The Truth Collector (13 page)

A boat.

Paul was free too. He pointed at it, and then they started swimming. They stretched for it just like the dead things had stretched for them.

Lungs empty, Malcolm half stroked and half shivered his way to the surface. His fingers landed on a rope running around the side and he held it, gasping. Paul grabbed on too as the boat pulled away from the shore. Masses of bodies swam in front of them, giving the boat just enough room to pass. Malcolm looked over his shoulder and watched the beach shrink. Above them, the moon shined through its tiny hole. Then Sheriff Robbie's face filled the reflection in the well. He peered down into it, lines spreading across his forehead in rage. His mouth opened and he started shouting orders at the men around him. But the volume was turned off and Malcolm couldn't read his lips.

The boat coasted farther from the shore. The things still reached for their ankles, but Malcolm and Paul kicked them away and held onto the boat. The things gave way, opening up an empty swath of water and illuminating it with their pale bodies like air traffic controllers guiding them down a runway.

Paul moved closer and whispered in Malcolm's ear. “That was close.”

Malcolm put a finger to his lips. Something moved on the boat deck above them. Then there were sounds: a pair of voices, with interludes for creaking ropes and rustling fabric. They conversed in a language Malcolm couldn't understand, plodded back and forth across the deck without a twinge of concern in their voices. They'd sailed here before… and with this ship.

The voices grew louder, echoing in the abyss above them. Then something
ripped
and the boat shot forward. Malcolm looked up and saw a sail stretching above the ship. They were on some kind of catamaran, propelled forward by a wind Malcolm couldn't feel. The sailors guided it confidently through the darkness – the only boat, the only movement in sight.

“No going back now,” Paul said.

Malcolm nodded. “They've done this before. They sail like it's their job.”

“How are we going so fast? I don't feel any wind.”

“I don't know. But we have to take this one. We can't go back.”

“That's for damn sure. I'm freezing, man. What are we supposed to do? We can't just go up there and hitch a ride.”

“Wait here.”

Malcolm grabbed the side of the boat and pulled himself up. He peeked over the edge. A stack of crates rested on the catamaran's deck, precariously close to falling in the water. Weapons and guns and other shiny things spilled out of them. More valuables lay strewn across the deck. Two men trampled among them. One lingered near the mast. The other kept close to the bow, pocketing gems from time to time and sometimes leaning forward into the water to knock off one of the reaching things with a long pole. Malcolm watched while they hummed to themselves, caught up in their duties.

They looked and moved like men at least. Malcolm couldn't see their faces, but they wore leather and silk and other fine things. Their hair was long, held back in greasy ponytails that nearly reached their waists. One of them – the man by the mast – turned and looked at him. Malcolm froze, but the man didn't call out or leave his post. Malcolm exhaled and slowly lowered himself into the water. Maybe he and Paul were the only ones who could see the pinprick light. But that didn't explain how the men were able to sail in the darkness. Nothing made sense down here.

“Well?” Paul said. He kicked away another hand reaching for them.

“There are two of them up there. I can't tell if they're alive or dead.”

Paul shrugged. “I'm not sure it matters anymore. Maybe we can just try not to freeze and let them take us. Charlotte said as long as we look at the locket and think about the girl we're good, right?”

“Uh huh.” Malcolm reached into what was left of his jumpsuit. Slowly at first, then picking up speed and getting frantic. He patted himself down half a dozen times – even stopping to feel around his neck in case he'd slipped it on – but the locket was gone. It had slipped off somewhere, lost among the writhing things with their black fingernails.

“You don't have it,” Paul said.

“No. I guess it fell.”

Paul looked up at the light, but there weren't any answers up there. Just cops and flashlights and yellow crime tape.

“We have to go up there,” said Malcolm. “Maybe they know where Nora is.”

Paul shook his head. “Or they'll just throw us in the water with those things. Just think about her, man. Set your intention or whatever Charlotte said.”

“Yeah,” Malcolm said. “It has to work. Otherwise she won't let us go back.”
Malcolm kicked a hand away just before it grabbed his ankle. “I'm not staying down here anymore. We need this ship.”

“I'm with you on that.” Paul peeked over the edge of the boat for a moment. “But how are we supposed to convince these fine gentlemen to let us commandeer their boat?”

Malcolm pointed to the bow. “Follow me.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

They worked their way along the boat's edge like spiders in the night.

Every few seconds they'd have to hold their breath and dive under the water. One of the men would call out. Then the pole would smack one of the swimming things trying to climb onto the boat. It was sharp, and the sailor wielded it with a surgical efficiency that could have only been developed after long years of hauling goods across this endless, boundless water. He yelled after he accidentally skewered one of the torsos. When he jerked the pole out of the water the thing started to fall apart like pulled pork and slowly put itself back together again. The poleman shook it off, cursing in a strange tongue before turning to the other side of the bow and the hordes there.

Malcolm's fingers were numb when they reached the front of the bow. They either hadn't been spotted, or the men were waiting for them to pop their heads up before feeding them to the snapping things.

Paul latched onto the catamaran next to him, looked at him with questioning eyes.

What do we do now? What's the plan?

Malcolm shook his head. His eyes prepared their response.
I don't know. Can't you see I'm just making this up as I go?

They waited. The poleman and the man who guided the sail had fallen silent. Then the pole shot into the water, stabbing a writhing thing between the eyes. Oblivious to the metal in its skull, it reached out its hands as the man lifted it out of the water and started shaking the pole.

Paul looked at Malcolm. He nodded.

They struck just before the man dislodged the thing from his pole. Malcolm reached up, grabbed the middle of the pole, and pulled. The sailor screamed. He strengthened his grip and looked over the edge with wide eyes. A few seconds later his captain scrambled over to the bow. His pupils were the same color as the things in the water: almost translucent. Those eyes saw nothing and everything at once. They were the eyes of a blind man.

He and his shipmate grabbed the pole and heaved. They pulled up and Malcolm and Paul pulled down. On the end of the pole the thing from the water still squirmed. It pulled itself closer to the boat, widening the hole in its torso. Malcolm and Paul pulled and groaned, pulled and groaned. The sailor who had manned the sails let go and returned a few seconds later with a short sword. He stabbed and hacked at the dark water blindly, smashing pieces of the catamaran as other swimming things drew near.

Malcolm pushed off the side of the boat and jumped up, grabbed the poleman's wrist. He pulled down with everything he had. For a long moment they teetered on the edge before the man lost the pole and tumbled into the water.

He lashed out at them there, sputtering and thrashing. But not exactly swimming. He thrashed around like he didn't know how. He latched onto Paul's neck, using it as a life vest. Malcolm watched them struggle, tried to pull the man off, and ended up caught in a mess of fingernails and limbs. His fingernails were as long as matches, bending, curling and yellowed. They dug into Malcolm's forearm and released a torrent of blood. Malcolm screamed and the man screamed in his strange tongue.

For a moment their eyes locked.

His cheeks were all crags and rough patches, weathered by years and the elements. One bore a mark that glowed and pulsed on the water's surface. Not a spade like Fielder had, but a silver ring. The man turned his demon mark on him and lunged forward.

Then he was screaming again, splashing around as he sunk into the water.

His human buoy had left him. Paul sucked in a huge breath and dove into the water, leaving the sailor without anything to hold on to. But his fingernails were still attached to Malcolm's arm. He used them to pull himself closer.

Malcolm splashed backward and kicked him in the face.

The man's eyes flew open. His lips flew open too, let out a muffled scream. He was underwater now. Locked in a desperate struggle with the swimming corpses. A few seconds later he broke the water's surface, coughing and screaming. Now half the man's face was missing. His arms shot into the air in silent prayer just before they pulled him under again. A stream of bubbles gathered on the surface…

And then he was gone.

His shipmate peered over the boat, trembling. He'd lost his sword somewhere in the chaos. Paul stood next to him with his hands in the air, trying to convince the man they weren't trying to hurt him.

Malcolm pulled himself onto the boat and staggered over to join them.

“Hey,” Paul said. “Relax. We're just trying to find a little girl.”

The man backpedaled to the other side of the deck. He stood there with his eyes shifting – eyes that should have been blind – from one stranger to another. A dagger rested nearby on the deck. He felt for it with his foot, and when Malcolm and Paul raised their voices he jumped over the edge with a scream.

“Jesus,” Paul said.

Malcolm ran over to the other side of the deck and looked over the edge. The sailor was still down there, surrounded by a circle of boiling bubbles with the mark on his face pulsing like a signal beacon. Corpses surrounded him, ripped off chunks of flesh, gnawed through clothes and bone and skin. His screams only seemed to encourage them. They didn't finish feeding until the man was lifeless – a collection of bones and blood settling beneath the water's surface.

Paul and Malcolm looked at each other in silence. The things surrounded the little boat now. They clawed at the sides, crawling on top of one another in an effort to climb aboard. Something – all the noise they made, maybe – had woken them up. Called them to life.

“They're like sharks with chum in the water,” Paul said.

Malcolm nodded. He picked up the pole the sailor had used, shook off some skin and bone fragments, and went to work. He worked quickly at first, driven by desperate arms filled with adrenaline. But Malcolm slowed when the weight of the pole made its impact felt. He cleared the things off slowly, methodically while Paul pointed them out.

Some time later the pressure eased, and the things gave them enough clearance to sail on unmolested. Malcolm dropped the pole and flopped onto the deck. Paul moved from one side of the boat to the other, scrunching his brow as he looked into the water. “They had us,” he said. “They could have done us just like they did those… guys.” He bit his lip, shook his head. “Why didn't they?”

“I don't know,” Malcolm said. “Why don't you ask them?”

“I mean it, man. They could have torn us to pieces.”

Malcolm sat up, grabbed the pole again, and pushed away a hand that had crept over the side. “It doesn't matter. We're up here and they're down there. And that's all that maters. Think about the girl if you want to make it out of here.”

Paul closed his eyes. “What's her name? Nora?”

“Nora Swanson. Daughter of Eric and Miranda Swanson. The cute little girl from the park. With the big brown eyes.”

“Yeah, man. I remember.”

“What else do you remember?”

“She was wearing some kind of dress or something. I think it was red. I thought it was weird her mom would dress her up just to go to the park.”

“I remember her eyes,” said Malcolm, closing his own. “They were huge. They had a way of looking right through you. She made me feel like she knew all my secrets and there I was… just standing there like an idiot.”

“Yeah,” Paul said. “That sounds exactly like how it feels when I'm around
you
. Probably how it feels for other people too.”

Malcolm shrugged. “Maybe.” His eyes were open again, his hands clutching the pole to clear off the occasional hand that strayed too far from the water. But his mind – his heart and soul too, as far as he could tell – was on the girl with the strange eyes. “Where are you, Nora? It's time for you to come home.”

“Nora,” said Paul. “Nora, Nora, Nora.” He chanted it with his eyes closed, caught up in some prayer to whatever god had dominion down here.

The sails rustled under a gust of fresh wind. Except this wind didn't tickle Malcolm's cheek or tousle his hair. This wind was formless. And now it was gusting. It picked up speed each time Paul said the missing girl's name. Malcolm joined in and then they were both chanting as the catamaran cut through the water.

“Nora, Nora, Nora, Nora...”

Something wailed. Softly at first – so softly Malcolm cupped his ears to make sure they weren't playing tricks on him. But the sound grew louder, and then it was unmistakable:

Crying.

A little girl crying somewhere in the darkness. They stopped saying the girl's name and listened. Then Malcolm's cheeks were wet. He turned to Paul and found him rubbing his eyes. Malcolm ran a finger over his cheek and tasted it. Tears. Not theirs, but the girl's.

She cried for a long time. The more she cried the more that ethereal wind whipped. The catamaran changed course, but it was impossible to say where they were headed. There were no boundaries down here – no borders.

Paul and Malcolm started chanting her name again as the girl's tears rolled down their faces. They raced into the abyss now, hurtling past waves of swimming corpses.

They chanted until their voices were hoarse.

Then the light went out.

Malcolm looked up and strained his eyes, but he found only darkness.

“What happened?” said Paul. “I can't even see my hand in front of my face.”

He wasn't exaggerating. Malcolm waved his arms in front of him but couldn't detect the slightest movement. He held on to the side of the deck and leaned forward into the open air where the water should have been. But now the water was indistinguishable from everything else. They were all wrapped up in a shapeless void: them and the boat and whatever lay beyond.

“She tricked us,” Paul said. “Now we'll never get back.”

“Maybe. Or maybe the light will come back on. Think about the girl, Paul. If there's a way out of here she's our ticket.”

Paul didn't answer.

Malcolm listened to the wind fill the sails. From time to time he wiped a tear from his cheek and hoped the girl wouldn't stop. She was calling them somehow, sending them her GPS coordinates in this vast underworld. At least that's what it felt like.

At least that's what he told himself.

There were other sounds down here too. When the light faded Malcolm's other senses sharpened, picked out the splash of oars and creaking ropes. Something grabbed his arm and he nearly screamed. But it was just Paul, breathing and fumbling around next to him.

“Quiet,” Malcolm said. “Listen.”

They sat on the deck as the sounds grew louder. Human sounds and nightmare sounds, mixed together in a bitter cocktail. Oars splashed on their port side and the catamaran began to rock, caught up in some unseen wake.

A boat was passing them.

They heard its crew groaning in exertion. There was no light over there, but Malcolm's imagination filled the darkness with an image of a warship out at sea. Next there was a different sound on their starboard side – a gentle rumble that made the hairs on Malcolm's arms stand on end. Then a foghorn blasted from up ahead, almost sending them overboard.

“Boats,” Paul said. “Boats everywhere.”

The sounds of motors, oars, and sails surrounded them as they traveled deeper into the darkness. None of the boats collided. They seemed to travel in lanes no one could see but everyone understood. There were screams and beating drums and drunken men singing, but no acknowledgment of the others' existence. Each boat sailed forward on its own mission, guided by whatever force that filled the catamaran's sails.

Then the world exploded in a burst of light.

Malcolm shut his eyes and covered them with his hands. But the damage was already done: seared retinas cooked medium well. He blinked and blinked until that blinding whiteness slipped into the corners of his vision and finally scattered.

“Look, Malcolm,” Paul said. “Up ahead.”

A fire burned on one of the ships. Its flames licked up wood and hissed at the boats surrounding it. It was a small boat, but the blaze cast enough light to reveal schooners and cogs, galleys and merchant ships. People on the ships nearest the fire scrambled and screamed, but their boats continued forward in perfect formation. There was nowhere for them to go: more boats pressed in on all sides. Then the fiery boat's mast splintered and collapsed. Malcolm watched the boat crumple, heard the inhuman screams, smelled the stench of burning flesh.

The boat pitched forward like a sea monster had picked it up by the stern. The bow dropped, drowning in the water, but the flames didn't diminish. They spread and swallowed what was left of the deck. Someone shrieked, burning alive. Or dead. Malcolm's jaw dropped when he saw the boat suspended in the air, plucked from the water by something he couldn't see. The bow disappeared and the stern followed, something crashed, and then the fiery boat was gone.

They plunged into blackness again. Paul was still next to him, cowering on the deck as the survivors screamed and sighed and wept.

Malcolm grabbed his shoulder. “What happened to the boat? Did you see?”

“They went over the edge, man.”

“Over the edge of
what
?”

“How the hell should I know? A cliff? The world?”