39
I kept Herod under my gun as his eyes moved back and forth between the Collector and me, as though uncertain as to which of us posed the greater threat. Herod’s own gun had been tossed to the floor by the Collector, and now lay out of reach. The Collector, meanwhile, was examining Herod’s shelves, picking up items and examining them admiringly before restoring them to their place.
‘You possess an impressive array of treasures,’ said the Collector. ‘Books, manuscripts, artifacts. I have been following your progress for some time, but even I had not imagined that you were so assiduous, and possessed such exquisite taste.’
‘I am a collector, like you,’ said Herod.
‘No, not like me,’ came the reply. ‘My collection is very different.’
‘How did you find me?’
‘Technology. Your car was fitted with a tracking device while you were in Ms. Emory’s house. I believe it might have been cobbled together by the late Joel Tobias, which is ironic under the circumstances.’
‘You were outside his house all the time?’
‘Yes.’
‘You could have taken me then.’
‘Mr. Parker was anxious to ensure the safety of Ms. Emory, and I wanted to see your collection.’
‘And how did you get in?’
‘Sleight of hand. It’s hard to keep track of so many men moving through one’s house across different screens, especially once the alarm system has been deactivated.’
‘You intercepted the security detail.’
‘Yes. You may sit, but keep your hands on the desk. If they disappear from sight, Mr. Parker will shoot you.’
Herod did as he was instructed, laying the palms of his hands flat on either side of the box.
‘You’re trying to open it,’ said the Collector.
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m curious to see what is inside.’
‘Such trouble you’ve gone to, all for the sake of idle curiosity.’
‘Not idle. Never idle.’
‘So this is purely a matter of personal interest?’
Herod considered the question. ‘I think you already know the answer to that.’
The Collector pulled up an armchair and settled himself into it, his hands clasped in his lap, the fingers intertwined and the thumbs crossed, as though he were about to pray.
‘Do you even know who it is that you serve?’ he said.
‘Do you?’
One corner of the Collector’s mouth raised itself in a smile. ‘I settle accounts. I collect debts.’
‘But for whom?’
‘I will not name Him here, in the presence of this . . . thing.’
His fingers unfolded themselves as he indicated the box. He reached into a pocket and produced a gunmetal cigarette case and a matchbook. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s a shame. It seems that I am set to impose still further on your hospitality.’
The Collector put a cigarette between his lips, and struck the match. Soon, a foul-smelling gray smoke curled toward the ceiling. Herod’s face tightened in distaste.
‘I have them specially made,’ said the Collector. ‘I used to smoke generic brands, but I found their ubiquity crass. If I’m going to poison myself, I’d prefer to do so with a modicum of class.’
‘How admirable,’ said Herod. ‘Do you mind if I ask where you plan to put the ash?’
‘Oh, these are slow burning,’ said the Collector. ‘By the time it becomes an issue, you’ll already be dead.’
The atmosphere in the room changed. Some of the oxygen seemed to be sucked from it, and I heard a high-pitched whine in my head.
‘By your hand, or by your friend’s?’ said Herod softly.
‘Neither.’
Herod looked puzzled, but before he could pursue the matter further the Collector spoke again.
‘What name does he go by, the one whom you serve?’
Herod shifted slightly in his chair.
‘I know him as the Captain,’ he replied, ‘but he has many names.’
‘I’m sure. The Captain. The One Who Waits Behind the Glass. Mr. Goodkind. It hardly matters, does it? He is so old that he has no name of his own. They are all the constructs of others.’
The Collector’s right hand moved gently, taking in the room, smoke trailing from his fingers.
‘No mirrors here. No reflective surfaces. One might think you were tiring of his presence. It must be wearying, I admit. All of that anger, all of that need. To work with it in your head would be next to impossible.’ He leaned forward and tapped the box. ‘And now he wants this opened, to add a little more chaos to an already troubled world. Well, no sense in disappointing him, is there?’
The Collector rose. He placed his cigarette carefully on the arm of the chair, then leaned over the desk and began moving his fingers along the locking mechanisms, the tips dexterously exploring the spider legs, the twisted bodies, the gaping mouths. He did not look at the box as he did so. Instead, his eyes never left Herod’s.
‘What are you doing?’ said Herod. ‘These are complex mechanisms. They need to be examined. Their order needs to be established . . .’
But even as he spoke, a series of clicks and whirrs began to sound inside the box. Still the Collector’s fingers moved, and as they did so the mechanical noises were drowned out by another. It was a whispering that seemed to fill the room, rising in terrible joy, voices clambering over one another like insects in a nest. One lid opened, then another and another. A shadow appeared against one of the bookcases, hunched and horned, and quickly it was joined by two others, a prelude to what was about to be revealed.
‘Stop!’ I said. ‘You can’t do this!’ I moved to my right, so that the Collector could see me, and I shifted the muzzle of the gun from Herod to him. ‘Don’t open that box.’
The Collector lifted his hands in the air, not in a gesture of surrender, but of display, like a magician at the end of a particularly fine conjuring act.
‘Too late,’ he said.
And the final lid sprang open.
For a moment, all was still in the room. The shadows on the wall ceased to move, and what had for so long been without substance assumed concrete form. The Collector remained standing, his hands still raised, a conductor waiting for the baton to be placed between his fingers so that the symphony might begin. Herod stared into the box, and his face was illuminated by a cold white light, like sunlight reflected from snow. His expression changed, altering from fear to wonder at what was revealed to him, but concealed from the Collector, and from me.