38
The house, larger than most of its neighbors, lay on a nondescript road midway between Rehoboth Beach and Dewey Beach on the Delaware coast. Most of the surrounding homes were vacation rentals or summer places used by Washingtonians with a little money to spend. Transience was the norm here. True, a handful of year-round residents lived on the road, but they tended to mind their own business, and left others to mind theirs.
A significant number of the homes in the area were owned by gay couples, for Rehoboth had long been one of the east coast’s most gay-friendly resorts. This was perhaps surprising given that Rehoboth was founded in 1873 by the Reverend Robert W. Todd as a Methodist meeting camp. Reverend Todd’s vision of a religious community was short-lived, though, and by the 1940s the gay Hollywood crowd were carousing at the DuPont property along the ocean. Then came the Pink Pony Bar in the 1950s, and the Pleasant Inn and the Nomad Village in the 1960s, all known to be welcoming to DC’s more closeted citizens. In the 1990s, some of the town’s less tolerant residents made a vain attempt to restore what were loosely termed ‘family values’, in some cases by beating the shit out of anyone who even looked gay, but negotiations among representatives of the gay community, homeowners and the police largely put an end to the unrest, and Rehoboth settled gently into its role not only as the ‘Nation’s Summer Capital’, but the ‘Nation’s Gay Summer Capital’.
The big house was rarely occupied, even by the standards of vacation homes. Neither was its care entrusted to any of the local realtors, many of whom boosted their income by acting as agents for summer rentals, and taking care of houses over the winter months. Nevertheless, it was well kept, and local rumor suggested that it had either been bought as part of some complicated tax write-off, in which case the fewer questions asked about it the better, especially in an area swarming with Washingtonians who might or might not have connections with the IRS; or as a corporate investment, for its ownership apparently lay with a shelf company, itself a part of another shelf company, on and on like a series of seemingly infinite matryoshka dolls.
And now, with the final hold of winter upon the land, and the beaches largely empty and devoid of life, the house at last was occupied. Two men, one young and one old, had been noticed entering and leaving, although they did not socialize in any of the local bars and restaurants, and the older gentleman appeared somewhat frail.
But two men, of whatever vintages, living together was not so unusual in Rehoboth Beach, and so their presence went largely unremarked.
Inside the house, the Collector brooded by a window. There was no view of the sea here, only a line of trees that protected the house and its occupants from the curiosity of others. The furnishings were largely antiques, some acquired through clever investment but most through bequests, and occasionally by means of outright theft. The Collector viewed such acquisitions as little more than his due. After all, the previous owners had no more use for them, the previous owners being, without exception, dead.
The Collector heard the sound of the lawyer Eldritch coughing and moving about in the next room. Eldritch slept more since the explosion that had almost cost him his life, and which had destroyed the records of crimes both public and private painstakingly assembled over decades of investigation. Even had the old man not been so frail, the loss of the files would have seriously curtailed the Collector’s activities. He had not realized just how much he relied upon Eldritch’s knowledge and complicity in order to hunt and prey. Without Eldritch, the Collector was reduced to the status of an onlooker, left to speculate on the sins of others without the evidence needed to damn them.
But in recent days, some of Eldritch’s old energy had returned, and he had begun the process of rebuilding his archive. His memory was astonishing in its recall, but his recent sufferings and losses had spurred him still harder to force it to relinquish its store of secrets, fueled by hatred and the desire for revenge. He had lost almost everything that mattered to him: a woman who had been both his consort and his accomplice, and a lifetime’s work of cataloging the mortal failings of men. All he had left now was the Collector, and he would be the weapon with which Eldritch avenged himself.
And so, where once the lawyer had been a check on the Collector’s urges, he now fed them. Each day brought the two men ever closer. It reminded the Collector that, on one level, they were still father and son, although the thing that lived inside the Collector was very old, and very far from human, and the Collector had largely forgotten his previous identity as the son of the ancient lawyer in the next room.
The house was one of the newest of the Collector’s property acquisitions, but also one of the best concealed. Curiously, he owed its existence to the detective, Parker. The Collector had arrived in Rehoboth as part of his exploration of the detective’s history, his attempt to understand Parker’s nature. It was an element of Parker’s past – a minor one, admittedly, but the Collector was nothing if not meticulous – and therefore worthy of examination. The house, modest yet handsome, drew the Collector. He was weary of sparsely furnished hideouts, of uncarpeted rooms filled only with mementos of the dead. He needed a place in which to rest, to contemplate, to plan, and so it was that, through Eldritch, he acquired the house. It remained one of the few in which he still felt secure, particularly since the detective and his friends had begun tracking him, seeking to punish him for the death of one of their own. It was to Delaware that the Collector had spirited the lawyer away once his wounds had healed sufficiently to enable him to travel, and now the Collector too was sequestered here. He had never known what it was to be hunted before; he had always been the hunter. They had come close to trapping him in Newark: the recurrent pain from the torn ligaments in his leg was a reminder of that. This situation could not continue. There was harvesting to be done.
Worse, when night came the Hollow Men gathered at his window. He had deprived them of life, and returned their souls to their maker. What was left of them lingered, drawn to him not only because they erroneously believed that it was he alone who had caused their suffering – the dead being as capable of self-delusion as the living – but because he could add to their number. That was their only comfort: that others might suffer as they did. But now they sensed his weakness, his vulnerability, and with it came a terrible, warped hope: that the Collector would be wiped from the Earth, and with his passing might come the oblivion they desired. At night they gathered among the trees, their skin wrinkled and mottled like old diseased fruit, waiting, willing the detective and his allies to descend upon the Collector.
I could kill them, thought the Collector. I could tear Parker apart, and the ones called Angel and Louis. There was enough evidence against them to justify it, enough sin to tip the scales.
Probably.
Possibly.
But what if he were wrong? What might the consequences be? He had killed their friend in a ft of rage, and as a result he was now little better than a marked animal, running from hole to hole, the ring of hunters tightening around him. If the Collector were to kill the detective, his friends would not rest until the Collector was himself buried. If the Collector were to kill Parker’s friends yet leave him alive, the detective would track him to the ends of the earth. And if, by some miracle, he were to kill all three of them? Then a line would have been crossed, and those who protected the detective from the shadows would finish what he had started and run the Collector down. Whatever choice the Collector made would end the same way: the hunt would continue until he was cornered, and his punishment meted out.
The Collector wanted a cigarette. The lawyer did not like him to smoke in the house. He said that it affected his breathing. The Collector could go outside, of course, but he realized that he had grown fearful of showing himself, as if even the slightest moment of carelessness might undo him. He had never yet been so frightened. The experience was proving unpleasantly enlightening.
The Collector concluded that he could not kill the detective. Even if he were to do so and somehow escape the consequences of his actions, he would ultimately be acting against the Divine. The detective was important. He had a role to play in what was to come. He was human, of that the Collector was now certain, but there was an aspect to him that was beyond understanding. Somehow, in some way, he had touched, or been touched by, the Divine. He had survived so much. Evil had been drawn to him, and he had destroyed it in every instance. There were entities that feared the Collector, and yet they feared the detective even more.
There was no solution. There was no escape.
He closed his eyes and felt the gloating triumph of the Hollow Men.
The lawyer Eldritch turned on his computer and returned to the task in hand: the reconstruction of his records. He was progressing alphabetically for the most part, but if a later name or detail came to him unexpectedly, he would open a separate file and input the new information. The physical records had been little more than aides-mémoires: everything that mattered was contained in his brain.
His ears ached. His hearing had been damaged in the explosion that killed the woman and destroyed his files, and now he had to endure a continuous high-pitched tinnitus. Some of the nerves in his hands and feet had been damaged as well, causing his legs to spasm as he tried to sleep, and his fingers to freeze into claws if he wrote or typed for too long. His condition was slowly improving, but he was forced to make do without proper physiotherapy or medical advice, for the Collector feared that if he showed himself it might draw the detective down upon them.
Let him come, thought Eldritch in his worst moments, as he lay awake in his bed, his legs jerking so violently that he could almost feel the muscles starting to tear, his fingers curling so agonizingly that he was certain that the bones must break through the skin. Let him come, and let us be done with all this. But somehow he would steal enough sleep to continue, and each day he tried to convince himself that he could discern a diminution in his sufferings: more time between the spasms in his legs, like a child counting the seconds between cracks of thunder to reassure himself that the storm was passing; a little more control over his fingers and toes, like a transplant patient learning to use a new limb; and a slight reduction in the intensity of the noise in his ears, in the hope that madness might be held at bay.
The Collector had set up a series of highly secure e-mail drop boxes for Eldritch, with five-step verification and a prohibition on any outside access. Telephone contact was forbidden – it was too easy to trace – but the lawyer still had his informants, and it was important that he remain in touch with them. Now Eldritch opened the first of the drop boxes. There was only one message inside. Its subject line was in case you did not see this, and it was only an hour old. The message contained a link to a news report.
Eldritch cut and pasted the link before opening it. It took him to that evening’s News Center on NBC’s Channel 6 out of Portland, Maine. He watched the report in silence, letting it play in its entirety before he called to the man in the next room.
‘Come here,’ said Eldritch. ‘You need to look at this.’
Moments later, the Collector appeared at his shoulder.
‘What is it?’ he said.
Eldritch let the news report play a second time.
‘The answer to our problems.’