The Collectors (Karma Police Book 3)

by Sean Platt

  “Fuck yeah!” Chelsea yells.

  She grabs me into a big hug, “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

  I hug her back, but all I can do is stare at the corpse, feeling almost like I’m outside of my — or rather Rocco’s — body.

  I killed someone I didn’t need to kill. Someone who wasn’t an immediate threat.

  And … it felt good.

  Chelsea pulls away to look at me. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m just going to go turn myself in and confess to killing Blake. If that doesn’t put Rocco behind bars, I don’t know what will.”

  She looks at me.

  “Or you could not take any chances, and kill him too.”

  I stare at Blake’s corpse, blue eyes staring up at the sun.

  “No, I don’t think I can. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” she says, embracing me again.

  Her hug feels good, like a sister going through this hell, displaced beside me.

  “Besides,” I add, “If I turn Rocco in, I can confess to all these rapes. Maybe give these girls closure.”

  She doesn’t say anything, just keeps her arms wrapped tightly around me.

  Finally, she pulls away, meets my eyes, and in what feels like a goodbye, says, “What happens next? Will I see you again?”

  “I don’t know. Just think of me, I guess. But wait a day or so. I don’t want you getting stuck in jail.”

  She laughs.

  It feels so good to hear it.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 7

  I wake up in Billy’s body.

  I’m not sure why I’m still with this family, but there’s a small comfort in the thought that I am, and that maybe I’ll see his sister in ghostly travels again.

  Now that Blake is dead and I confessed — as Rocco, to the murder, to the rapes, and how we conspired to ruin Chelsea’s life — I’m betting that Rocco is waking up wondering about the fuck bomb dropped on his life. Before turning myself in, I recorded myself on Blake’s phone confessing to his murder, and I even posed with his corpse a bit, to give the jury something to think about when considering his guilt. I’m guessing I’ve screwed him so hard he’ll have to cop a plea, but even then, I can’t imagine he’ll get out quickly. Plus, he’ll be persona non grata in this town, especially if Blake’s father somehow maintains his power.

  My bedroom door opens.

  Billy’s mom peeks in. “You awake?”

  “Yeah,” I say as my eyes adjust to the light bleeding in from the hallway.

  “Come on. We’ve gotta take a ride.”

  “What is it?”

  “You’ll see.”

  A half hour later, we’re pulling up to the hospital, and my heart begins to race.

  The whole ride, Billy’s mom and dad could hardly contain their happiness. Chelsea must have come out of her coma.

  I ask, but they tell me to wait.

  It’s the first time I’ve seen either of them happy since I woke up in Chelsea’s body. Is it possible that this family can heal? That they can overcome all of the hell that they’ve been through? If Chelsea is out of her coma, what’s next? Will they allow her to see Carla again? Will Carla ever be able to forgive Jack Caldwell for his torture?

  So many unknowns, but as we get out of the car and head through the hospital entrance, I dare to hope for a happy ending. If anyone deserves it, it’s Chelsea.

  We take the elevator to her floor and get out. I can’t contain my excitement. I run toward her room, leaving Billy’s parents behind.

  I open the door and see Chelsea, her eyes open, smiling at me.

  “Billy,” she says, her voice still frail.

  “Chelsea!” I run up and hug her, careful not to mess with any of the wires running from the machines to her bed, tears streaming down my cheeks.

  Jack and Susan join in the hug.

  “Thank you, Jesus,” Jack says, “for bringing my little girl back.”

  Susan is crying. “Oh, honey, I thought we lost you.”

  “Not that easily,” Chelsea says.

  And just like that, everything feels almost normal.

  We talk; well, mostly Jack and Susan talk. Chelsea doesn’t seem like she’s pissed at Jack for what he did. She’s acting as if things are okay. I wonder if she remembers.

  After a bit, Chelsea asks if she can talk to me alone.

  Jack and Susan look at her, surprised.

  I put on my best innocent smile.

  “Okay,” Jack says. “Do you need anything? Want me to get some ice water or something?”

  “That would be nice,” she says.

  They leave.

  I look at Chelsea, wondering what she’ll say to Billy. Will she tell him how much she missed him, maybe thank him for defending her?

  The door swings closed. With Jack and Susan out of earshot, she whispers, “Thank you, Ella.”

  “You can—” I start to say see me, but stop. Of course she can.

  “Yes, I can see you. Thank you for coming back.”

  “Like I said, I don’t get to choose where I go.”

  “I’m still glad to see you, for real.”

  I hug her.

  We talk some more, mostly her asking questions about what happened after I turned Rocco in, then a bit about what I think will happen with Carla and her father.

  As the door starts to open, and her parents step inside, Chelsea squeezes my hand and says, “Thank you” again.

  At lunchtime, the doctor comes to take her away for some tests.

  Jack suggests we all head to an Italian restaurant nearby, then return in a few hours when Chelsea can receive visitors again.

  We get into the elevator along with a doctor and an elderly couple who are talking so loud to one another despite being in such a confined space. What are the odds that both of their hearing aids are on the fritz?

  The elevator doors close, and I feel a sudden uneasiness that I can’t explain.

  I look at Billy’s parents. They’re holding hands and smiling. Nothing like a little kidnapping and torturing of your child’s teacher/lover to spice up a marriage, I guess.

  I hear the faintest sound of static.

  Oh, no. Not now.

  My heart racing, I strain to hear a woman’s voice relaying instructions, but the elderly couple turns every sound to mush.

  As the black square above the doors counts down to ground level, the static grows louder.

  No. No. No.

  The Collectors have found me and are coming to collect my soul. They know I won’t kill a child to escape them.

  The doors will open, and there they’ll be, their blank eyes somehow staring right through me. Then they’ll …

  The elevator doors open.

  The static crackles and is replaced by the dulcet tones of Kenny G. coming over the elevator’s tinny speakers.

  We step outside the box, and I’m relieved to find that no one is waiting.

  “You okay?” Jack asks.

  I look up at him. “I am now.”

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 8

  One Saturday later

  The last week has been foggy, as if it means nothing.

  All that matters is that I’m back in Chelsea’s body.

  I’m not sure where she is now, though I can feel her more than I’ve ever felt anyone else. I can feel her with me, though I’m not sure if she’s aware of my presence. She’s not talking to me like the ghost who met me in the bathroom or the girl who talked to me when she came out of her coma — yet she’s here just the same.

  I feel odd inside her with this awareness that she may be feeling me as much as I’m feeling her.

  I spent most of the morning with her family, all of them in Recovery Mode — that odd space between forgiveness and moving on. They’re on eggshells around me. Overly nice. I wonder if they’re afraid I’ll overdose again or wondering if they’ll drive me back into Carla’s arms.

  From what I can tell, mostly from what I’ve overhea
rd, as nobody is specifically discussing the matter with me, Waylon paid Carla off, so she won’t be pressing charges. In exchange, he found a way to make sure that student-teacher affair stayed behind closed doors, and that the investigation never leaked, at least not through any official channels. Of course, Waylon couldn’t stop every whisper, but Carla’s face and name wouldn’t be splashed all over the evening news for the muckraking journalists and vultures lying in wait for their nightly feast of misery to prey upon.

  After lunch, I tell Mom and Dad that I need some fresh air, and want to take a drive.

  Jack starts to say something. Maybe he wants to warn me away from Carla’s, but then he catches himself and says, “Be careful.”

  I kiss them both on the cheek, then head out the door.

  I drive aimlessly for a while, knowing where I want to go, but not sure if it’s a good idea.

  I go anyway.

  I knock on Carla’s door, anxiously awaiting her response.

  What the hell am I doing here?

  This is a terrible idea.

  However, I — and not just Chelsea — can’t shake the feeling of needing to see her and find out if she’s okay.

  The door eventually opens a crack, security chain in place.

  Carla’s eyes meet mine, but her expression isn’t joy, or even surprise to see me alive and out of my coma. She’s clearly terrified.

  “What are you doing here?” Her voice is slightly changed from the still-swollen cheek. A violet bruise has swallowed the skin beneath her left eye. I’m almost afraid to know how many other injuries she suffered at Jack’s hands.

  “I wanted to see if you’re okay.”

  “I’m fine. Please go.”

  “I am soooo sorry about what my dad did to you. He had no right. He — ”

  “Stop.”

  “What?” I ask.

  She still hasn’t unlatched the security chain.

  “Please, I don’t want to do this.”

  “Do what?” I ask, genuinely confused.

  “Your father was right.”

  “What? No, he wasn’t. Nobody should have to endure what you went through.”

  “Maybe, but I understand. He was afraid. He needed someone to blame, and he was right — I should never have let this go as far as it did. You were my student, and I knew better.”

  Chelsea’s emotions are gushing forth in an unbridled wash of sorrow and deep, pining love. I can hardly control what comes out of my mouth.

  “But I love you.”

  I’m shocked as it leaves my lips, but there are no take-backs.

  This gets to Carla.

  Her eyes are welling up, and she’s quiet, maybe wondering if she should take the chain off the door and invite me inside.

  “Please, don’t give up on us. I’ll make my father understand.”

  Carla stares at me, her chin quivering, resolve about to break. She’s going to unchain the lock and open the door.

  “They made me sign papers.”

  “What?” I ask.

  “Made me sign papers that I wouldn’t go to the police, news, or anybody else about what happened, and … ”

  Carla pauses as if unsure whether she should tell me the rest.

  “And what?”

  “And I can’t see you anymore.”

  “And you signed?” I’m incredulous. Angry. “Why?”

  “I just want this over. It’s too much. And you don’t need this in your life.”

  “Don’t tell me what I need in my life. I know what I need — you.”

  She shakes her head. “Sorry, Chels. I just can’t.”

  “Nobody has to know. And what’s the worst thing that can happen if Dad does find out? The police already investigated you. You didn’t break any laws. Hell, if anything, you have something on him — he kidnapped and nearly killed you!”

  Carla shakes her head. “Sorry.”

  I feel a cold, dark anger.

  “How much did he pay you?”

  “What?” Carla asks, balking at the accusation.

  “How much did he pay you?”

  “It’s not about the money.”

  “I want to know.”

  “Why?”

  I can’t stop the words spilling from my mouth. They’re Chelsea’s feelings, and there’s nothing I can do to stop them.

  “I want to know what I’m worth to you. What it’s worth to throw my love away.”

  “It’s not the money. I’m doing this for you.”

  “But I love you.” Tears are streaming down my face, knife piercing my heart as if it were me Carla was rejecting rather than Chelsea.

  “I love you, too,” she says, “which is why I’m closing the door.”

  And then she does.

  I stand outside Carla’s door, crying for what feels like an eternity.

  I want to knock on her door, hell, bang on it, and demand that she see me. I know I can convince her that Jack will come around. He’ll have to. I’ll make him.

  I know this is what Chelsea feels, but there’s a part of me that feels this too. Have Chelsea’s feelings somehow become mine? Am I that vested in their relationship that its collapse is killing me as if it were my own doomed love?

  I can’t commit Chelsea to this course of action.

  If she wants to push this relationship while back in her body, fine, but it can’t come from me.

  It must be her.

  I’m tired of screwing up my hosts’ lives.

  And so I leave Carla’s porch.

  * * * *

  EPILOGUE

  It’s been almost a month since I left the Caldwell family’s circle. Today I’m a 60-year-old cab driver in Oregon named Martin O’Leary.

  Usually, this far out from an event, memories get fuzzy, and it’s hard to remember anything but a few details, shadows of people’s lives.

  But this time is different.

  As I Jump from body to body, I keep finding myself wondering how Chelsea and Carla are doing. Did they get back together? Is their father keeping them apart? Surprisingly, their affair hasn’t made the news.

  I’ve never seen a story that scandalous just drop off the map, never even appearing in the headlines or gossip sites. It’s as if someone scrubbed the story from existence. Did the kids at Chelsea’s school feel sorry for her once Anthony Rocco and Blake Wellington’s misdeeds came to light?

  There was news about that, and a few mentions of Chelsea coming out of her coma. But the Caldwells and Carla have otherwise stayed under the radar. They’ve even deleted their social media accounts, so I can’t check up on them that way.

  Chelsea’s father lost his TV deal but managed to line up a new one with another network. Yay, Waylon.

  As each day passes, I wonder if I’ll ever see Chelsea again. She was a good kid. And it felt great to have someone to share my journey. I felt a little less lonely.

  It’s weird how loneliness works. You’re alone long enough, and you start to forget what it feels like to be forsaken. You grow accustomed. But then when you meet someone you connect with and remember what it’s like to be human. Then when they’re gone, you remember what it means to be truly alone.

  I try not to take it personally that Chelsea hasn’t come to see me. After all, she’s back among the living. Maybe she could only astral travel, or whatever it was she was doing, while in a coma.

  I’d call her, but the family changed all of their numbers after the initial surge of publicity surrounding Chelsea coming out of her coma.

  I suppose if I tried hard enough I could remember Waylon’s number, but I’m not sure what I’d say even if I got through, especially today as a 60-year-old dude. “Hey, I’m trying to reach your client’s teenage daughter.”

  Yeah, that would go over like a lead balloon.

  I’m a solo ghost again.

  **

  It’s my final job of the day.

  I’m sitting outside a grocery store waiting on a little old lady who asked me if I’d mind “wait
ing just a minute” while she ran in to get something.

  I told her no problem.

  That was fifteen minutes ago.

  Did she stiff me, and flee out the back door? Or maybe she’s wandering the aisles suffering from dementia with no idea where she is.

  I’m debating whether to go in the store and look for her or leave.

  I’m not sure of the protocol. Worse comes to worst, I’m out fifteen bucks and will maybe get a reprimand from my bosses.

  I decide to surf the web on my host’s phone to kill some time. If I’m gonna wait, I may as well check for any news on the Caldwells before calling it a night.

  I usually see the same stories when I search Chelsea Caldwell, but tonight there’s a new one at the top of the results, a story published an hour ago.

  Miracle Coma Survivor Chelsea Caldwell Goes Missing; Teacher Affair To Blame?

  What?

  I thumb through the story. From the scant information, it appears that Chelsea went out for a walk yesterday afternoon and never came home.

  The story then delves into accusations that she was having an affair with Carla. So much for keeping a lid on that story! The real shocker is that Carla Valencia is also missing.

  “Holy shit, they ran off together!” I say, not sure if I’m disappointed or happy for them.

  Suddenly, I sense somebody in my back seat.

  I turn, expecting to see the old lady to have slipped into the car while I was distracted by this shocker of a story.

  But it isn’t her.

  “Chelsea?” I say, not even sure, as the thing in my back seat is like a fading hologram, jittery with static.

  “Ella?” she says, her voice staticky.

  “Yes,” I say. “Where are you?”

  “They took me, Ella.”

  “Who took you?”

  “Some people in a van. They pulled up beside me, put a bag over my head, and took— ”

  And like that, she’s gone.

  “Ella?”

  She crackles back to life, visually and audibly.

  “Where are you?”

  “I don’t know. It’s someplace big. I think I’m … underground. They put me in a coma or something, Ella.”