Dead Harvest

Read Dead Harvest Online

Authors: Chris F. Holm

 
 
 
Praise for
DEAD HARVEST
 
"Jim Thompson meets John Milton in this thrilling supernatural riff on the old collections racket. This gripping supernatural adventure gives a whole new meaning to 'possession is nine-tenths of the law'."
EDGAR AND SHAMUS AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR CHARLES ARDAI
 
"Chris F. Holm clearly had both angels and devils watching over him as he wrote
Dead Harvest
. Thrilling, riveting and hardboiled as hell, this stunning debut still manages to be incredibly soulful. If I could recommend one book to everyone this year, this would be it."
ANTHONY, ELLIS & MACAVITY AWARD-NOMINATED AUTHOR HILARY DAVIDSON
 
"Get a nicotine patch cause you'll be smokin' by the end of
Dead Harvest.
A surreal page-turner where crime meets goth meets fantasy meets horror, strips the elements of everything you knew about storytelling, and creates a new genre called Chris F. Holm."
FRANK BILL, AUTHOR OF
CRIMES IN SOUTHERN INDIANA
 
"With
Dead Harvest
, Chris F. Holm splices genres in a way few authors can pull off, in the process delivering an action-packed rollercoaster of a novel that will enthrall thriller and fantasy readers alike. A superb debut from a talent to watch."
STUART NEVILLE, LA TIMES BOOK PRIZE AND SPINETINGLER AWARD WINNER
 
"Sam Spade meets
The Matrix
. Punchy, fast-paced and finely plotted."
MIKE SHEVDON, AUTHOR OF
SIXTYONE NAILS
 
"Holm's touch is deft and his language surefooted, a rare feat in the realm of dark fantasy.
Dead Harvest
blends back-story just wrenching enough, victims just pitiable enough, villains just ambiguous enough to keep everything on the thrummingly interesting side of noir, never bogging down in cliché. And the white-knuckle action is an indulgent pleasure – this book practically turns its own pages. The best books combine the smart with the careening, and Holm does that so well."
SOPHIE LITTLEFIELD, AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF
AFTERTIME
 
"The fight between heaven and hell takes a turn for the hardboiled in Chris F. Holm's fantastic debut novel,
Dead Harvest
, where he's created a character as pulpy and tough as anything Chandler or Hammett dreamed up in his doomed Soul Collector. Holm's writing is sharp, powerful, and packs a wallop."
STEPHEN BLACKMOORE, AUTHOR OF
CITY OF THE LOST
 
 
CHRIS F. HOLM
 
 
Dead Harvest
 
 
THE COLLECTOR: BOOK I
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
For Katrina. For always.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
There is no greater sorrow
Than to be mindful of the happy time
In misery.
– Dante Alighieri
1.
 
 
Light spilled through the window of the pub as I watched them, casting patches of yellow across the darkened street but conveying no warmth. It had been three rounds now, maybe four, and Gardner had yet to pay for a drink; his reading tonight went well, and they were falling over themselves to share a pint with Britain's Greatest Living Author.
  I fished another Dunhill from the pack, lighting it with the dwindling ember of the one that preceded it. The ground around me was littered with cigarette butts – I'd been standing there a while. But the moon was high overhead, and the night was getting on. I wouldn't have to wait much longer.
  Finally, midnight rolled around, and the last straggling patrons were ushered out into the chill spring air, the barkeep locking up behind them. Gardner headed up St Giles, listing slightly. I took a last long drag off my cigarette, and then pitched it into the street, falling in behind him. I kept some distance between us, in case he looked back.
  He didn't.
  A few blocks later, he ducked into an alley to take a leak. I gave him a minute, and then followed. He was leaning one-handed against a wall, pissing behind a dumpster. The toast of Oxford, or so I'd been told. From here, it was hard to see.
  He turned toward me, zipping up his fly. When he spotted me, he started, and damn near tipped over. "Who the bloody hell are you?" he asked. "What are you doing here?"
  I stepped toward him. My hand found his chest and reached inside. He knew then. Who I was. What I was doing there.
  "Sorry," I told him. "It's nothing personal."
  I yanked it free then; that light, that life. Gray-black and swirling, it cast long shadows across the alley, and its song rang bittersweet in my ears. Of course, if anyone had happened by, they'd have seen nothing, heard nothing. No, this show was just for me. For Gardner, too, perhaps, though even then I couldn't be sure.
  Gardner's body crumpled to the ground, whimpering as it hit the pavement. I paid it no mind. It was already dead, or near enough. Sometimes it takes a minute for the meat to get the message.
  I removed from my pocket a bit of worn cloth and a small length of twine, wrapping my prize in the former and binding it tight with the latter. The whole package was scarcely larger than an acorn. I slipped it into my inside coat pocket and then set off down the street, whistling quietly to myself as I disappeared into the night.
2.
 
 
Sorry – it's nothing personal.
  I wish I could tell you I have no idea how many times I've uttered that phrase. That I have no idea how many bodies I've left crumpled and inanimate in my wake. I wish I could tell you that, but I can't.
  The truth is, there've been thousands. Some, like Gardner, are so damn surprised, they never even see it coming. Some spend their lives in fear of the moment, and catch my scent a mile away; they beg, they plead, they scream. In the end, it doesn't matter – I always get what I came for. And I remember each and every one of them. Every face. Every name.
  I collect souls. The souls of the damned, to be precise. Not the most rewarding gig, I'll admit, but I didn't choose it – it chose me. Once upon a time, I was a man named Sam Thornton. I paid my taxes. I went to church. I didn't litter. I was a model fucking citizen, and then it all went to shit. That business with Gardner? Sixty-odd years ago that was me, and believe me, my collection was nowhere near as pretty.
  The River Cherwell glimmered in the morning sun as I strolled along its bank, the path before me empty but for the occasional enterprising Oxford student out for a pre-class jog. By noon the place would be packed with folks eager to exorcise the demon winter – couples strolling hand in hand through gardens rife with fresh buds, tourists poling rented punts up and down the river – all manner of lively good cheer I'd just as well avoid. Now, though, I'd done my deed, burying Gardner's soul deep beneath a patch of dog's-tooth violet still weeks from flowering, and I thought that for a moment, at least, I could wander in peace. I should have known better. That's the bitch about being damned – things rarely shake out your way.
  "Collector!"
  Her call came from behind me, carried like a song on the breeze. "Morning, Lily," I said, turning. She was a few paces back on the path, her red hair cascading down over a whisper of a summer dress, her bare feet leaving no prints on the dirt path as she approached. "Aren't you up a little early?"
  "When I rise is no concern of yours, Collector. And I've asked you not to call me that."
  "Right," I replied. "Must've slipped my mind."
  She cast an appraising glance my way, the faintest of smiles playing across her face, and despite myself, I flushed. "You look like shit," she said. "Why you persist in eschewing the living in favor of these rotting meatsuits, I'll never know."
  "The living give me a headache."
  "That
is
what they do best."
  "This a social call?" I asked, shaking a Dunhill from the pack and striking a match.
  "Hardly. Are you going to offer me one of those?"
  "No," I replied, taking a long drag and slowly exhaling. "So who's the job?"
  "Her name is Kate MacNeil."
  "Contract or freelance?"
  "She struck no bargain. Her actions are to blame."
  "What'd she do?"
  "As I understand it, she slaughtered her family."
  "Christ," I said, noting her disdainful glare. "Where is she now?"
  "Manhattan," she said. "I trust that's not a problem?"
  "It's a place like any other," I replied.
  "Of course it is. But as you well know, failure is not an option. I simply thought that, given your history there…"
  "I'll get the job done."
  "Yes," she said, "I expect you will. You should know that there's a timeline on this. It seems she's caught the eye of some rather influential… people. I wouldn't dally."
  "I never do."
  "No," she said. "You never do." She caressed my cheek, a teasing gesture, and then strolled northward past me up the footpath. A warm breeze kicked up from the south, and her sundress clung to her beautiful frame.
  "Oh, and Collector?" she called, glancing backward.
  "Yes?"
  "Do try to enjoy yourself, won't you?"
  And suddenly she was gone, replaced by a teeming swarm of butterflies, left to scatter on the warm southern wind.
 
A few streets from the river garden, I found myself a news stand. I managed to buy a copy of the
New York Times
, and tipped the guy a twenty pound note – after all, I wasn't going to need it. Under the shade of a massive oak, I lit another Dunhill, savoring the richness of the tobacco. I'll tell you, their food might be for shit, but the Brits sure as hell know how to make a cigarette. My pack was still half full, and I didn't relish the thought of leaving it behind, but I had a job to do.
  MacNeil, it turns out, made the front page. My guess is it was the Park Avenue address as much as the three dead bodies that landed her there. Hell, a couple blocks further north, she might have been above the fold. I skimmed the article. Seems some neighbors heard screaming and called the police. By the time they arrived, Kate's brother and father were dead; the cops got there just in time to watch her slit her mother's throat. Took six officers to bring her down, and by the time they did, she was unconscious. Now they had her under guard at Bellevue Hospital, at least until she woke up. With a little luck, I thought, I could have this wrapped up before she even does.
  I tossed aside the A-section and flipped through the paper until I found the obits. Papers like the
Times
, the obituaries are always a crapshoot. More days than not, they're stuffed front to back with octogenarians of some historical import – a touching gesture for friends and family, I'm sure, but it doesn't do
me
a load of good. Today, though, I was in luck. A playwright, thirty-five. Pills and booze, an apparent suicide. Not half-bad looking, either. It didn't get much better than that.
  I closed my eyes and focused. My limbs grew heavy and ungainly as I pulled away. The jasmine scent of spring retreated, replaced by hollow nothingness.
  Somewhere behind me, a body convulsed, thrashing about on the grass as a thousand synapses misfired. Then the world lurched, and it was gone.
  The first thing I noticed was the smell – a harsh ammonia reek that burned my sinuses and caught in the back of my throat, making me gag. My stomach clenched and I doubled over, or tried to. My head clanged against something just a couple feet above, a muffled thud. I pressed against the liquid darkness. Cold vinyl pressed back, slick and unpleasant. Clumsy fingers fumbled in the darkness as I followed the line of the zipper. It ended just overhead. I forced a finger through, metal teeth digging flesh, and then pushed the zipper open.

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