The Collector

Rocket knew some of the things the kid had done. Mr. David had filled him in when he’d first asked him to look after Owen, not wanting Rocket to go into this thing blind. They’d had the kid seeing a psychiatrist and taking pills. But Mr. David told Rocket he was the extra peace of mind. So Rocket stayed at the kid’s side while they’d toured around the world, working for different religious organizations.

His opinion? You could stuff that kid in a fucking monastery for the next ten years and Owen would still come out all wrong.

But then, maybe Mr. David knew what he was doing. The boss was smart. Hadn’t he graduated from some big-name school? Mr. David had made Gospel Enterprises what it was today, taking the family company to the next level. He knew what he was up against with Owen. And people could change, right?

“Rocket, my man,” Owen said. “I didn’t think art was your thing.”

“Mr. David needs you back home.”

Whenever he talked to Owen, he never called Mr. David “your father” or “your dad.” It was always “Mr. David.” Rocket made a point of it.

“Really? How incredibly boring.” He turned back to the blonde in the wild dress. Really, the only thing holding that girl up was tight rubber and the wall. “Sorry, darling. Looks like I have business to tend to.”

“Come on, Owen.” She played with his tie, using it like a leash to pull him closer. “I thought we could have some fun together.”

Rocket had an idea of what Owen thought was fun. He didn’t know what kind of shit the girl was into, but she should be happy if Owen gave it a pass.

“Next time, sweets,” he said, giving her a light peck on the lips.

Owen sauntered ahead, leaving Rocket to follow. Rocket didn’t mind. Actually, he preferred never turning his back on him.

Owen stopped in front of one of the photographs near the gallery entrance. It took Rocket a minute before he realized the woman in the photo was the girl still holding up the wall, the one in the rubber dress.

Only, in the photo, she wasn’t wearing clothes. She was wrapped in cellophane.

In the photograph, she held one end under her foot as the plastic twined around one of her thighs and up her torso, just like a snake on a branch. She was holding the other end over her face, with her tongue pressed against the cellophane as if she were licking it.

Rocket turned away. He’d seen a man killed in just such a way, suffocated with a plastic bag over his head.

“What do you think?” Owen asked, staring up at the photograph. When Rocket didn’t respond, he laughed. “Not to your liking?”

Owen reached out and traced a finger over the girl’s mouth, where her lips pressed against the plastic wrap. “I bought it for my office. Spent a bloody fortune on it.”

Standing behind Owen, Rocket looked at the photograph again and shook his head.

What a piece of shit.

It’s just like he’d thought this morning when Mr. David called: this was going to be one hell of a day.

7

Pham had the witness set up in the interview room. He was practically falling over himself in his rush to hand her on to Seven and Erika. Not a good sign.

It didn’t take long to figure out why.

Gia Moon was movie-star beautiful. Seven had always had this thing for Jennifer Connelly, and it was almost as if the actress had walked into the precinct to pay a visit—swear to God, the woman could be her twin. Long swan neck, black shiny hair, skin to die for, as Erika would say. And those blue, blue eyes. Definitely Oscar-worthy.

Yup, Gia Moon was something. She was also a couple of fries short of a Happy Meal. At least that was Seven’s take on things after listening to her story.

They hadn’t bothered videotaping the session once Pham filled them in on the witness’s special talent, just Erika taking her statement.

“So let me get this straight,” Erika continued. “You didn’t know Mimi Tran?”

“That is correct.”

She spoke using this precise diction. He could see she was irritated, as if she’d already gotten wind that they weren’t buying what she was selling. Still, he couldn’t help staring. There was something mesmerizing about her face and its near-perfect symmetry.

She was dressed simply in jeans and a T-shirt. No makeup—didn’t need it, in his opinion. But there was paint on her hands, like maybe she’d been fixing up the den and dropped the paintbrush in her hurry to run on over to the precinct and tell her story.

“When I read the article in the paper,” she said, “I realized I had to contact the police.”

Erika took a moment. Seven recognized that carefully controlled expression on his partner’s face. Erika didn’t like people wasting her time.

“Because you had a dream?” she prompted.

“I thought it was a dream, Detective. But after I read the article in the paper, I knew it was more than that.”

“You’re talking about a premonition?”

“Yes.”

“But you called it—” Erika pretended to check her notes “—a vision?”

Gia Moon didn’t answer right away, but he could see the tension in her shoulders. She wasn’t enjoying the attention. In fact, she looked ready to bolt…which was unexpected. Usually the crazies who showed up with important “evidence” after a story like Tran’s hit the paper couldn’t wait to have their say.

“You can call it whatever you wish, Detective,” she said.

Erika didn’t even glance up from her notes. “Actually, I’m using your words, Ms. Moon. In your vision, you saw Mimi Tran being murdered in her home?”

“No. It wasn’t clear like that. It never is. It’s like a dream, subject to interpretation. I saw a woman in danger. I saw blood—or at least the color red.”

She seemed to be making an effort to remember—or perhaps edit her words now that she knew she would be held accountable. She glanced down at her fingers.

There, under her nails, the color of the paint. Red.

“When I read the story in the paper,” Gia Moon continued, “certain things from my dream suddenly fell into place, making me think it was Mimi Tran’s murder I saw.”

“You have these often?” Erika asked. “These…visions?”

Moon frowned. “I don’t see why that would matter, but yes. I often have visions of this sort.”

He liked that schoolteacher tone. Not many people took on Erika. Seven had to admit it was a bit of a turn-on. Really, it was a shame about the batty part.

“But this is the first time you’ve contacted the police?” Erika pressed.

Seven caught a slight hesitation before Gia answered, “Correct.”

“Why is that, Ms. Moon?” he asked, seeing an opening.

She turned to look at him. Her smile—shit, he felt it right down to his toes. But he kept his eyes steady, knowing that was one of his talents. Intense interest…the kind that got people to open up.

“I think that would be obvious, Detective,” she said, still with that devastating smile. Like it was a joke between them. “The police don’t exactly invite my kind of input.”

“In your dream, Ms. Tran was killed by a demon?” Erika’s tone said it all. And why would we?

“As I explained, that doesn’t mean she was literally killed by a demon. It could be a representation, a symbol for the killer. He could have a tattoo or it could be a piece of jewelry he wore.”

“Really?” Erika said. “How very mysterious…and vague.”

Seven almost cringed before he pulled up a chair and sat down, giving it a shot. “Can you describe the demon?”

Gia Moon closed her eyes, as if getting a bead on the thing with her “inner eye.” He almost smiled, but stopped himself.

“Scales,” she whispered. “Red mist. Black, protruding eyes.” She opened her eyes and stared at Seven. “Very large teeth.”

Seven glanced at Erika. Gia Moon had just given a fair description of the painting in the entry to Tran’s house.

Which didn’t necessarily mean shit. Scales, big teeth, protruding eyes—sounded like your basic demon, right? The newspapers had mentioned the victim was Vietnamese and a fortune-teller. It could be a common enough image given the culture.

On the other hand, the description of the painting might indicate that Gia Moon knew the victim…that she’d been inside her house.

“Go on,” he said.

“She felt fear. All-consuming fear,” she said. “She was terrified. At the same time, there is something familiar about this demon. I think she had encountered him before—but never the violence. The attack confused her. She hadn’t expected the attack. That’s why she invited him inside.”

“She invited the demon inside?”

There had been no signs of a forced entry—information that Seven knew hadn’t been printed in the papers.

“She fought him.” Now Gia wrung her hands, almost as if washing them in the air. “There’s blood coming from her hands.”

The victim had had defensive marks. But anybody who watched CSI regularly could come up with that much.

“He was…so hungry.” Now her eyes looked unfocused, as if she were again slipping into some scene only she could see. “He fed off her fear. There was a lot of blood, but he wanted more. He liked it when she tried to run away. But then she died. Too quickly. He didn’t like that.”

It was almost as if she was speaking in a trance. Jesus, he thought, if this was an act, she was good.

Suddenly, she focused back on Seven, waking up. She took a deep breath and stood. She shouldered her purse.

“I felt compelled to come here and tell you about my vision. For what it’s worth, of course.”

“Hold on.” Seven stood, as well, taking her arm to try and stop her from leaving.

Only, the instant they touched, static electricity—coming hard and fast and unexpectedly—shocked the two of them apart. They stood there, staring at each other.

Moon was petite, maybe five foot three. Seven was just under six feet. She had to look up to meet his gaze.

But those eyes, they could zing right through a man.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

The way she said it, she was apologizing for something very different than that silly shock between them.

“A woman is dead, Ms. Moon,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “We take any information that you may provide very seriously.”

“All right.”

He watched as she sat down again. He could see she was just as shaken as he. She took a moment to steady herself.

He sat down beside her, but Gia Moon turned to Erika, addressing her. “You’ll want a test, of course. Something that lets you know I have information never leaked to the press.”

Erika glanced at Seven. Is this chick for real?

“There were eyes everywhere,” Gia Moon said. “And there was something in her mouth.” She spoke as if tired of jumping through hoops. She was searching for the quickest way to cross the finish line. “Something very old—very powerful. And small. Blue. No, red. Perhaps made of glass. I would start there.”

Seven felt the blood freeze inside his veins. Holy shit.

“Seven, why don’t you start the videotape?” Erika asked.

“I’m on it.”

His partner leaned forward, now completely focused. “What do you mean, start there?”

“With the object. This blue or red piece,” she elaborated, with another tired gesture. “It’s—” she seemed to struggle for the right words. “It’s very old. Museums. Private collections. It might be a gem of some sort. Whatever it is, it’s missing. Someone is looking for it. He wants it back.”

Nothing she’d just told them had been reported to the press. Even if she’d managed somehow to speak to the two witnesses who had found the body, neither of them knew about the blue bead.

“Go on,” Seven said.

Gia Moon again stood, the motion part of her story rather than an attempt to leave. “She invited him inside. She punched in the alarm code, disarming the security system.”

Gia acted out the gesture, stabbing her finger in the air as if punching in the numbers herself. Seven noticed that her hand was at the same level as Tran’s actual keypad.

“It was a horrible death. But she didn’t die the way you think.” It was almost as if she were reading some script in her head. She opened her eyes. “And he isn’t near done.”

“You’re talking about another victim?” Seven asked, standing as well.

She nodded. “The demon. He’ll kill again. And if my dream is correct,” she said, speaking as if it were nothing to her, what she was saying, “I’m next.”

Mimi Tran wasn’t worthy. Her death lacked finesse.

You prefer to remember another time. Another woman. A better experience.

Puerto Rico.

You smile. You never forget your first time.

You’re in San Juan, the night of the festival. At midnight, everyone will walk backward into the ocean, dreaming of love.

You make a wish. There is nothing wistful about your dreams.

The palm trees on the beach are permanently bent from the sea breeze. At that moment, the sky above doesn’t threaten, as it has all day. As the music pumps the bikini-clad crowd into a frenzy, you watch families, children, lovers, on the beach, all preparing for their ritual baptism.

You feel their energy pulse with the beat of the conga drums from the salsa band. They walk around as if the party never stops. You, on the other hand, know exactly when this party will end. You’re in control.

Security is tight. There are armed police in Kevlar vests everywhere. Some convention of elected officials is in town, your only bit of bad luck. But you don’t care. You have the power of life and death. You’re not afraid. You’re God.

Tonight’s festival is a pagan ritual. Every man, woman and child will walk backward into the ocean and throw themselves into the sea, cleansed of their sins. Only, you know that it’s you who will do the cleansing. You look forward to it.

Palm tree trunks glow with artificial light on the manicured grounds. A band performs on a floating stage set up in the shallows of the private beach. Three women dressed in white sway their hips in a motion as old as time.

The crowd doesn’t need encouragement. Grandmas dance on the shore with toddlers, husbands stare adoringly into the eyes of their wives as they salsa knee-deep in the ocean. On the floating stage, men and women wearing cowboy hats follow along in a dance with the natives—a contingent from Texas.

You stare at the ramparts of an ancient fortress dating back to when this was an important military post, its shores decorated with cannons, the walls built to keep out the English Armada. The fortress is lit up tonight. Lightning flashes in the distance.

The women at the Bacardi booth keep the rum flowing. Every other man or woman carries a plastic cup, laughing and drinking. The cups are stamped with the Barcardi emblem: a bat. Here, the bat is a symbol of good luck.

As midnight approaches, the pulse of the party revs up. Couples once dancing poolside become part of the mass migration to the beach. Suddenly, the crowd converges. You stand body to body with strangers, getting drunk on their alcoholic stupor, but your eyes follow only her. You were at dinner when she and her boyfriend fought. You’ve learned women take all sorts of shit from men, but now, she’s alone.

One of the singers in the band explains the ritual for the tourists. People grab hands and begin wading backward into the warm water.

You come to stand alongside the woman. Like everyone else, she wears a barely there bikini. You’ve been waiting all night for this moment.

She takes your hand and smiles. She’s blond with blue eyes. You hear her slur her words as she tells you how amazing this all is. Like New Year’s, she says. You hear a touch of the South in her voice. Texas, then.

Beach balls are tossed into the ocean by hotel staff as the crowd counts backward. Ten, nine, eight…The girl squeezes your hand. She tells you her name is Mary.

Like the Virgin, you think, squeezing back.

At the count of five, you take Mary’s hand to your mouth and kiss the back of her fingers. She has beautiful hands, soft and slim. Mary giggles. You can see she likes her Barcardi.

The crowd is thick now. You stand practically on top of each other, trying to make room for all. You throw yourselves backward into the ocean. The tradition requires you do it twelve times, giving more than enough opportunity.

Mary never comes back up.

No one notices as she fights, kicking her legs. Her struggle blends with the ritual dunking. You’re tall for your age. And very strong. The crowd is throwing balls and dancing in the water. Fireworks light up the sky and the sound of the band covers her fight for air. Slowly, you feel the life slip away as her body grows limp. You submerge alongside her and bring her fingers to your mouth once again. You taste blood with the saltwater.

You lift her into your arms like a lover. You lower her one more time in the water, sending her adrift.

You slip out of the sea and across the sand, exhilarated.

Back by the pool, a giant TV screen shows the NBA finals. Tourists take photographs of loved ones, cataloging the moment.

You don’t need a camera. You will never forget this night.

Kids slide into the pool, screaming. Spanish and English mingle in the warm, muggy night. Off in the distance, the skies now threaten a downpour, while the pool bar glows neon blue. Striped towels are handed out freely; no need for a card key tonight.

The sand poolside feels warm between your toes. You look out toward shore, where people still dance in the water. There are hammocks between a few of the palm trees, as well as striped cabana chairs. You slip into one. Again, you reach into the pocket for your souvenir. Dark clouds drifting in the night sky begin to blur the stars.

You marvel at how well it went. You were careful to slip in at the last second and take Mary’s hand in yours. No one will remember you standing with her. It was dark. That helps.

You head back to the hotel entrance. At the pool bar, an armada of bartenders flip bottles to the rhythm of a song you don’t recognize. They dance and concoct their magic potions for the women smoking and swaying to the music on the submerged concrete seats. You notice a tattoo on the small of the back of one lady, but don’t linger. You’re not greedy.

You slip inside the hotel, passing the emergency personnel scrambling by. They will try to revive Mary. They will not succeed.

They will find the tip of one of her pinkies missing where you bit it off. Not what you want for your treasure, but it will do.

Your heart is racing as you make your way to the hotel gardens. A television shows a newscaster reporting that the festival on the beaches is going well. He reassures viewers that security is tight. It’s safe, folks. Come on down and enjoy.

You enter the gardens. No one is around. Everyone is back at the pool and beach.

You listen to the frogs. They’re famous here, making a soft, coo-kee noise. It sounds like there’s hundreds just here. You open your mouth and take out the tip of Mary’s pinkie.

Now you know why they call this the island of enchantment. It’s beautiful and surreal, listening to the frogs sing.

You look down at the finger piece settled in the middle of your palm. It’s small, only to the first joint, but you did like her hands and there wasn’t a lot of time.

You’re in paradise and now you have a part of Mary. All your wishes tonight have come true….

You open your eyes, returning to time present.

Mimi Tran wasn’t nearly so nice. But she had a purpose.

The eyes, her life source, are yours now.

That’s the way it has to be from now on. You kill with reason. It’s kill or be killed. You are God and you serve a higher purpose.

And you already know who is next.

8

Gia Moon stared at the six-by-four-foot canvas. She’d come home from the police station and headed straight for her studio, dropping her purse on the concrete floor at the entrance.

She’d started work on the painting at one o’clock that morning. That’s when she’d woken from her dream.

She hadn’t woken gently, slowly easing to the surface of wakefulness. That’s not how it happened, these visions. She’d sat up abruptly, gasping for breath, horrified by the images still burning so brightly inside her head. Her daughter had uncharacteristically slept in her own bed that night, a godsend.

In her bathroom, Gia had splashed water on her face. Grabbing a robe for warmth, she’d headed for her studio in the garage.

This is what she did; it was who she was. The woman who painted nightmares.

Her mother had warned her once. You’re so strong. Be careful. Dark spirits are always attracted to the strong.

“No kidding, Mom,” she said, staring at the painting of the demon who had killed Mimi Tran.

That morning, she’d taken only a short break from painting for coffee—it wasn’t her day to drive carpool, another lucky break. She’d had more than enough time for her vision to become almost fully realized on the canvas before she’d read the article in the paper, making the connection.

Gia reached into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out the detective’s card. When she’d gone to the precinct, she’d wanted to blurt out her story and leave. Mission accomplished.

She propped the card up on the easel.

They hadn’t believed her. She’d expected that.

She took a long breath and stared down at her hands. They were shaking. She balled her fingers into fists.

I’m next.

It had been a bold declaration, one she hadn’t planned on making. But she had a temper, and she’d let herself get pushed.

Not good, Gia.

Sometimes, she could understand what had driven her mother all those years. People wanted proof, something tangible. They wanted the world to make sense. Things needed to add up, like a mathematical formula. Forget about dreams and visions and the kooks who claimed to have them.

Erika Cabral was one of those skeptics. The kind of person who thought Gia only wanted to scam the desperate out of their money.

The interview had been surprisingly nerve-racking. Gia didn’t like the spotlight. She required anonymity. To the outside world, she was an artist, a painter whose pieces some claimed showed a glimpse into another world. But it was all below the radar. Those few souls who managed to find her never asked for more than peace of mind. In exchange for connecting with lost loved ones, they kept her secrets.

Now, that might not be possible.

“Wow. That is one ugly mother.”

Hearing her daughter, Gia turned toward the door. She had no idea how long she’d been standing there. She had a habit of “losing time” when it came to her paintings. Past three o’clock, she told herself, if Stella was home from school.

Her daughter walked into the garage studio, popping her gum, a vile habit she well knew her mother despised. Gia figured that was the point. Stella dropped her backpack in the middle of the floor. Gia didn’t comment on that, either.

The girl came to stand next to her and immediately fell into the painting.

That’s what Gia called it: falling in. It happened all the time with Stella. Gia watched as her daughter’s eyes grew unfocused. That was the problem with Stella’s gift. She was too sensitive, didn’t have strong enough defenses. She hadn’t learned how to guard herself—and, in complete denial of her gifts, she wouldn’t allow Gia to teach her.

Stella took a step back, away from the painting. In complete silence, she reached out and slipped her hand in her mom’s.

Gia pulled her little girl into her arms. At twelve years old, Stella was still under five feet, small for her age. Gia kissed the top of her head. Stella had Gia’s black hair and blue eyes. But the curls—those riotous curls brushing the tops of her shoulders were all her daughter’s.

“Okay,” Stella said, pushing back to once again look at the painting. “I already hate it. What is it?”

“I don’t know, baby. A demon of some sort.”