"The Collectors"
By Charles Collins
Copyright © 2009, by Charles L. Collins
Revised opening 50 pages
chuckcollins@roadrunner.com

Click Here to view PDF version

Prologue

Prologue

“The smell of cocoa butter is better than any erectile dysfunction drug ever made.” That was the thought going through the chief’s brain as he held off his own pleasure until just the right moment. Torsha drifted under him in blind ecstasy; her movements matched his as they navigated frequently-charted waters, well below the surface. That’s the way the old submariner thought. That’s the way he liked it.

“Run Silent, Run Deep.” Another flash of distraction came to him, this time in scenes of the old movie that skittered across his memory. Those nerves and muscles sent up a request once again; “Hold steady, boys. Steady as she goes…” Deputy Chief Herman Jeffries smiled at the secret joke. Torsha opened her eyes, just a little, folded her lips inside perfect teeth and let the pleasure and pain brush over her face. Jeffries breathed deeply the majesty of her African features; he took his time tracing the spray of her long dreads striking against the soft white of the pillow in the dim light.

“My great man, my loving man…” she whispered.

“My queen of body and spirit…” before he could say more she took his mouth in so fully that it was hard for him to know where he stopped and she began.

It had been more than an hour since they retired to her bed and the loving started. Jeffries was never completely comfortable staying in her home. Their jobs were as conflicted as their bodies were not. All the tragedy of the city he patrolled faded into a distant and unwanted sonar blip. Of course he had not been on street duty in his police career, ever. His was a political appointment to the Bureau of Investigative Services in the city of Chicago. Not unlike so many important jobs in this town, he thought, here because of who I am, not what I know, not what I do - more distraction that kept him firm and disciplined. No, he did not want pictures of him leaving Torsha’s Division Street brownstone in the morning paper or on some junior TV scandal merchant’s evening report. It was no secret that he was seeing the news director for the city’s most influential talk radio station, no more than it was unknown that he spent many nights at some of the legal casinos just over the Indiana border or out in the regions laughably called reservations. But the chief liked his privacy and it was really more for her, he was certain of it, that their relationship was not a topic of civic conversation.

The movement became rhythm on the rise, he noticed, initiated by his partner who seemed in a trance. Jeffries summoned his fit, 60-year-old body into a higher gear, anchoring his knees and tightening his stomach for greater, smoother acceleration. He knew Torsha well, and he knew that she was nearing her grand destination.

“Damn!!” The sound from her was gruff, loud and angry. Jeffries was shocked and not really ready for this event. It was hard to slow, to stop. But she did, she was furious and though the curse was as bad as it got for her, he knew just how bad it was. Then he heard it. It was curious that he had not heard it before. Torsha’s blackberry was buzzing on the nightstand. “I’m sorry Herman.”

“Don’t be.” Jeffries gently slipped from her, took a deep breath and grabbed the phone for her.

“Yes.” Her voice was deep and professional without a hint of breathlessness. She flipped the phone upside down, moving the microphone away so that she could take several deep breaths while still listening. “Yes, Miss Drabek, it’s all right.”

“Torsha! Is Chief Jeffries with you?”

“Is this important? It’s very late…”

“Look, Torsha, I don’t give a fuck if you two are handcuffed to a greased pole. Turn on the radio right now!” Dani Drabek was gone.

“What did that talk show troll want?” Jeffries rubbed the back of his head and sat up in the bed. It was difficult to contain his anger.

“She asked for you at first…”

“Why?” The word came out in a rumble.

“Then she said turn on the radio.” Torsha leaned, reaching for the one modern thing in the bedroom, other than the cell phone: a sleek radio/iPod docking station. Jeffries looked at her upper body, her breast moving into his reach effortlessly and invitingly. Then he breathed in the cocoa butter, the lotion with which she kept her late-fifties skin like that of a teenager, and the scent of their encounter lingering over the bed. Torsha looked at his renewed arousal. “Hold that thought, exec,” she smiled broadly and pressed the flush black button at the base of the component.

Radio:
Coming up on the final minutes of the party here. Crash on KCI, we’ve had a different show tonight, something I hope never to do again, frankly, it’s not easy for a guy like me to open so many wounds and bleed all over my city. You might think it was more like crapping all over, whatever, fact is I’ve admitted I got a problem and if I help one person tonight, then I guess the dangerous practice of radio expiation was worth it. Benny, you’re crashin’, what’s up, my brother?

Caller:
Crash, I can’t believe what I’m hearing, you’re my hero, man, and you’re telling me you got, like, a drug problem and sh…

Crash:
Let’s watch the language, Ben, my man, I’m close enough to being escorted from the building with a couple of gorillas on each arm, I don’t need your help to end my career.

Caller:
Sorry, dude. No, I’m just saying, Drugs?

Crash:
Thanks for the call, whatever your name is. Crash got a flash from producer babe Dani “Tits” Drabek. What do you want, I was about to parboil that dumbass…what? From where? No flippin way! What line? Well bring it in, goddamn it! Can she hear me? Lani! For God’s sake what’s going on! What the hell is this, Drabek! Another one of your sick stunts?! I will kick your fine little ass…she’s what? Turn your goddamn mic on for Christ sake!

Dani:
We got a call from a home in Hyde Park, apparently it sounds like there is a home invasion going on, and someone said your sister is there and she’s armed.

Crash:
That’s bull and you know it!

Dani:
Crash, she is a fugitive. You know that…

Crash:
She’s sick, she needs help. Bring it up! Now!

“Do they know how close I am to locking up the bunch of them and shutting down that foul little sandbox?” Jeffries stood and pulled on his boxers.
“That’s the problem, Herman, they know full well that they have crossed too many lines already. This can’t be a hoax.” Torsha snatched the crumpled sheet from her legs, pulled on her short satin robe and began punching buttons on her Blackberry.

“Find out where this is happening. I want that woman, that cop-killing
maniac in my brig by midnight!” Jeffries headed to the bathroom, mumbling colorful swears under his breath.

Home of Professor Everett Crenshaw

Elias Barbicas had a choice on this mission: kill everyone in the house and retrieve the Collector’s property; or dissolve into the atmosphere. It wasn’t supposed to be this difficult. “There is a complication,” he whispered to himself. “One in the home who was not expendable. Perhaps two.” Barbicas sucked in a breath, felt his hand tighten around the Beretta and dipped his head around the French door frame; assessing the situation. “One threat, one target.”

He had chased the elusive woman across northern Indiana and into the heart of Chicago’s Hyde Park. The path of death cut by Lani Janich to this point was astonishing, even to someone in the business.

Barbicas weighed his options once more: A single shot to the base of the skull would put her down before she could complete her threat. She had the family under control in an almost professional siege. Elias could see that Professor Crenshaw was tied to a recliner in the mahogany-trimmed living room; something was wedged into his back and there was a sucking wound in his chest. Barbicas was not sure, but he did not think it was a gunshot. “Where’d she learn such technique?” he wondered in a low voice. “Bloody elegant.”

Lani was bouncing with agitation, her arm outstretched toward the steps that led to the townhouse lower level. She was yelling at the top of her lungs, spewing vile invectives in English and Serbian toward someone on the landing. Elias could drop her where she stood, free the professor and whomever Lani was directing her anger. But that would not get him closer to the prize. In fact, Elias thought, they could be lost forever, and me along with them.

The Collectors were many things but especially direct. No witnesses, never, and never negotiated. This was not so simple. One witness could mean the end of Barbicas’ career. And there was one in this house who was far more than a witness. He was a member of that elite group to which Barbicas owed his allegiance. Yet in the message he received just hours before, the unbelievable message was also clear. He was to retire a Collector.

And there was one more thing. Barbicas was not quite sure what he was hearing. The entire scene was amplified, echoed from the rafters of the elegant room. He tried to make it out, did the professor have some enhanced audio system in place? Why? When it came to killing, Barbicas did not like any loose ends. In his mind taking a life was an art that required near perfection. He needed to command the environment. Every molecule was either aligned to his purpose or predictably accounted for. This extra sound, this unknown element shook him almost enough to wait longer than his training knew was prudent. In the mind of the hunter it was becoming less artful.

It was time. Unusual acoustics or not, to wait meant someone would die before his, or her, time. Barbicas channeled his arousal away from his genitals and into the surface muscles of his arms and legs. He became as he imagined a big cat becomes before revealing himself to his prey and ending the game. That odd and familiar numbness swept over his body, parts of him became almost inanimate, rigid, closer to stone than flesh. Breathing slowed and ran deeply, flooding oxygen to parts of his brain that keep him sharp, focused and deadly. Then he heard it. The shot slammed, vibrating windows, but not down from his target, but up from the stairwell!

“Fuck! What?!” Barbicas moved through the French doors using the weapon as a head to his body’s spear. The glass shattering echoed louder than even Barbicas expected. It was the squeal, the feedback coming from the Bose sound system tucked in just the right places. Barbicas shifted on the balls of his feet, scanning almost faster than the light could reach his senses.

The professor struggled in a position Barbicas recognized as harsh and torturous: seated in the leather recliner; sheer strength kept what appeared to be a golden spike from piercing his cervical spine and instant death, with a handle of some sort wedged between the professor and the headrest of the chair. He was gagged, hands cuffed beneath his knees and his eyes were oddly calm and drifting to the telephone that was placed in speaker mode.

“What’s happening! Lani! Lani are you all right?” the voice filled the room, but did not originate from the room! Barbicas knew the voice. It was the radio talk show host, Kradich, the brother of the woman who held the secret and, until moments earlier, two hostages. “This is not a joke, not a stunt, Chicago. This is real, now, and the shot you just heard means someone might be dead or hurt.” The radio again filled with the sounds of the room.

Barbicas moved toward the professor without taking his eyes off the stairwell. He carefully pulled the spike from his neck and removed the gag.

“Anastasia…” the wounded man whispered. “She is immobile, but made the shot.” The clear, dark eyes of the older man beamed toward the stairs.
Barbicas gently moved Crenshaw’s head into a more relaxed position. He took a moment, an instant really, to stroke his dark skin with the back of his knuckles and place his hand on the older man’s heart.

“Daddy! Are you okay?! Are yo…” The woman’s voice coming from the landing was chopped by a choke that erupted into muted agony. Barbicas was at the wall adjacent to the stairs in an instant. The sight was almost incomprehensible as he carefully snapped his view around the corner and back.

The professor’s daughter, who Barbicas knew was a Chicago police captain, was in the death grip of Lani Janich. Blood was soaking into Lani’s filthy running suit top and her face was distorted and ravaged with insect bites. But what really puzzled Barbicas was the position of Janich: she was immobilized by what looked like surgical pins in Stacy Crenshaw’s injured leg. Red, glistening steel had broken through Janich’s chin. Bone and tattered flesh formed her monstrously-gapped grin and served as a base to a chilling fountain of black flow. Crenshaw was pounding on her but weakening, trying in vain to free the two-handed vise around her neck.

“This is not a joke, not a stunt! We are directly tied into a crime scene somewhere in Chicago,” Kradich repeated, shouted into the charged air. “The police are on their way, but it might be too late!”

Barbicas heard the last words in sheets of infinite vibration, as though the time stretched to the very end of the young detective’s life. Then he heard the heavy accent, in a gurgle of slurred speech. “Not much blooh, ’ust as dey said.”

Barbicas measured the shot to pierce the assailant’s brain but not Crenshaw’s casted leg. It took a tiny fraction of a second.
Squeeze, explosion! The bullet flew and entered Lani’s skull on the perfect diagonal; scraping the marble floor of the foyer, dusting stone shards and sparking, but causing Stacy Crenshaw no more injury. Lani’s life was over, but her hands, dead yet determined hands, stayed around Stacy’s neck, muscle spasm in death made the weapons even more deadly.

Barbicas took the six steps in one leap and tried to rip the dead woman’s hands from Crenshaw’s neck. He was shocked at the strength of the corpse. He could see the desperation in her eyes. Time was running out. Barbicas pulled a stiletto from his pocket and sliced hard into the threatening carpal tendon, releasing first one hand, then with the same hack rendering the other harmless. Stacy began to cough and gasp for breath. She pushed the horrific body from her and looked at the man who saved her life.

“Who…” the coughing continued.

“Forget you saw me.” His light English accent seemed out of place on the dark young man. He was clearly Mediterranean, or...” Stacy looked into his eyes and tried to memorize the face.

“You have to stay…statement…” the coughing returned. Warbles of sirens pieced the moment and Kradich ranted on the air.

“Now what? Is it over?”

“Murder, Mr. Kradich. And redemption.” The professor spoke from his recliner. “And yes, it is over.” The professor saw the gold spike that had moments earlier threatened to end his life, while his daughter struggled to save him. He narrowed his eyes and tried to read the faint relief of numbers still visible, darkened at the edges from the hasty mold. ‘933’ was all he could make out. He dropped his head to the recliner and watched as Barbicas bolted for the balcony. He closed his eyes and slowly shook his head.

Barbicas noticed the spike and snatched it from the professor’s lap. His eyes widened. “She didn’t! She couldn’t!” he screamed.

“It is just beginning, Elias.” Professor Everett Crenshaw let free a long breath. “We are both expendable now.”

Chapter One
<< Rewind

Torsha Lofton arrived at KCI Radio in record time. She reluctantly rode in Chief Jeffries’ unmarked, black Suburban, lights flashing as he headed south from her Division Street brownstone to the Hyde Park home of Captain Stacy Crenshaw and her father. Already Jeffries’ investigators were in the large production suite listening to a playback of the drama most of the city heard live forty-five minutes earlier.

The news director nibbled her lip as she took in the scene, the strangers prowling the studios made her itch. “Ms. Drabek.” Torsha approached the acting program director. Dani Drabek folded one forearm under her breasts and dug into her cheek with her knuckle. Torsha recognized this stress body-motion. She was not surprised.

“Sorry I ruined you and the chief’s middle-aged mambo.” Dani barely moved her eyes from the men in wrinkled suits, asking stupid questions.
“You were correct to call. And I would not characterize your personal life in any way.”

“Yeah, I get it, you ain’t me.” Drabek took a deep breath and looked at her watch. It was nearly midnight. “What the fuck is happening, Torsha? When did this place become a slaughterhouse?”

“Do we know what happened?”

“These geniuses wouldn’t leak if I shanked ‘em.” Dani’s short, black hair spiked through the exasperated probing fingers of both hands. “All I know is my livelihood is about to go loose bowels on me thinking his sister bought it tonight.”

“His sister was a cold-blooded killer.” Torsha looked at the young woman. Dani’s boyish good looks and kick-boxing-hardened body made her appear taller than her five-foot, two inches. “Some might sympathize with the detective who was…” Torsha caught herself.

“You suck, Lofton. And I mean that literally. You know what happened.”

“I’m a reporter. I ask the right questions.”

“You fuck the guy who has all the right answers.” Dani struck a defiant pose. “Crash’s sister is dead, isn’t she?”

“Probably.”

“Goddamnit!” Dani dropped her face into the palm of her hand. “A fugitive I can handle. A prisoner, even one on death row, I can deal. But dead, Crash will be unlistenable for weeks.” Dani spoke to no one, really.
“How did that episode get on the air, Miss Drabek?”

Dani looked at Torsha with mild shock. She grabbed her by the upper arm and pulled her away from the studio, and the police. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“That crazy bitch called before she assaulted Stacy’s dad…before…” Dani’s confident face suddenly crashed into deep pain.

“Captain Crenshaw is okay…so I’m told.” Torsha watched as Dani buried her feelings as quickly as they surfaced. “I know you have feelings for her, Miss…”

“Will you cram that ‘Miss’ shit, and leave my feelings out of it. KCI is a news-talk station and we are in the middle of a news story. I hope I’m not the only one who sees a problem here, Miss News Director.”

“It crossed my mind.” Torsha made sure the detectives were still occupied. “There is a difference between injecting a news organization into a story and being forced into one.”

Dani stared into Torsha’s steady eyes. “I gotta check on Crash. Tell the Gestapo that those audio files belong to KCI. I made them dubs, but the masters stay.” Dani zipped down the long hallway to the collection of studios and offices reserved for the evening talk show host.

This was the second act in a series of events, Torsha thought. Herman Jeffries had a different kind of fondness for his commander, Captain Crenshaw, far different from Dani Drabek’s affection for the wounded detective. Crenshaw was injured in the line of duty trying to save Lani Janich’s children from tumbling over a quarry bridge less than a week earlier. Torsha reported the story with the cold analytical eye of a news professional.

She walked slowly to the newsroom. The late hour, all the police activity and the sudden presence of the department head surprised the young crew. They instinctively tapped at their keyboards faster. “You don’t have to try so hard, I know the great job you do.” She looked at the wall of awards that lined the long pool of work stations. “And so does the nation.” She smiled just enough to express satisfaction. “Who’s cutting up the audio from tonight?” A young woman with a tiny body and wide smile raised her hand as though still an undergrad. “Good. It leads until I say otherwise.” Torsha pulled a jangle of keys from her purse and inserted one of them into the knob of her office door. “And no one holds back the KCI angle.”

“Miss Lofton? Should we mention Crash?” Another young woman asked without looking away from her quickly-populating screen.

“What do you think?” She walked into the smallish office and closed the door behind her. The laptop seemed to scream Torsha’s name. It was her constant companion, so it seemed, except for those brief moments when she is on the air at precisely the top and bottom of the hours between 10am and 4pm. The telephone and the computer were her tools of the trade. It was times like these when she envied her man, Herman Jeffries, who had an entire city as his tool chest and his workspace. He used his guile, his command of the language, his knowledge of human nature and his administrative skills honed to a gleaming edge by the Fleet. Jeffries kept his men and women on track closing some of the most complex crimes in a very complicated city.

She opened the smooth top of the machine and called up “Newsroom 4.0,” the main application that supplied her staff with news copy in teleprompter fashion along with the appropriate audio. KCI had a nearly-paperless news department. She highlighted the series of stories that began the ten days earlier. With two clicks of the keys the scripts from the opening of the episode appeared on her screen.

KCI HAS LEARNED THAT A HOME INVASION IN THE AFFLUENT TOWN OF HYATT, INDIANA HAS BEEN LINKED TO THE BODY FOUND IN CALUMET PARK EARLY THIS MORNING. THE VICTIM, IDENTIFIED AS PETER JANICH, AN EXECUTIVE ON THE MERCANTILE EXCHANGE, SUFFERED A GUNSHOT TO THE NECK. POLICE BELIEVE HE WAS DUMPED IN THE SOUTHSIDE PARK.

JANICH’S WIFE SVETLANA, KNOWN AS LANI, WAS HOSPITALIZED AFTER BEING FOUND DISPONDENT IN THE HYATT TOWN SQUARE. INVESTIGATORS ARE FOLLOWING UP ON REPORTS THAT THE COUPLE WAS FORCED FROM THEIR HOME.

Torsha placed the cursor on the yellow bar indicating accompanying audio and clicked play. The voice was distinct and measured. “At 4:05 central dispatch received a report that the victim was seen being forced from an SUV. The witness provided evidence that there were at least two others in the vehicle, one male and one female. Chicago Bureau of Investigation is continuing with follow-up.” The relationship between Herman Jeffries and Torsha was just getting serious when he provided the sound bite. It was an exclusive for KCI. Torsha smiled at the professional courtesy. After that interview they spent the night at a downtown hotel. Torsha stole a robe from the suite. Chief Jeffries threatened to “lock her up.”

The update on the story reported in drive time provided more details. It was then that the report included a key revelation about Lani.

THE MURDER OF MERC TRADER PETER JANICH HAS A CONNECTION TO THE KCI FAMILY. TALK HOST BILL KRADICH IS THE BROTHER OF THE VICTIM’S WIFE. KRADICH TELLS KCI NEWS THAT HIS SISTER STILL HAS NO MEMORY OF THE EVENTS OF EARLY THIS MORNING. DOCTORS HAVE LANI JANICH UNDER OBSERVATION WHILE POLICE WAIT TO QUESTION HER.

POLICE ARE ALSO SEEKING INFORMATION ON A DARK SUV WITNESSES HAVE PLACED AT THE SCENE. A MALE DRIVER AND AT LEAST ONE OTHER, POSSIBLY A FEMALE, WERE REPORTEDLY IN THE VEHICLE AT THE TIME JANICH WAS DUMPED IN THE PARK.

Torsha winced at the thought of the ordeal faced by Peter Janich’s family. She imagined his young children, Sue, Britny and the youngest six-year-old Kyle and the terror they must have endured. It took the otherwise-detached journalist several attempts before she finally reached the keyboard and opened the follow-up story that put the whole ugly story into perspective. There was real heroism that night on the nearly 300-foot overpass. The story was reported by one of her best young talents. Torsha decided to listen to the audio, rather than re-read the copy.

Radio:
Media outlets do everything they can to avoid center stage in a news story, especially one that involves murder and the potential threat to innocent children. But it has become clear that this radio station was at the center of the abduction and murder of Peter Janich of Hyatt, Indiana.

Torsha stopped the audio file. She stared at the tight, black sine wave and wondered how things got so out of hand. Tens of thousands of stories had passed her eyes in her 30-year career. Still, this was hard to listen to. She pressed the space bar and the report continued.

…investigators were able to link Janich and his partner Chicago Importer Howard Murad to KCI Program Director Jerome Bennett. In an apparent case of long-suppressed revenge, Bennett believed that Janich and Murad were responsible for the death of his father more than thirty years ago. In a brazen act, Bennett engaged unwitting co-conspirators in his deadly plans. Staff members of KCI believed the abduction was a radio stunt. In yet another strange twist much of the crimes were actually caught on tape.

A tiny ring interrupted the monologue. Torsha jumped a little in her chair and pulled her phone from her pocket.

“Torsha? Herman.”

“Herman, I was just replaying this mess.”

“It is a mess. Stacy and her father the professor have been hospitalized. Stacy for a second time. She may lose her leg…”

Torsha closed the audio program. “That’s horrible, Herman. I assume Mrs. Janich is…”

“Dead. My men arrived after the shooter escaped.”

“And the case?”

“We’ll have to keep it open until we talk to Captain Crenshaw and get an ID on her…”

“Her what, Herman? What happened there?”

“Near as I can piece together this unknown subject killed Janich and saved Stacy and her father.” Jeffries was silent for a few seconds.

“That does complicate things.” Torsha tried to imagine the scene from the broadcast audio and this new information.

“There are still several loose ends.”

“There are always loose ends following a blood bath.”

“It’s not that. You have done some fantastic reporting. Let me ask you, do you think that all this killing was just over a…vendetta?”

Torsha could hear the buzz of activity indicating Chief Jeffries had called from the crime scene. “I’m not sure. What have you found?”

“This is not an interview, Torsha, it is part of the investigation. You knew Jerome Bennett, you worked with him. Do you think his only motivation was a psychotic obsession with the man who in his sick mind caused his father’s death?”

“As I understand it, Chief, there was that and the desire to harm the Janich children. So yes, he was capable of such cruelty.” Jeffries was quiet again. “Herman, are you going to help me here? As it stands we have, had on payroll a murderer, a fugitive and still have a family member of one of the more sensational crimes since Chicago was run by mobsters. If there is more, something that can distance my radio station from this horror, then I need to know.”

“I hope that’s not all you’re worried about.”

“Of course not. But if the truth can get us out of the way of the news story nothing would make me happier.”

“All I can tell you is that this new player has…complicated things.”

“Do you have any idea who killed Lani? Who saved Captain Crenshaw?”

“He’s a ghost, Torsha. And I suspect a professional.”

“Professional what? Law enforcement? Killer?

“I have to go. I’m sorry. I’ll call you in the morning.”

“Late morning, Herman.” The line went dead. They never said goodbye, the shared notion is that the conversation never ends.

Chapter Two
^Ejection

Elias Barbicas sat in the large, reddish-gold lobby of the Sheraton Towers on North Water Street, his leather bag at his feet and the Trib draped across his lap. It was 5:15am on a morning that was about to become very busy. It was a time in a city this size when the night meets the day, the deviant meets the nearly-normal, as it crosses paths to and from their unique worlds. Elias was not sure where he fit in the balance of sex workers and businesspeople, gamblers and brokers, hunter and prey.

What he did know was the sting of failure. It did not matter that he saved more than he killed this time. It was never about the killing, it was about finishing. The Collectors gave him a task and completing it was not just accepted, it was a way of life; his life.

Elias thought about his arrival in the city three days earlier, about the young woman whom he met at the park and who gave him his final instructions. They had never met before and – as was often the case – she found him attractive enough to stray from the script a stranger had given her. It was always the phones, the pre-paid cell phones linked to an untraceable number that filled in the compartmentalized mission. Even Barbicas did not know what his task was, not completely, until the final step was taken. Her improvisation came at a price. She became a liability and expendable; another headless torso floating in a foul urban swamp, anonymous bone dust in an industrial incinerator, even unidentifiable filler in a slaughterhouse. He had seen how easy it was for the already invisible to vanish. He had caused it himself as part of his training. And they always used very common women for these late transfers; plucked from the background without disturbing the landscape.
So he sat, watched and waited. Yet there was something new, the look on the pretty police captain’s face when he cut the dead woman’s claws from her throat. It was as though she had seen something she never thought she would see.

“Nice day for a flight.” Barbicas was looking right at the young woman who stood in front of him, but did not see her – not really – until she spoke. He could tell she was still on the clock, and she was clearly relieved that it did not involve being penetrated by a stranger. Elias could smell the punch of sex, latex, Listerine and some sweet liquor. He suspected cheap brandy.

“Unless your name is Icarus.” He said without much enthusiasm.

“Then, a night flight is more desirable.” The woman was bored and, unlike the first contact of this job, had no interest in engaging Elias in anything other than what she was paid to do. She tossed a small cell phone on the seat. “Just ask …Daedalus.” The woman mispronounced the name of the would-be ancient aviator, but didn’t care. She turned on her spiked heels and scanned the lobby for one last job. She was young, too young to be so experienced, Elias thought.

“’Ey. Wait.” Elias stood. The woman stopped suddenly and came back to the spot, eager to please, perhaps thinking that a tip was in order. “You have family…‘ere?”

“What?” She placed her hands on her mini-skirted hips and spread dark lips into a wide, contemptuous smile.

“In this city, do you have family, anyone you care about?” Elias held his gaze.

“What business is it of yours?” Her tired eyes managed a slight flame, as she crossed her arms, giving greater exaggeration to her pushed-up breasts, jutted her head back to take in the whole of the man with a stare of disgust.

“I want to know.” Elias held out two fifties, folded discreetly between two fingers.

“If they catch me here…This ain’t no hooker-friendly zone, ya’ know.”

“I just want to know, do you have family here? Or if you leave, will anyone miss you?”

She stretched her mouth in disbelief. “Mister, in this life no one misses you.”

“Then leave. Get out ‘a town. Today. ‘Ere.” Elias moved close and dropped a roll of bills in the woman’s cocktail purse. He grabbed her by the shoulders and hugged her like a departing cousin. “You won’t last the day. But if you leave, now… could save your life.” He whispered.
The woman pulled away and looked at the stranger, perhaps for the first time, and she saw something she seldom saw: concern, genuine concern. “Look, mister. I don’t know who you are or what you’re trying to say, all I know is some dude gave me a lot of money to have some weird-ass conversation and give you this phone. I don’t even know what I was sayin’.”

“Just listen to me. Please.” Elias stood back and waited.

“Yeah, ah-ite, whatever. I guess I could go to…”

“Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know. Just leave, today.”
The woman flipped through the bills without removing the wad from her purse. She glanced nervously around and snapped her eyes to Elias for just a second. Then she turned and hurried away, looking straight ahead and nearly stumbling on her heels.

Elias watched her leave. He also looked around to see if there was an obvious observer. There was none that he could spot. The small phone was still on the seat. He picked it up and wondered if there would be consequences for what he had just done. Not if, but what…and when. Elias Barbicas was beyond caring.

“Dr. Gursahaney.” The male voice, summoned by the touch of the send button, was direct.

“You have information on Crenshaw?”

“Yes, I was told you would call on this number. He is stable, but critical. Prognosis, I would say, is favorable.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“Might I ask?”

“Yes?”

“I was told you are family, but I know his daughter was also admitted…”
Elias waited a full three seconds before answering. “I am his son.” The words nearly caught in his throat. On its face it was a mistake, but Elias seldom made calculated errors.

“Thank you. Should I tell him you called?”

“That is not necessary, Doctor. He will know.”
Barbicas pulled his leather bag from the floor and hung the strap on his muscular shoulder. Deceit was his stock in trade, but for one of the few times in his life he was honest. The answer to the doctor’s question was correct and the revelation went against all The Collectors stood for, all the training they had given him. It was not an error, but it was no less potentially fatal.

He made his way out of the hotel through the brightly-flowered passageway leading to the river walk. The dawn was breaking over Lake Michigan and the irregular shadows of Navy Pier began to silhouette in the bright tan horizon. Elias casually weaved through the joggers and power walkers and leaned on the iron fence that separated the path from the steel-girded wall of the Chicago River. Sploosh! The small phone met the surface of the fast moving current, leaving only a fluid and quite temporary mark, never to be seen again.

Elias thought about the priceless nature of the items - objects of the failed mission - and could not help but contrast them with the expendable nature of the waterborne device, the young woman who delivered it and all the dimmed lives left in the wake. He pulled the spike from his carry-on bag and bounced it in his hand. Ten ounces, easy, he thought. “Just enough to fuck up the whole bloody thing.” It was hard to imagine someone doing something so foolish, so utterly wasteful. It would have been impossible to fathom had he not seen Lani Janich. The woman was mad, and the most efficient killer Elias Barbicas had ever seen among humans.

“Like a hungry blue, that one. And blues were always hungry.” He looked at the dark outline, 933, once representing a ghost of a different kind; something that was not to be, never to be except for a kink in history. Elias Barbicas tried to catch the eye of a young runner. The pretty girl looked back and managed a breathy smile. He watched her run east into the sunrise, noticing taut response of her butt to the pounding of the pavement. She looked back and the smile grew but only for an instant. “If only you knew what I am about to do.” Splunk, the solid gold ingot followed the cheap phone into the Chicago River.

He thought about adding a third splash to the drink, but he knew it would only ruin an expensive pair of boots and change nothing. It would take more than a deep running river to end him. It would take The Collectors and they controlled the clock.