The Collector (4 page)

Chapter Six

Watchful Eyes

I pull up in front of Charlie’s house and kill the engine of her grandma’s ’90s Lincoln. Right now, I’d like to find a hotel and call it a day. But this job isn’t your typical nine to five. So I turn to Charlie, who’s busy destroying her nails, and say, “Want me to come inside for a while?”

She takes her fingers out of her mouth. “My grandma still isn’t home, or she’d be outside with a butcher knife already.”

Good. “That’s too bad. Where is she?”

“Her friend Ilene usually picks her up on Friday afternoons so they can gossip,” she says. “That’s why she wasn’t here when we came by earlier.”

“Does your grandma work?” I ask.

“No. She used to be a cosmetologist. She even did makeup for movie stars when she was younger, but she doesn’t work anymore.”

I inspect the big white house in front of us with its black shutters and red door. It’s nowhere near the size of my parents’ crib, but it still must have cost some cash. I’m guessing money’s tighter now that Grams is retired.

“Want to see what my grandma has stashed in the fridge?” she asks.

“Definitely.”

We climb out the car, but instead of heading inside, Charlie walks across the street to the densely treed area facing her house.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

She pulls napkins out of her backpack and unwraps the leftovers she stashed from lunch. “These raccoons used to get into our trash, but my grandma bought these heavy-duty lids to keep them out. It worked, but I feel kinda bad for them, you know?” Charlie tosses the food toward the trees and heads toward the house. “If my grandma found out I was feeding them, she’d freak.”

“Your secret is my secret.”
Even if you are a hippie nut job.

Charlie unlocks the front door and goes in, but I stop in the doorway. I turn around. Then I turn around again.

I feel something. No, I
sense
something. And it sure as hell isn’t raccoons.

Across the street, it’s so thick with brush, I can’t tell if something’s there. I take a few steps forward and listen. I don’t hear anything, but I know it’s him.

A collector.

The sensation never lets me know how many collectors are near, but reason tells me there’s only one. Feeling like an idiot, I say, “Max?” But there’s no response. There are only six of us, yet this guy’s sportin’ shadow. Why won’t this dude reveal himself? I know the only thing that can kill a collector is to remove his cuff, but right about now I’d like to give other alternatives a shot. I run through the collectors in my head. In addition to me and Max, there’re Patrick, Anthony, Kincaid, and Zack. And I can’t imagine why any of them would follow me. In fact, I’d think they’d be afraid to. Not only do I have Boss Man’s ear, but I’m the one who performs their continued training. And there’s no secret why that is: I’m the best.

I walk back toward the house, glancing over my shoulder the entire way. When I get to the door, Charlie is there. “It’s nothing,” I say before she asks. “Let’s raid the kitchen.”

Charlie and I dig out three bags of chips, one can of artichoke dip, and two cans of orange soda. We chow down, and I try to shake the odd feeling that a collector was outside her house. But I can’t. I don’t understand who it would’ve been, or why they came here.

As I watch her tip back her drink, all I can think is,
Why Charlie?

I’ve got to get this assignment moving quicker, and I know how to do it. The thought makes me gag, but I know it’ll work, and I don’t have much choice. If another collector is watching on the sly, then it’s time to bring out the big guns. I’d like to show him how smoothly I operate.

“Hey, Charlie,” I say, taking the orange soda out of her hand and setting it down. “Let’s hang out in your room.” Her blue eyes widen, but she doesn’t protest as I take her hand. “Come on.”

“You want me to bring up the chips and stuff?” she asks. “I’m addicted to the Cheetos, but I wish my grandma would buy the puff kind, you know? I always ask her to, but…” Charlie rambles at Mach speed. She’s nervous. And she should be. I doubt this girl has ever visited first base…or even been to a game.

I lead the way up the stairs and push her bedroom door open. The pink overload blinds me as I enter the room. Though I’ve seen it before, I’m still not prepared for how
loud
it is.

I sit on her bed and shove some of the pillows onto the floor. She doesn’t seem to mind, which surprises me. Charlie takes her stolen hairpin out of her pocket and grips it in her hand. She stares at it as though it might suddenly sprout teeth.

“Why so glum?” I ask in my seduction voice.

She rolls her tongue over the inside of her cheek and says quietly, “I want to return it.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do,” she insists.

I bite down, not at all happy she’s killing my vibes. Ready to drop the subject, I hold my palm out. “Give it to me,” I say. “I’ll return it.”

She hands it over like she’s happy to be rid of it. I stuff it in my pocket, where it’ll stay. That seal of hers ain’t going nowhere. It’s not like you can rob a bank one day, then return it the next and expect a full pardon. Please.

Charlie smiles, thinking her sin is absolved, and plucks a porcelain figurine off her window ledge. She tosses it back and forth between her hands. The way she does it seems…careless.

“That one your favorite?” I ask, trying once again to pull game.

“What?” Charlie peers at me, then down at her hands. “Oh, yeah. It’s beautiful.”

No, it’s ridiculous.

“Actually, it’s pretty dumb, isn’t it? All this pink and lace and little girl propaganda.” She sets the ornament down gently as if she feels bad for what she said. “My grandma decorated this room before I got here. I didn’t want to hurt her by changing it, but this place really is over-the-top girly.”

My shoulders tense. I hate that I don’t know as much about her as I thought I did. It makes me feel unsettled. It’s been a long day; I shouldn’t have to do background work at this point. But it is what it is.

“How would
you
decorate it?” I lean back on the bed and cross my arms beneath my head.

Her eyebrows inch upward. “Well, first I’d get rid of the damn figurines. I want a room that says I’m seventeen, not seven. Then I’d pull these pink drapes off my bed.” Charlie grabs the drapes, tugs them off, and wraps them around her shoulders. “And oh, the paint. The pink has to go. Instead, I want one bright red accent wall.”

“Really, red?” So the girl does have some taste.

“Heck, yeah. It’s my favorite color of all time.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. It’s so bold, so powerful, so…everything I’m not.” She jumps onto the bed and stretches her arms to touch the ceiling. Her shirt rises just a bit, and I catch a glimpse of firm white belly. It’s almost as blinding as the room. “And here! Here I’ve always wanted storm clouds. I know it’s cheesy, but I still want them.” Charlie starts jumping up and down, and my body bounces with her movements. “And a softer bed! One I can get better height with.” She jumps higher and higher, her words stilted by her movements. “I believe. Jumping. On beds. Is good. For. The soul.”

Watching her makes me laugh, even though I’m frustrated that she’s killing my panty-dropping moves. She reaches her hand down and says, “Come on.”

“Come on what?” I ask.

“Jump with me.”

“False. Not happening.”

Charlie grabs my arm and pulls until I’m sure it’s going to rip out of its socket. For a tiny thing, she’s pretty strong. “Fine. Whatever.” I stand up on her bed. “This is stupid.”

“Oh, really?” Charlie jumps up and down real slow at first, then faster and higher. “
Is
it stupid?”

“Very.” I try jumping a little. My mother would never have let me jump on my handmade-in-Tuscany bed. As I start to get some height, I find the experience to be pure awesomeness. Will I ever admit it? Nope. But Charlie probably doesn’t need an admission since I’m grinning like an idiot.

She grabs my hands, and we jump around in a circle, laughing like hyenas. I’m about to fall off the edge when Charlie’s grandma walks into the room. “What in heaven’s name are you two doing?” Her words are stern, but her smile says she’s happy I’m here and that Charlie has a new friend. “I see some wild animals got into the kitchen and didn’t clean up.”

Charlie drops down onto the bed, then bounces off the side. “Sorry, Grandma. I’ll take care of it.”

“No, no.” Grams waves her long red nails toward us. “I wouldn’t want to disturb your circus act. You guys hang out. I’ll make dinner. Just…door open okay, Charlie?”

Charlie’s face flushes, but she nods.

After her grandma leaves, I say to Charlie. “I should probably go.” There’s no way I can pull a Don Juan now, and I’d rather not be roped into staying for dinner. I’ve had enough Charlie for one day, even if it wasn’t the
worst
day I’ve ever had.

She says she’ll walk me to the door, but I tell her I can see my way out. As I’m halfway down the stairs, she sticks her head out of her room. “Hey,” she says. “What are you doing tomorrow morning?”

I press my lips together and shake my head.

“If you want to come by around eight, I’ll show you something awesome.” I nod, but my brain is screaming,
8:00
a.m.
! What?!

I’m at the bottom of the stairs when Charlie adds, “Wear tennis shoes.”

I pull my mouth up to one side and point down at my red sneakers as if to say,
Would I ever take these puppies off?

She laughs. “You okay walking home? I could drive you.”

Charlie knows how to drive? “Nah. I live close by, remember?”

She waves like a pageant queen and sidesteps into her bedroom.

I laugh to myself before moving to open the front door, then remember to mind my manners. I back up a few feet and stick my head into the kitchen. Grams is standing at the sink tossing back her plastic water bottle of rum. My eyes fall to the countertop near her right hand. A dozen brown prescription bottles lay open. Goose bumps rise on my arms, neck, legs—and everywhere else on my body.

Sick. People. Freak. Me. Out.

I’m dead. This shouldn’t bother me, but my mind is already supplying terrible diseases she’s carrying. Things like the Ebola virus. Also, I’m no doctor, but I’m fairly certain you’re not supposed to party with booze and pills in the same sitting. I think back to when I first met Charlie. She asked if I was from the pharmacy. Does she know Grams is hopped up on enough meds to bring down a rhinoceros?

I try to make it out unheard, but Grams spins around and spots me. Her lips curl into a wide smile. Then her eyes snap to the pill bottles. The smile falls from her face, crashes to the floor.

“High blood pressure,” she says.

I don’t believe her for a second.

Grams steps toward me, and I try to take what I hope is a subtle step backward.
Get away. Get your sickness away from me!

She notices me backing up and stops. Hurt fills her blue-gray eyes. Before I can think of something to say, I turn and walk out the door.

I need to get away from this house. Away from Charlie and her big, trusting eyes. Away from Grams and the look she just gave me. What am I supposed to feel? Guilt? Shame?

No.

I won’t.

I am The Collector.

I walk to the closest pay phone and call the only cab in Peachville. When the driver picks me up fifteen minutes later, he asks, “Where to?”

“A car dealership,” I say. “The best you got.”

Chapter Seven

Pulling Weeds

At 7:45
a.m.
, I leave Wink Hotel and head for Charlie’s house. After a night of sleep and frivolous spending, I feel like myself again. Like Dante freakin’ Walker, the best damn collector on planet Earth.

I’m going to collect Charlie’s soul. I’m not going to feel bad doing it. It’s my job. It’s nothing personal.

This morning, I’m relishing the perks of working for the Underworld. I press my foot down on the accelerator, and the deep rumble of my candy apple–red Escalade growls. My new baby girl has black leather, Bose surround sound, and twenty-two-inch rims. Match.com couldn’t have created a happier couple.

Outside Charlie’s house, I honk once and wait. I want to see her face when she walks out the door. She’s going to like this ride as much as I do. Only lovers of red can truly appreciate this beauty.

As I’m watching her door, I feel something outside my window. I glance to my left, but there’s nothing there. At least that’s what my eyes say. But I can feel the collector watching me through his shadow. Watching and waiting for me to botch this assignment.

A tapping sound to my right sends a chill up my spine. Charlie is smiling through the passenger window. Her backpack is slung over both shoulders, and she’s dressed in dark jeans and a tie-dyed T-shirt. Tie-dye? Really?

She opens the door, and her wide gaze darts around, taking it all in. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I’m telling you, I’m not.”

“It’s so awesome!” she says through the hand over her mouth. “Where’d you get it?”

“It’s mine. Mom said she’d buy it for me if I moved to Alabama peacefully.” I wave my hand around the interior. “I chose peace.”

“I’d choose peace, too.” Charlie climbs into the passenger seat, then tosses her bag into the back. “Let’s name it.”

“Name my car? No.”

“Yes! Ooh, let me do it. How about Elizabeth Taylor? She was flashy and looked good in red.”

“You want to name my car Elizabeth Taylor?”

“Not want to. Did. It’s done.”

I pull in a long breath. “Can you just tell me where Liz needs to go?”

Charlie claps her hands together and tells me where we’re headed. I punch the address into the nav system, and twenty-five minutes later, we’re parked in front of Peachville’s ghetto. I was sure a city with the name
Peachville
couldn’t have a rough part of town, but I stand corrected.

Decrepit houses line the streets, barely a foot between them. Chain-link fences enclose weed-infested yards, and iron bars protect the windows. I watch Charlie from the corner of my eye. “You got a death wish?”

“Trust me, okay?” she chirps, even though it’s way too early for chirping. Charlie slides out of the car and waves at a yellow school bus parked near a crumbling curb. People start pouring out of the bus and heading toward her. They’re carrying paint buckets, flower pots, sod, and lots of tools murderers use.

“Charlie, can you please clue me in?” I ask, getting out and stretching my legs.

She opens the back door, grabs her backpack, and pulls out two long-sleeved T-shirts. I grab one as it flies toward me and read the bright, obnoxious logo:
Hands Helping Hands
.

“What does this mean?” I ask. Then it clicks. “Oh, no. Uh, huh. I don’t do manual labor. And I certainly don’t do it at 8:00
a.m.
without coffee.”

“Hands Helping Hands is a charity,” she says. “I do this every Saturday morning. It’s so much fun. You’ll see.”

It will not be fun. And I will not see.

I notice Blue and Annabelle walking toward us carrying shovels. Blue’s eyes narrow when he sees me. Annabelle squeezes his arm as if to calm him and says, “She got you, too, huh?”

“Apparently.” I take the shovel from Annabelle and turn to Charlie. “So what are we doing, and how long are we doing it for?”

She pulls the long-sleeved Hands Helping Hands shirt over her tie-dyed embarrassment. “Some people on this street want to improve the appearance of their homes. And we’re here to help do that.”

She points to a minuscule house with peeling blue paint. “For that one, we’ve agreed to strip the paint off the front patio and repaint it.” She nods toward a home right next to us. “This one will get yard work: weeds pulled, flowers planted. That kind of stuff. There are five houses in all, and we’ll work in teams to help get everything done. You’ll be with me, Annabelle, and Blue. We’re going to be doing this house.”

Charlie limps toward the house with the defunct yard. I run my hands through my hair and have the urge to rip out a fistful. I yank on the long-sleeved shirt that announces I’m a chump and head after her, dragging my shovel behind me on the pavement.

As the Three Stooges act a-fool, I work in silence. I’m not sure how this is fun to them, and I’m not sure how I let this happen. Charlie and I should be doing terrible, soul-sealing activities. Instead, she somehow swindled me into
volunteering
. The word has a bad aftertaste, and I’d kill for a beer to wash it down with. Still, as much as I despise this, there’s a part of me that admires Charlie’s sudden take-charge attitude. If she could only learn to use that same confidence at school, she might not be such an outcast.

Then again, this
confidence
of hers has me doing crap I don’t want to do.

I jam the shovel into the dirt and wipe the sweat from my brow. “Why do you guys do this?” Charlie, Blue, and Annabelle stop what they’re doing and watch me, but no one says anything. “Any answer will do.”

Charlie takes a few steps toward me. She knows I’m not happy. And why should I be? She tricked me into wasting my Saturday morning helping people too lazy to help themselves.

“Dante…” She glances over her shoulder at Blue and Annabelle. The pair pretend to inspect a fire-ant mound, but I know they’re eavesdropping. “I like doing this. These people need our help. And it makes me feel good. Doesn’t it make
you
feel good?”

“No, it doesn’t,” I answer honestly. I jab my thumb toward the house. “Why doesn’t the person in this house get off their ass and do this themself?”

Charlie’s eyebrows pull together. “Because the person in that house is eighty-eight years old and restrained to a wheelchair.”

Great. Now
I’m
the ass. I’ve got to be more careful if I’m going to get this girl to come to the party tonight. I’ll give her the day, but tonight…tonight it’s my turn.

I relax the muscles in my face and chest. “I guess that’s good. Helping people who can’t do things themselves.”

“But they do things themselves. They do!” Charlie’s mouth tugs into a smile. “See, we call it Hands Helping Hands because the people we help agree to help others. Like, for example, this lady we’re helping today, she’s agreed to work as a suicide hotline volunteer from her home. It turns into this great system of people helping each other.”

Something flutters in my stomach. “Charlie, who started this organization?”

She shuffles her feet and brushes dirt off her hands. “Uh, we all did.”

“Whatever, Charlie, you started it,” Annabelle yells, then resumes her pretend fire ant inspection.

“That true?” I ask. This isn’t good. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m wondering if this is the reason Boss Man wants her. But it’s a tiny operation. This wouldn’t make a dent in his numbers.

“I guess.” Charlie pushes her glasses up her nose, then pulls her wavy blond hair into a ponytail. She’s fidgeting, and I’m not sure why. “We started this—er,
I
started this—because there were so many people out there being helped who wanted to repay the favor.”

She and I have very different worldviews. I think most people receiving help have no desire whatsoever to do crap for anyone else.

Charlie twists her hands together, and I know there’s something else she’s not saying. “How’d it start?” I ask.

Her eyes find mine, and I know this was the question she didn’t want to answer. “It started with a group home, a place for kids under state guardianship.” Charlie glances at Blue and Annabelle, then back at me. “I was, uh…I was one of those kids. My parents died in a fire when I was twelve.” She pauses, but I stay quiet and let her finish. “I was the only one who got out of the house. Because I didn’t have any living relatives, I went to live at the home.” She points to her hip and tries to smile. “The way I walk is a souvenir from that night.”

“So your grandma…?” I ask gently.

“Isn’t my grandma. She adopted me three years ago. One time I told her she was like the grandma I never knew. She loved it so much that I just kinda started calling her that. I think it helps avoid questions from people we meet.”

“So this organization you started, it helps you?”

“Yeah, I think it does. When I was at the home, there were so many wonderful people who helped me recover. Most of them were volunteers. It made me feel grateful, but it also made me feel indebted. I asked around, and a bunch of other kids felt the same way, so we decided to do something for other people.

“We started doing things during our free hours for people within walking distance. The only thing we required was that the people being helped agreed to help someone else.” Charlie waves toward today’s volunteers. “And now, three years later, over two thousand people have received help or helped someone else.”

Two thousand? Two
thousand
? What if she keeps doing this? She’ll never accumulate enough seals to be collected. What’s more, every second these people spend helping someone, they’re neglecting the important business of collecting new seals for themselves.

Still, I’m relieved. For a moment, I thought this might be the reason Boss Man wants Charlie. And while two thousand is a lot of shiny, happy people, it’s not enough to do serious damage. Which brings me back to my original question:
Why her?

Charlie picks up a plastic sleeve of yellow tulips and sticks her tongue in her cheek. “You good with all this self-revealing?”

“I’m glad you told me.” I squeeze her hand, then pick up my shovel and follow her back to the garden we’ve created.

For the next two hours, I don’t complain when the temperature drops. Or when Blue mumbles. Or when Annabelle talks about old black-and-white movies ad nauseam. All I can do is pull weeds. They are never-ending, and for that, I’m thankful. Because it keeps my mind off the image of Charlie being pulled out of her burning home while her parents are on the inside—dying.

I wonder if she cried when it happened. I wonder if she screamed so loud, she sounded like someone else entirely. I wrap my hand around a weed and tear it from the ground. Then I do it again. And again. This I can control. But these thoughts that tick away in my head, I can’t.

Because they hit way too close to home.