The Truth Collector (15 page)

Malcolm turned to Paul but he was already gone, a swatch of white carpet where his body had been. Somehow he'd untangled his limbs and scurried away while Malcolm watched the pianist. Next he was subjected to a new kind of torture: having to watch Paul crawl across that carpet on his elbows and knees. Closer and closer to the piano he crawled, pausing sometimes to look at the man's gigantic back.

Malcolm jerked forward, stopped. He almost called out, but he didn't dare break the pianist's concentration. So he did the only thing he could do: bit his lip and watched Paul sneak closer.

Ten feet. Then five feet.

Two
.

Malcolm held his breath.

Paul was right behind him now – so close some of the man's sweat landed on his face whenever he hammered the keys in fortissimo. He crept beneath the piano bench and wrapped his hands around its legs.

Then he pulled.

The pianist wobbled, unable or unwilling to look back or remove his fingers from the keys. Rolls of fat shifted from side to side in his desperate scramble. He cried out – a deep, guttural scream. But Paul tugged harder and the bench flipped forward. The man's face slammed into the keyboard with a clang. His body quivered there for a moment before sliding down into the carpet.

Paul stood above him, gasping. “He's out cold.”

Malcolm walked over to them. “That was really stupid. What if he turned around? What kind of plan was that?”

Paul snorted. “He didn't. And it was the best one we had. You're welcome, by the way.”

Malcolm pressed his foot against the unconscious man's face and flipped it over. What he found there made him jerk his foot away as fast as he could.

A familiar marking pulsed on his cheek: a spade the color of chalk dust. Watching them. Cursing them. The longer Malcolm looked at it the larger it seemed to grow, spreading across the man's face like an infection.

“That gets me every time,” Paul said. “I don't know why. I guess I shouldn't be surprised at this point.”

“He's another servant,” Malcolm said. “Probably good you clobbered him. We don't want whoever's in charge down here to know we're around.”

“Yeah. If they don't already know.”

Malcolm looked around the room. Only then did he notice it was circular. No furniture. No shit on the walls, but
doors
. Doors everywhere, pressed so close together their frames touched, branching off into hallways like spokes in a wheel. All of them looked identical,
felt
identical. The flash of intuition that drove him to splash water on the rock wall was gone.

“What the hell?” Paul said, shifting his eyes from door to door.

Malcolm shook his head. He went over to the piano and looked at the keys. They were slick with sweat, and so worn they blended together into one, endless key. He glanced at the man on the ground then plunked one.

The man's eyes shot open.

He shoved aside Paul's outstretched arm and lunged for Malcolm. His eyes were full of fear, lids pulled wide and lost somewhere in the jiggly skin. He moved faster than any man his size had the right to move. Arms out. Mouth open. Teeth bared in a snarl.

Malcolm backed away from the piano, caught his leg on the corner, and fell to the ground. He held out his arms, stiffened his stomach before the man could crush him. Yet that weight never came. When Malcolm looked up he found the man back at his piano. He stood in front of it banging keys and pumping pedals. The fear in his face had eased, but the weariness remained.

He had picked up the tune right where he'd left off. And he kept playing – even when sweat flew from his face and Malcolm and Paul stood over his shoulder. He paid them no regard. His eyes never wandered from the keys.

“Hello?” Paul said. “Hello?”

The man kept playing, hands shuffling along the keys without missing a beat.

“Hey,” Paul said. “We're talking to you.” He tapped the pianist on the shoulder, and still the man played. Another tap. The man winced as he hit a wrong note. Paul and Malcolm started slapping his back. Now the pianist clinked out more wrong notes than right ones, but he pressed on without ever turning around…

Until Malcolm covered his eyes.

“No,” the man said. He took a hand away from the piano and started pulling at Malcolm's fingers. But he kept playing with the other, refusing to end the song even though it sounded like nothing more than random noises.

Malcolm held his hand over the man's eyes while Paul reached for his playing hand. He grabbed it at the wrist. The man growled, and when the last note's echo faded he began to whimper. Every second of silence lashed him like a whip.

“No,” he said. “Please no.” He frothed and struggled and sweat, but Malcolm and Paul kept his hands away from the keyboard.

“Listen to us,” Malcolm said. “Listen right now.”

“You don't understand,” the man said. “They told me to play – always play. No breaks. We might have guests.”

Malcolm squeezed the man's head. “I'm going to break this fucking piano if –”

“
No
.” The man seized forward and ripped their hands away. He pressed his back against the piano with his arms outstretched. “I have to play. You have to let me play.”

“We will,” said Malcolm. “But we need to ask you something. We're looking for a little girl.”

“Her name's Nora,” said Paul. More of her tears rolled down his cheek.

“Crying,” said the man. His eyes bounced back and forth between them. “They're always crying.” He hummed the tune he'd been playing, peeking around the corner that led to the corridor from which Malcolm and Paul had came. “They'll be back soon. If I'm not playing...” The spade mark pulsed on his face. He poked at it and ripped his finger away when it got too close. “They know,” he said, his voice filling the chamber. “They know I stopped.” He dove for the piano and started playing again. “I'm sorry,” he said.“I'm so sorry. Forgive me.” He spoke in a cadence that matched the tempo of the song.

Tears streamed down the young man's face – he was more of a boy, really – and mixed with the grease and sweat.

Paul reached for his hand again, but Malcolm shook his head.

“Where's the little girl?” said Malcolm. “Where's Nora?”

The pianist bit his lip and clinked a few wrong notes. The tempo of his song was faster now, reckless.

“Where is she?” said Paul.

Malcolm moved in front of the piano and grabbed the man's face. “I asked you a question. Where's Nora?”

For an instant their eyes met. Something flickered – a weak link in whatever chain anchored the man to his piano. He played softer now, stopping and starting, and spoke in a little squeak. “I don't want to be a jester for eternity.” His eyes rose from the keyboard. The way he looked at him made Malcolm's blood run cold.

“Just tell me where she is,” said Malcolm. “We'll let you be after that.”

“Pretty pink for the pretty girls?” The man cocked his head to the side and grinned. “Yes. I distinctly remember someone telling me that once. Pretty pink for the pretty girls.” He started to sing it to the tune: “
Pretty pink for the pretty girls. Pretty pretty pink
...”

Paul pushed past him and started opening doors. He started at the edge and worked his way around the room one door at a time. Their knobs turned without resistance. Paul opened them quietly, peeked in, and shut them a few seconds later.

He didn't stop until he'd made it about halfway around the circle. He left one door open there, pointing into a hallway with pink walls.

Malcolm looked at the pianist. “Is that it? Are the girls in there?”

But the pianist only played and sang. “Pretty pink for the pretty girls.”

They left him there singing, crying, and apologizing all at once. He promised to be better. He swore he'd do whatever it took to make them happy.

“Who's he talking about?” said Paul.

“I don't know. But I'm pretty sure it isn't anyone we want to meet. Come on.”

* * * *

Where the last corridor was long and ornate, this one looked like it belonged in a medieval dungeon. Malcolm and Paul crossed a floor of cold stone. The rocks that comprised it were jagged, sending them stumbling across uneven patches. The piano man's tune still played, echoing off the stones. Someone had strewn mismatched wallpaper along the sides and even the ceiling. Scraps of fuchsia and rose mingled with magenta and salmon. Different sizes and hues jutted out from stone surfaces, competing for their attention like they were in some kind of twisted home improvement store.

Once they were a few dozen steps into the corridor, the stone floor gave way to wallpaper too. Then it was almost impossible to tell up from down… or if they were even moving at all. Malcolm looked up and found Charlotte watching them through the little hole in the ceiling. She had her face pressed close to the mirror. Malcolm locked eyes with those huge browns and jerked his head down the hallway. She backed away from the mirror and adjusted the angle of her flashlight.

A streak of light appeared down the hallway. Charlotte shook it up and down and around the pink walls. She beamed the light all the way to where the corridor ended abruptly at a wall with a single torch flickering in a sconce.

Paul sighed. “Crazy bastard led us in the wrong direction.”

Malcolm watched the light, focused on that flickering torch. Charlotte pulled her light back and led their eyes along the corridor. She did it slowly this time… until it revealed a little gap in all the pink. Malcolm grabbed Paul's arm.

They watched as she bounced the light up and down, signaling them.

Then Nora began to cry again.

She probably hadn't even stopped. But the way she did it this time made Malcolm prick up his ears.

This time was different – louder.

This time the sound wasn't coming from inside his head, but out in the world beyond.

“Nora!” said Paul, sprinting down the corridor. Malcolm took off after him. They ran for the light at the end of the tunnel. They ran for the girl who would set them free.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

She looked at them with the same strange eyes Malcolm remembered.

“I remember you,” she said. “From the park.”

Malcolm and Paul stood against a door leading into what looked like a little girl's bedroom. There was a bunk bed inside. Nora lay on the bottom bunk huddled beneath a pile of sheets and blankets. Her hair was combed – it even had a little bow in it – and her face was clean. She looked just the same as before…

Before someone plucked her from her old life and dropped her into something new.

Malcolm and Paul rushed into the room, leaving the door open just like they found it. They stood beside the girl's bed with their battered bodies and ripped clothes. Malcolm reached out and touched her little hand and squeezed it.

It was real.

She
was real – as real as any of this was.

Nora squeezed his hand back. “You're hurt.”

Malcolm shook his head. “It's not so bad.”

“Are you okay?” said Paul.

The girl looked at their faces for a long time before she finally spoke. “I'm okay. But not if I stay here. Not if they hurt me like they hurt the other kids – like they hurt Carol.”

Something stirred in the top bunk.

Malcolm and Paul leaped away from the bed, but the little girl didn't let go of Malcolm's hand so he ended up taking her and half her blankets with him. They watched something writhe around on the mattress.

“She's awake,” Nora said. She pulled her hand away, climbed on top of her bed, and stood on her tiptoes to look over the edge. “Hi, Carol. My friends are here.”

“Nora,” said Paul. “Wait!”

But the girl ignored him. She climbed the ladder with ease and crawled in the top bunk next to the girl who lay there motionless. “She sleeps a lot,” Nora said. “But I like her. She's nice.”

Malcolm and Paul looked at each other and shrugged. They walked back to the bed, looked over the edge and found the girls lying together on a little twin mattress. Nora and the other girl cuddled like they were on a sleepover. Except the other girl was hardly a girl at all, but well on her way to womanhood. Her hip jutted from the mattress, and budding breasts pushed against the t-shirt she wore. She lay on her side perfectly still as the younger girl ran a finger through her hair.

Malcolm leaned forward and waved a hand in front of the girl's face. Her eyes didn't follow when his fingers passed. They didn't move or even blink. She stared at something in the corner of the room that no one else could see.

“She doesn't talk much,” Nora said. She whispered something in the girl's ear. “I think she's shy.”

“Was she here when you got here?” Malcolm said. “When the bad man took you?”

The girl looked at the ceiling, thinking. “Yeah. It's her room. Mistress Rebecca said we could share. She's nice too.”

“Mistress Rebecca?” said Paul.

“Forget it,” Malcolm said. “We came here to take you home, Nora.” He looked up at the little hole in the ceiling and found Charlotte pressed against the mirror. Her eyes were wet with tears, shimmering in the lamplight.

The girl leaned over the edge of the bed and wrapped her arms around Malcolm's neck. “Don't leave me here.” Hot tears dribbled onto his face. “Don't let them keep me. Mistress said if I'm a good girl I can go home later. But I think she's lying.”

Malcolm picked her up and pulled her off the bunk bed. “Come on. Let's get you out of here.” He put her down and pointed at a pair of slippers next to the doorway. Nora moved quickly, obeying without a word. Once the slippers were on she stopped to tug at Paul's pant leg.

“Can Carol come too?”

Paul looked at Malcolm and arched his eyebrow.

“No,” Malcolm said. “I don't think so. Now come on, Nora. We have to get out of here.”

She made her hands into tiny fists and started pounding Paul's leg. “
Please
? They're hurting her. I want them to stop. Please let her come.”

Malcolm shrugged. He turned back to the bunk bed and reached for the older girl's arm. “Let's go. I guess you're coming along for the ride too.” She let him pull her down from the bunk, limbs limp and eyes fixed on the corner of the ceiling. When he put her down she staggered into the pair of slippers Paul put in front of her.

“Carol,” Nora said. “Those are on the wrong feet. Sometimes it takes her a second.” She bent down and helped the girl match her slippers to the right feet. Then she looked up at them with the hint of a smile on her face. “When do I get to see my mommy and daddy?”

“They...” Malcolm said.

“I don't….” Paul said.

She stared at them without flinching. Those big brown eyes had the same effect as a six-pack of beer. They made you sloppy. Careless. Unable to mask the truth. “That man who took me here – the bad man – did he hurt them?”

“We can talk about it later,” Malcolm said.

Her look grabbed his balls and squeezed so tightly he felt his stomach churn. That pain spread to his heart, his lungs. It spread until it washed over him and covered everything in a skintight coat. Finally he had to look away from her. He lowered his head and bit his lip.

“What's the point of this?” he whispered, turning his eyes to the woman hovering above them. “What's the point of bringing her back to a world where she has no one?”

She didn't answer.

Paul led the girls through the doorway, pulling Nora along while she pulled Carol. Malcolm looked down the hallway from where they came, then back to the end where the torch flickered. “What now?” he said, looking up at Charlotte and shaking a fist. “What now, huh?”

She angled the flashlight so it bathed the little girl. The girl held out a hand and ran it through the dust motes floating there. When she looked up she gasped. “Charlotte!”

Charlotte looked down at her and waved.

“I know her,” Nora said, pointing and jumping up and down. “I met her in the park too. A long time ago with mommy. She lets me feed the squirrels.”

Paul put an arm around her shoulder. “We're going to see her very soon.”

Malcolm walked further down the hallway and found other gaps between the pink. More doors awaited them. He opened them one after another, revealing bunk beds and canopy beds and even hammocks that looked like they'd been stripped out of ships. Girls' bedrooms of all shapes and sizes – complete with hairbrushes and mirrors and toys. Some beds were made and others had their covers strewn all over the place…

But none had little girls in them.

Nora tugged his leg. “They're playing,” she said. “Me and Carol were playing with them. But then her tummy started hurting so I went back to our room with her. She gets lost sometimes if I don't go with her.”

“Playing?” said Malcolm. He grabbed Nora's hand and squeezed it – a little too hard. She winced and tried to squirm away as he lightened his grip. “I'm sorry. Where were you playing?”

She pointed towards the end of the hallway. “There. In the play room. It's really fun. There's lots of toys and girls and boys and one time mistress even had a tea party with us.”

Malcolm squinted and made out the faint edges of a door. Someone had covered it in pink so it blended in almost perfectly with the rest of the hallway. Malcolm scooped up Nora and ran for it. Paul followed with Carol in tow.

Piano music still played behind them in a hideous stop-start cadence as they led the girls down the corridor. Nora pointed out a little door between two larger ones just before they reached the wall with the torch. Malcolm put her down. “This is where we play,” she said, pushing at the pink surface.

It opened soundlessly and she slipped through it before they could stop her. But she reappeared a few seconds later, her face serious. “The bad man's in there. He'll get mad if we try to leave.”

Malcolm looked at Paul. He seemed just as confused as he was. He looked at the girl standing behind them too, but she just held her stomach and grimaced.

“He's mean,” Nora said. She waved them on with impatient fingers. “But it's the only way to get out.”

“Wait,” said Malcolm, grabbing her by the shoulders. “You know how to get out?” He pointed back into the corridor. “We came in back there.”

She looked at him with her big brown eyes. “That's just the front door, silly. This house has lots of doors. I've seen some of them.”

“House?” said Paul.

“Yes,” Nora said. “The biggest house I ever
saw
.” She ran into the tiny opening. Malcolm had more questions for her – questions upon questions – and the girl she'd left them with wasn't exactly a public relations specialist. Maybe there would be time for answers later… but not now.

He followed after her.

Malcolm and Paul had to twist sideways to squeeze through the opening. In its past life this place might have been a linen closet – it smelled of detergent and dryer sheets – but someone had stripped out the shelves and turned it into a makeshift hallway. Its floor was perfectly white – so polished it reflected Charlotte's light right into Malcolm's eyes.

Another door waited for them at the end of this pass-through space. Nora had already gone through it. It was cracked open, spilling light into the cramped space. Voices spilled in too, though they were nothing more than an indistinguishable murmur with the piano song still haunting their ears. Malcolm opened it a few inches and peeked through the crack.

He covered his mouth with his hand.

The door flew open before he could stop himself. Into the room he went with his voice high and his hands curled into fists. Driven by some terrible mix of rage and sadness, Malcolm ran. He didn't stop until he caught up with her…

Just before she sat down at a table full of girls.

Paul and Carol came in after them, and they gathered around the group of surprised faces. “What is this place?” Paul said, swiveling his head around a room so enormous it never seemed to end.

Nora smiled. “I already told you. It's the play room! Do you watch a lot of TV? My mommy told me it rots your brain. Just like candy rots your teeth.”

There were a few disgusted looks from the girls and a single audible “ew.” But others sat at the table with their faces unchanged. Whatever ability they had to make sense of words – much less humor – had been stripped out of them. Girls of all shapes and sizes gathered at the table, watching them. Girls of all races and hair colors. Little girls and girls like Carol – girls almost grown. They watched the strangers with nervous eyes.

“Do you live here?” one of them said.

“No,” said another with sun-baked skin, staring at a coloring book. “They don't live here. They don't have the mark.”

Other girls nodded their heads in agreement. Then the first girl continued. “Yeah. They don't have the mark like the mean man. He scares me.”

The tan girl sighed. “Why? Remember what master Maurice said when you got here? No one with the mark can hurt you.”

“I don't care,” the other girl said. “I want to go home like Nora.”

“Me too,” came a chorus of voices. “Can we come? Can you take us?”

But Malcolm's eyes and attention were elsewhere, scanning the room. If he looked at them they'd tug at his heart strings. And when heart strings got tugged you couldn't make the tough decisions that needed to be made. One look around revealed it would take an enormous boat to fit them all. Even if they found a big enough boat to do the job, that was assuming Charlotte could get all of them back in one piece.

Too many assumptions. Uncertainty covered him like a stinky perfume.

There were hundreds of girls down here. Some sat at tables talking while others jumped ropes and played in princess castles. Swings creaked as girls kicked them into the air, laughing. A few lay on their backs with their hands behind their heads. Not exactly resting, but staring off into the distance like Carol did.

“Are we outside?” said Paul.

“No,” one of the girls said. “This is the play room.”

“But there's grass and sky and –”

“Because this place is special,” said another.

Malcolm looked up and found a sky. It shined down on him polished blue. Too shiny. Too perfect and curved, and there wasn't a cloud or bird in it. “It's paint,” he said. “Someone painted the rocks up there to make it look like we're outside.”

“But what about the grass?” Paul said. “How can it grow without sunlight?”

Malcolm shrugged.

“We already told you,” the tan girl said. “This place is special.”

Then there was a scream somewhere past the playground. The girls looked at each other in silence, dropping blocks and dolls and crayons. “Hide,” Nora said.

“What?”

“The bad man is coming. He's going to find you.” She sat down at the table and pointed at the tiny gap beneath it.

Malcolm squeezed under and curled himself into a ball. Paul slid in beside him, the girls' shoes sticking their ribs and dangling in front of their faces. Malcolm made himself even smaller, but his feet were still exposed. They flopped out into the grass next to Paul's shoulder. Try as they might they couldn't shrink their bodies down to little girl proportions.