The Wrath of Angels

‘Debts. Regrets. Souls. You’re stalling for time, Ms Phipps. You know who I am, and what I am.’

 

There was a pause, and Tate knew that the Collector was right: there was someone else with Becky. He could picture her looking to the other for guidance.

 

‘That was you in the bar, wasn’t it?’ she said. ‘Davis was right to be worried. I thought he was just jittery, but it seems that he was more sensitive than I gave him credit for.’

 

Tate didn’t like his producer’s use of the past tense in association with his name.

 

‘He is remarkably sensitive in more ways than one,’ said the Collector. ‘He screamed very loudly when I sliced through his earlobe. Thankfully, these old brownstones have thick walls. Will you scream when I come for you, Ms Phipps? It won’t matter either way, so don’t be too concerned. I always bring earplugs. And I really do believe that there is someone with you. That’s my particular sensitivity. Who is it? One of your ‘‘Backers’’, perhaps? Put him on. Let him speak. It is a “he”, isn’t it? I can almost see the price tag on his suit. Be sure, whoever you are, that I’ll find you too, and your associates. I’ve learned a great deal about you already.’

 

There was an intake of breath before Phipps started shouting.

 

‘What did you tell him, Davis? What did you tell him about us? You keep your mouth shut. You keep it shut or I swear, I swear we’ll put you—’

 

The Collector killed the connection.

 

‘That was all very amusing,’ he said.

 

‘You warned her,’ said Tate. ‘She knows you’re coming now. Why would you do that?’

 

‘Because in her fear she’ll draw out the others, and then I can take them too. And if they choose to remain hidden, well, she’ll give me their names when I find her.’

 

‘But how will you do that? Won’t she hide from you? Won’t she be protected?’

 

‘I find your concern for her very touching,’ said the Collector. ‘One would almost think that you liked her, rather than merely being obligated to her. You really should have examined that contract more closely, you know. It made clear your obligations to them, while leaving them with none to you. It is in the nature of their bargains to do so.’

 

‘I don’t read Latin,’ said Tate glumly.

 

‘Very remiss of you. It’s the lingua franca of the law. What kind of fool signs a contract written in a language that he can’t read?’

 

‘They were very persuasive. They said it was a one-off deal. They told me that if I turned it down, there were others who would accept.’

 

‘There are always others who will accept.’

 

‘They told me I’d have my own TV show, that I’d get to publish books. I wouldn’t even have to write them, just put my name to them.’

 

‘And how did that work out?’ the Collector asked, and he seemed almost sympathetic.

 

‘Not so good,’ admitted Tate. ‘They said I had a face made for radio. You know, like Rush Limbaugh.’

 

The Collector patted him on the shoulder. The small gesture of humanity increased Tate’s hope that the word ‘perhaps’ had become less a piece of driftwood to which he might cling than a life boat to keep him safe from the cold waters that currently lapped at his chin.

 

‘Your friend Becky has a bolt-hole in New Jersey. That’s where she’ll run to, and that’s where I’ll find her.’

 

‘She’s not my friend. She’s my producer.’

 

‘It’s an interesting distinction. Do you have any friends?’

 

Tate thought about the question. ‘Not many,’ he admitted.

 

‘I suppose that it’s difficult to keep them in your line of work.’

 

‘Why, because I’m so busy?’

 

‘No, because you’re so unpleasant.’

 

Tate conceded the point.

 

‘So,’ said the Collector. ‘What should I do with you now?’

 

‘You could let me go,’ said Tate. ‘I’ve told you all that I know.’

 

‘You’ll call the police.’

 

‘No’, said Tate, ‘I won’t.’

 

‘How can I be sure?’

 

‘Because I know that you’ll come back for me if I do.’

 

The Collector appeared impressed with his reasoning. ‘You may be smarter than I thought,’ he said.

 

‘I get that a lot,’ said Tate. ‘There’s something more that I can give you, to convince you to let me go.’

 

‘What would that be?’

 

‘They’re going to abduct a girl,’ said Tate. ‘Her name is Penny Moss. They’ll blame whatever happens to her on some raghead.’

 

‘I know. I heard you discussing it.’

 

‘You were right at the other end of the bar.’

 

‘I have very keen hearing. Oh, and I placed a cheap transmitting device on top of your booth as I passed.’

 

Tate sighed. ‘Will they hurt the girl?’

 

‘There is no girl.’

 

‘What?’