the task?

  Waylon looks at me as we approach the door. “You sure you wanna go in there?”

  “Yes.”

  He shrugs then sticks his keys in the lock and unlocks the door.

  Jack appears before we’ve made it ten steps into the living room. A disheveled mess — shirt untucked, hair messy and sweaty, blood stains on his shirt, holding a bottle of whiskey.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks, staring at us wild-eyed.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Waylon says.

  “You should go home, both of you.” His voice is slurred, eyes red.

  I hear a cry from a room somewhere in the back.

  I start toward it.

  Jack gets in my way.

  “No.”

  “Let her go,” I say.

  “No. If the police aren’t going to do their jobs, I will.”

  Waylon comes toward us. “Come on, Jack, you’ve gotta give them time. They only questioned her yesterday. They have to build a case before they can make an arrest.”

  “They ain’t arresting her!” He takes a swig of whiskey. “We both know it.”

  I challenge him. “So, what, this is your idea of justice? Kidnapping her? Hurting her?”

  A horrible thought occurs to me. What if Carla is dying? What if he has passed the point of no return?

  “Please, tell me you didn’t …” I can’t finish voicing the thought, lest I somehow make it true.

  Jack looks up at me with a sneer. And for a moment, I’m certain we’re too late, that Carla is bleeding out.

  Oh, God no.

  Waylon pushes past Jack, heading toward the back of the cabin.

  Jack goes to stop him, but he’s not fast enough.

  Seconds after he reaches the room in the back, Waylon cries out, “What did you do?”

  I run after Waylon, also past Jack, and join him in the doorway. Carla is sitting in the chair, tied up, blood all over her clothes, face bruised purple, one cheek the size of a golf ball.

  My gut drops as she looks up, eyes almost void of emotion.

  I turn to Jack, now coming into the room, then run up and, with both hands balled into fists, shove him backward.

  “What did you do?”

  He stumbles back, somehow managing to stay on his feet.

  “It’s her fault Chelsea’s in a coma! We trusted her. She’s a teacher! And she took advantage of our girl, abused her trust. She turned our little girl gay! Chelsea’s gonna burn in Hell for eternity because of her.”

  He breaks down, crying.

  Waylon stares at me, speechless.

  I remember how smooth he had been when talking to Jack, how he could pretty much handle any situation, spin it to their benefit.

  How the hell is he gonna spin this?

  I go over to Carla, fumble with her gag.

  “What are you doing?” Jack calls out.

  “I’m taking this thing off her bef
ore she chokes to death!”

  I pull the gag off, and Carla looks up at me, her terrified eyes lighting with life — help is here.

  “Please,” she cries, “I need to see a doctor.”

  I look down, see blood soaking her blue top near her abdomen. I pull up at the bottom of her top, see a bandage soaked in blood.

  She’ll bleed out if we don’t get her help.

  I look back at Jack and see a knife on the floor.

  “You stabbed her?”

  He looks at me, nodding. “Yes, I was trying to get her to admit it.”

  “Admit what?”

  “That Chelsea was only seventeen when she … abused her.”

  Oh, God.

  I wonder if this is somehow my doing. I wonder if I somehow planted a seed of thought in Jack’s head while in his body and the cops wanted me to get Carla to confess to seducing Chelsea before she was of age. I had tried to trick a confession out of her, but she didn’t bite. Namely, because Chelsea wasn’t seventeen at the time. I understood that, but apparently, Jack is still a victim of this other theory. Maybe it’s because he isn’t getting the full picture of my interpretations of data — his brain is left to create a sensible narrative. Unfortunately, the one that makes the most sense to him is that Carla is a monster who must pay for her sins. But first, he needs her to admit her wrongdoing so he can feel good about what he’s done, or plans to do.

  “We need to get her to a hospital,” I say, eyes locked on Carla’s, trying to get a sense of how coherent she is. Not that I’d know the signs of someone about to die from blood loss.

  “I agree,” Waylon says, coming over to my side and helps to untie her.

  “Stop!” Jack says.

  We’re not listening.

  Waylon is pulling at the knots as I kneel down to Carla’s side and take her hand. “We’re going to get you out of here.”

  “I said STOP!” Jack shouts.

  His tone is so abrupt, we both turn.

  He has a gun in his hands, aimed at us.

  “She’s not leaving.”

  “Whoa, what the hell are you doing, Jack?” Waylon raises his hands in that way you do to calm an unreasonable person.

  “I’m not going to let her destroy this family. If she leaves, she’ll go right to the cops and have me arrested.”

  My first thought is to say yeah, of course she is, you whacko. But I can’t say that. I wouldn’t have previously pegged Jack as the violent type, but that was before I knew he was a drunk. Alcohol can soak out everything you know about someone, make them capable of some truly heinous shit.

  “You don’t want to do this,” I say, approaching him, my hands also raised.

  He doesn’t put the gun on me. It’s still aimed past me, at Carla. As I step between them, blocking his aim, he moves to counter mine, determined not to surrender his shot.

  My heart is racing. I’m picturing this going to hell. Maybe he’ll aim at Carla and hit me, or Waylon. Tragedy in every direction.

  “She’s not going to the police,” Waylon chimes in. “Are you, Ms. Valencia?”

  She gives us all a groggy No.

  Jack shakes his head, runs one of his hands through his sweat-mopped hair. “No, she’s going to tell. She’ll ruin us!”

  “No,” Waylon says. “We’ll pay her off. Pay her to keep quiet on this. She’s out of a job once the school finds out, right? She’s got nothing, Jack. We can pay her to keep quiet. Pay her, and this all goes away. You with me, Ms. Valencia?”

  She nods, crying. “Yes, I swear, I won’t tell anyone. I just want this over. Please.”

  Jack swallows, glaring at Carla, gun trembling in his hand, lips a slit across his clenched jaw.

  He shakes his head again. “No, someone’s gonna find out. We can’t just bring her to the hospital like this. Someone’s gonna ask questions, and then what? The police will come looking for me. And I won’t hold up to their questions. We’ve gotta end this now. You have people who can fix things, right, Waylon? People who can hide a body.”

  He doesn’t wait for an answer.

  Jack marches forward, eyes zeroed in on Carla, intent to finish her off.

  I throw myself in front of Carla and grab the gun.

  We struggle as I push his hands upward with the gun.

  Jack’s eyes widen, surprised I’m trying to stop him, or maybe of my strength.

  “Let go,” he hisses.

  “No,” I say, eyes locked on his. “I won’t let you do this. Chelsea wouldn’t want it.”

  His strength falters at the sound of her name.

  His legs buckle.

  He falls to his knees and releases the gun.

  I slide the weapon to Waylon. He grabs it and shoves the gun into his waistband as if he’s done so a hundred times. Then he grabs Carla and throws an arm around her, helping her to stand.

  “I’m gonna take her. It’s best you all don’t come with me.”

  “Okay,” I say, “I’ll drive us back in Jack’s car. Thank you, Waylon.”

  He nods.

  “And I’m sorry, Carla.” I meet her eyes. “We will make this up to you. I promise.”

  She stares at me, her eyes blank and expression numb.

  They leave.

  Jack is on the ground, sobbing in a heap.

  I stare at him, my heart breaking for his pain, and for my part in this.

  “I just want her back,” he says. “I just want Chelsea back.”

  I kneel down beside him, put a hand on his shaking back, and hug him.

  “We both do.”

  Together, we cry.

  **

  The sun has set, and we’re both lying on the ground, staring up at the ceiling.

  I’m thinking about Chelsea, wondering why I’m here. Was it to save Carla? Was it to stop Jack from murder? Or is there a chance I can save Chelsea? Or, at the very least, find the person who set this nightmare in motion.

  I turn to see Jack still staring up at the ceiling. He hasn’t breathed a word since saying he just wanted Chelsea back.

  He turns to me and says, “Do you still believe in God?”

  I can’t answer for myself. I don’t know what I believe. But I know the answer he needs to hear. I know what Susan would say.

  “Yes. More than ever.”

  “How? How can He let this happen to our little girl? Yes, she sinned, but no sinner deserves this hell.”

  “She needs us to be strong now more than ever. I need you to be strong.”

  He looks at me, reaches over, and wipes a tear from my cheek.

  Jack is lost, in pain, and ashamed.

  I need to help him find his shore so he can start swimming home.

  “Do you want to go for a ride?” I ask.

  “To where?”

  “Wherever the road leads us.”

  He takes my hand, and together we stand.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 5

  I wake up standing in a park.

  I’m confused.

  Something’s not right, but I can’t quite put my finger on what it is.

  I never wake standing. I always find myself in someone as their body is waking up. Am I to believe that this body was asleep while standing?

  Maybe they had an epileptic fit, and at the moment they were out, I slipped right in?

  I look around. The park is empty, except for a pair of mothers jogging on a path, both pushing strollers with babies or toddlers, far from where I’m standing.

  I’m between a soccer field and an empty playground. Well, not quite empty. There’s a girl in a black hoodie sitting on the swing. I can’t see her details from here. With her eyes on the ground, she appears to be a high school student, maybe killing time before school starts, or meeting a friend.

  How did I get here?

  Who am I?

  I’m not getting anything.

  This isn’t right. I always get something. Even if I’m waking up as the world’s biggest junkie, I get an indecipherable blur of m
emories at the very least.

  But I don’t feel drugged or otherwise incapacitated.

  I look down at my hands and body. I’m a young woman, long dark hair, young-looking hands, pale skin. Maybe in my twenties?

  There’s a wooden pavilion with restrooms near the playground, along with some picnic tables and a water fountain. There’s also a manager’s office, though a metal gate over the window indicates that the manager isn’t in.

  I head toward the building. Maybe my host’s reflection in the bathroom mirror will trigger something.

  A cool breeze whips my hair as I break into a jog.

  I push through the door and make my way to the row of five sinks and the long mirror hanging over them.

  As I look up, a jolt of déjà vu.

  I don’t know who I am, but at the same time, I feel like I’ve seen this woman’s face before — bright green-blue eyes, full lips, and bright pink cheeks. She looks so familiar, but I can’t rem—

  The bathroom door opens.

  The girl from the swings walks in, pulls her hoodie back, and reveals another familiar face: Chelsea!

  “What are you—” I start to ask, but she cuts me off.

  “So, this is what you look like?”

  “What?” I ask, confused. Does she know my host?

  “Funny, I would’ve pictured you as a blonde.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask.

  “You, the woman who’s been pretending to be all these people — me, my brother, my father, my mother.”

  “Wait, how do you — ”

  I have so many questions — I can’t even get the words out. How does she know I’m a Jumper? How is she even here? And why is she saying this is what I look like?

  “Know who you are?” she finishes for me.

  “Yeah,” I say, staring at her as she stands just two feet away, staring right back at me.

  This can’t be real. A part of me wants to reach out and touch her, but I’m afraid to shatter the dream — if that’s what this is — before it casts light on some great mystery.

  “Ever since I went into a coma, I’ve been … outside of myself. I wake, and I’m in my house. I wake again, and I’m somewhere else. No real control. But I kept waking up near my family, and I kept sensing you inside them. It’s like I could see this shifting shape within them, like a cross between a ghost and a light. At first, you were in me — I remember sensing you as I woke up from my overdose. I could see my family around my bed, and I tried to tell them how sorry I was, but you were there. You were in control. And then you were in Billy, then my dad, and then Carla, and then my mom. And now you’re here, a ghost like me, without someone else’s body to hide inside.”