Once my stomach was empty, I wiped my mouth with the back of one liver-spotted hand, and took a look around. My last body was lying on the floor beside me, the darning needle buried a good six inches in his head. A puddle of blood expanded slowly beneath him like an oil slick, and the tiny swirling orb of Haas’s soul was still cradled in his lifeless hands. I struggled clumsily to my knees, and then collapsed, Haas’s limbs slow to relent to my commands. I tried again —the same result.
That’s when I heard her crying.
It was the faintest of whimpers —so quiet, in fact, that at first I thought I had imagined it. But as the roar of my pulse in my ears subsided, there was no mistaking it. I cast my gaze around the room, looking for the source of the noise, but there was no corner of the room I could not see, no closet in which to hide.
There was, however, a chest.
It was an old wooden affair, glossy with layer after layer of honeyed lacquer, and fastened with an ornate iron hasp. A matching iron key lay atop its lid. I shambled toward the chest, my new meat-suit still sluggish and unresponsive, and pressed my ear to it. I heard a single, hitching sob, a sharp intake of breath, and then nothing. It seemed whoever was inside had heard me coming.
I snatched the key up off the lid and jammed it into the lock, hearing tumblers catch as I clicked it home. The lid was heavy, stubborn. I heaved it open with a grunt.
She was a girl of maybe three, dressed as the dolls downstairs had been, in a pinafore of purest white over a loud floral dress. White stockings adorned her legs, and her feet were clad in patent leather Mary Janes. Curly hair framed a delicate face far too young to be painted as thoroughly as it had. She was made up not like a woman would be, but like a doll, with circles of red at the apples of her cheeks, and her lips painted to appear permanently pursed in an expression of coy innocence. The illusion was shattered by the streaks the tears had made down her cheeks, and by the look of wide-eyed terror on her face. Instinctively, I reached out to her, but she recoiled, trembling. Of course she’s afraid of you, I thought —you’re wearing the flesh of the man who did this to her. I lowered my hand, and told her softly it would be all right. Of course, being Dutch, she probably couldn’t understand a word I said, but then, I wasn’t sure that I believed it anyway. Whether she understood or not, it was clear she didn’t believe it; she hugged her knees to her chest, and clenched shut her eyes against the tears.
As I sat there, looking at her, I couldn’t help but notice the resemblance to the couple at the table —her parents, no doubt. Which meant this girl was Haas’s granddaughter. I wondered all the sudden if, for Haas, hell was punishment enough.
Unsure what else I could do while in the body of her tormentor, I lowered the lid of the trunk, and left the girl in peace. I wrapped Haas’s soul in a scrap of fabric torn from his dead wife’s skirt and stuffed it in my pocket. Then I went downstairs and dialed the police. I told them in a whisper I was being held against my will, and gave them Haas’s address. When they asked me for my name, I hung up. Then, with a silent prayer for the girl I’d left behind, I left the house, letting the door swing open behind me.
My head was reeling as I left the row house, and my stomach threatened mutiny. I told myself it was just the standard-issue hiccups of an unfamiliar meatsuit, but I knew that wasn’t true. The job had gotten to me. Haas had gotten to me. After nine years of doing this, I didn’t think that was still possible.
A few blocks from Haas’s house, I stopped at the base of a gnarled old elm, and buried Haas’s soul beneath six inches of chill black earth. Then I covered it over with fallen leaves and headed straight for the fucking pub. The night I had, all I wanted was a little peace and quiet in which to get stinking drunk. Thanks to Danny, though, I had no such luck.
“Pardon me, mate —anyone sitting here?”
Shit. I’d picked this place because the drinks were tall and cheap, but the trade-off was it was an oldschool pub, with long, narrow tables and benches to match —the kind of bar where strangers sat together and left the place as friends. Only I had all the friends I could handle —zero, to be exact —and I wasn’t in the market for another.
My would-be new acquaintance was a lanky kid of maybe twenty-five, standing at the end of the table with an expectant half-smile pasted on his face as he awaited my reply. British, by the accent, and a bit of a dandy, if his outfit was any indication. He was decked out in a darted charcoal sport coat over a crisp white dress shirt, open at the throat. Pale khaki chinos terminated in loafers the color of cognac. A tartan scarf hung loose around his neck, and a porkpie hat tilted rakishly atop his head. I fixed my gaze on him a moment, and then dropped it back to my glass, hoping he’d get the message.
He didn’t.
“You’re a Yank, aren’t you?” he said, sliding onto the bench opposite me with a casual grace that spoke of moneyed arrogance. “You’ve got that look, like you think in English, or at least what passes for English on your side of the pond. I’ll tell you, mate, I’m glad to have found you —I haven’t had a proper conversation for bloody ages. I mean, yeah, most of these guys, they muddle through well enough, but you can tell by the way they screw their faces up when you talk to them they’ve got to concentrate, and they’re not exactly chatty. Everything’s all ‘yes’ or ‘no’ or ‘toilet is jusht down ze hall’. It’s nice that they try and everything, but you know what I mean?”
I said nothing. Just sat and stared at my drink.
“Or maybe you don’t,” he said. “Bloody hell, you ain’t drinking jenever, are you? I wouldn’t wash brushes in that stuff. I swear, I could murder a decent pint right now, but all they’ve got in this place is some God-awful Pilsner that tastes like rat piss. I’d have to be completely off my face to even get it past my lips, and even then, I’m not sure I wouldn’t spew it straight back up.”
I closed my eyes, and massaged the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger. This kid was giving me a headache. If he noticed, though, he didn’t seem to mind.
“So what brings you to Amsterdam? Business? Pleasure? A bit of both, maybe? Me, I just got off the train from Brussels. Thought I’d see the sights, maybe check out the Red Light District, know what I mean? After all, a man cannot live on bread alone.”
I tossed back the remains of my drink and got up to leave.
“Oh, come on, mate, don’t go yet —the night’s still young!”
I shot him the kind of look I normally reserve for ax-murderers and pedophiles, and then made for the door. When I reached the table’s end, he called to me.
“Hold on!” he said. “Don’t go. We’ve a lot to talk about, you and me.”
I turned and flashed the kid a rueful smile. “No offense, kid, but you and me don’t have shit to talk about. I think you’ve got me mixed up with someone else.”
“I do, do I?” He smiled, and raised his hands in mock acquiescence. “All right, Sam, if that’s the way you want to play it. I just figured you might like a little company, now that the Haas unpleasantness is behind you. The job is over, is it not? Or did you decide to tie one on before disposing of his soul?”
I flinched as if stung. By the look on his face, the kid knew he hit his mark. I closed the gap between us in a flash, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt in my bony hands and hoisting him up out of his chair until his face was a scant inch from mine. “Who are you?”
“Easy, tiger! I’m a Collector, just like you,” he said, his tone placating. “Name’s Danny.”