And so I set out to find me a payphone, oblivious to the eyes that tracked me through the darkness, watching.
I found a bank of payphones on the corner of Ninth and Twenty-sixth. One of them was missing entirely, and the second's handset was nowhere to be seen. I snatched the third off of its cradle and pressed it to my ear. It was dead. I muttered a silent prayer, to which side I wasn't sure, and punched in the number Merihem had given me. For a second, nothing happened. Then, somewhere in the city, the other phone began to ring — an odd, queasy, reluctant sort of ring. Still, I coulda done a jig.
After three rings, Merihem answered.
"I was beginning to think I wasn't going to hear from you, Sam." The voice was breathy and feminine, but there was no mistaking Merihem's tone. If I had to guess, I'd say he camped one of his girls out by a random payphone somewhere in the city in anticipation of this call. Locked up as I'd been, I wondered how long I'd left her standing there. I decided that I didn't really care.
"We need to talk," I said.
"I'm not sure that's such a good idea."
"Yeah, well, I ran out of good ideas a few days back, so it'll have to do. If you'd like, I can come to you."
"No!" Merihem's voice quavered for a moment — panic? fear? — but then he caught himself, and his composure returned. "That won't be necessary."
"Where, then?"
"The corner of Eleventh and Sixth. One hour. Don't be late."
"I'll be there," I replied, but there wasn't any use. I was speaking into a dead receiver. Merihem was gone.
Chris F. Holm
Dead Harvest
12
My muscles ached beneath the thin fabric of my uniform shirt, whether from my recent exertion or the chill spring air, I knew not which. I popped into a Duane Reade to buy a lighter and a pack of smokes, and then I struck out south toward my meeting with Merihem.
Though the night was cold, the streets bustled with people, and the air was redolent with an intoxicating mix of meat and spice and cooking oil from the sidewalk carts I passed, which mingled oddly with the scent of subway exhaust pouring upward from the ventilation grates beneath my feet. For a while, I wandered the streets at random, ducking down side streets, doubling back the way I came, but if anyone was following me, I didn't see them. For a time, I thought I caught a pair of eyes watching me through the crowd, but it was just a young boy begging for change, his face streaked with dirt, his jacket three sizes too big. I tossed him a couple bills from my would-be assailant's stash and kept on walking.
The corner of Eleventh and Sixth was quiet — aside from the Chinese place down the block, the place was mostly residential, all red brick and white trim and Woody Allen charm. Why Merihem would have chosen here to meet was beyond me. And speaking of, he was nowhere to be seen. I lit another cigarette and waited.
Three cigarettes later, I was getting antsy. I began to pace. I strolled up and down the length of the block, watching for Merihem all the while. Looking back, I must've passed the place a dozen times before I spotted it.
It was a low stone wall, wedged between two buildings and discolored with age. Hidden in the shadows as it was, it's no wonder I nearly missed it. I approached it cautiously, wary once more of being watched. Atop the wall, a wrought-iron fence stretched skyward. At the center of the wall was a gate, a lock dangling open from its hasp. I touched the gate and it swung aside.
"I was wondering when you'd come."
I squinted into the darkness. Eventually, an image resolved: Merihem, sitting propped against a tree amidst a sea of clinging ivy, a large obelisk headstone jutting skyward beside him. The graveyard itself was small, just a handful of weathered old headstones sticking improbably out of the ground and surrounded by buildings of towering brick.
"You could have told me where to find you. Speaking of, what's with the digs? You got something against meeting someplace we could get a drink?"
Merihem smiled, teeth flashing white in the darkness. "This cemetery was intended as a resting place for the sick. For nearly a quarter-century, those riddled with disease were interred here, in this soil. In 1830 city planners put a halt to that, insisting they be buried elsewhere; it seems the living have a limited tolerance for pestilence and plague so near to where they lead their desperate, fruitless lives."
"Look, Merihem, as fun as it is for me to reminisce about your salad days, we've got business to attend to."
"Hold your tongue, Collector. You think I selected this place so that I could regale you with tales of times gone by? I am the bringer of pestilence — this place is hallowed ground for me. Here, I cannot be harmed."
"What do you mean, harmed? Harmed by who? Merihem, what the hell is going on?"
"I did as you asked. I looked into this girl of yours."
Merihem fell silent, as if unsure what to say next.
I didn't have time for this. "And? What did you find?"
"A world of shit is what I found! This girl, she's caught the attention of some higher-ups — it seems they like her style. The way they tell it, she's destined for great and terrible things, Sam, only here you are, fucking it up for all of us."
"What do you mean all of us? All of us who?"
"You. Me. Everybody. Since word got out you've gone off the reservation, the angelic world is in an uproar. They've been leaning pretty hard on their Fallen brethren, convinced your little rebellion here is the first volley in some sort of insurrection. Now the demon-world is pissed — pissed at you."
I thought back to the black stares from the passersby on my way back to Friedlander's apartment. "Yeah," I replied, "I got that feeling."
"Did you now? Well, believe me when I tell you, Sam, the folks we're talking about, it isn't a far cry between pissed and murderous. We may be lowly creatures in the eyes of God and Man, but a good many of us enjoy our little fiefdoms in this world, and would take personally any attempt, perceived or otherwise, to wrest them from our grasp. If they come for you, I'm not going to stand in their way — I'm pariah enough just for asking around. We go back a ways, you and I, but I'm not about to die for you. You go down, you're going down alone."
"Then what am I supposed to do?"
"There is no supposed to — supposed to implies options. I hate to rain on your parade, Sam, but that whole free-will thing? Kind of the dominion of the living. That isn't you anymore. You're nothing, now. Carrion. You just collect the fucking girl — period. If you're very, very lucky, that will be enough to spare your soul. There are worlds besides your own, Collector, and trust me when I tell you your hell is Paradise in comparison."
I hesitated, suddenly unwilling to tell him what I came to tell him. But as he said, I was out of options. "Listen, Merihem — even if I wanted to collect her, I couldn't."
"What are you talking about?"
"She's gone."
"I don't understand."
"Yes, you do."
"Are you telling me you lost her?" Fear crept into Merihem's tone. It didn't exactly fill me with warm fuzzies. If Merihem was this spooked, things were even worse than I thought.
"Look, the cops musta tracked us to where we were staying — they were waiting for me when I got back. I was able to keep her out of custody, but we were supposed to meet up after, and she never showed."
Merihem looked me up and down. "I guess that explains the new vessel. Police issue, no doubt?"
"Not that it matters, but yeah."
"And your girl — she just up and disappears? Sounds like the actions of an innocent to me." His tone dripped sarcasm.